Poo

Reqs are open🥹✌️

[cryoculus]

— PYGMALION EFFECT ⟢

after a career-ending injury, you choose to start anew elsewhere. all you wanted was a quiet life away from the spotlight, but that pesky biker gang hanging around your workplace isn't making things easy for you at all.

★ featuring; mydei x gn!reader

★ word count; 18k words

★ tags; modern au, flower shop au, ex-pro racer reader, florist reader, biker gangs, angst, self-hatred, healing, getting together, fluff, first kiss, gorgo is your boss at the flower shop, idk what to tell you this was very adorable to write gang

★ notes; this is the first commissioned piece i've worked on since officially opening them here on tumblr hehe! i really went to town with this one, so i hope you enjoy! <3

Kremnos doesn’t look like much when you first roll in.

It was just another quiet city strung together with strip malls, narrow streets, and brick buildings that all seem to sag under the weight of their own history. Still, it’s far enough from Okhema that by the time Cipher’s car eases to a stop in front of your new place, your back is stiff, your legs ache from sitting too long, and your wrist throbs every time you flex your fingers against the brace. Your doctor had been clear: no driving while you were still recovering. Cipher hadn’t argued when you’d asked for help. She just tossed you her passenger seat like it was nothing, sparing you the humiliation of admitting you couldn’t make it here on your own.

Moving in is no easier. By the time the last of the movers are done, you’re spent. Bed, dining table, cabinets you’ll probably never bother to organize properly—all your essentials are in place. But the boxes stacked high against the walls remind you just how much of your old life you’ve tried to cram into this one-bedroom house. You left the rest behind; your career, your team, the roar of engines in your chest. Things feel too quiet without all of it.

Cipher lingers just long enough to help shift the heavier boxes into corners with deliberate movements, and you can tell she’s doing it to stall for time. Your best friend brushes her palms on her jeans, but her hands don’t quite leave her hips, fingers flexing like she’s debating whether to reach for another box.

“I’ll head out now, sweet thing,” she eventually says when she runs out of things to do, but her eyes sweep over you and the room with a quiet intensity. They catch on the brace at your wrist and the way fatigue has already carved itself into your face. She doesn’t comment but it’s all there in the set of her jaw.

“Text me if you need anything, alright?”

You nod, your throat too tight for words, and she lingers for a heartbeat longer before slipping into the evening without ceremony, leaving the echo of her concern behind with the silence.

Night falls by the time the only thing that matters arrives. The rumble of the truck pulling up outside makes your heart kick in your ribs before you even step out. Your motorcycle gleams faintly under the dull streetlight as the movers carefully wheel it into your garage, battered in places but unmistakably yours. You sign the papers with steady hands despite the thrum in your veins.

One of the movers squints at you, then at the name on the paperwork. “Hey… you, uh… you somebody famous? I swear I’ve heard this name before.”

You flash him a thin smile and close the door before he can push the thought any further. The garage lock clicks into place, sealing away the only piece of your old self you didn’t abandon.

Inside, the silence settles heavy, broken only by the hum of the fridge, a faint ache crawling down your wrist, and the familiar drag of fatigue that clings no matter how much you sleep.

Your first week in the city is a blur of rearranging the layout of your house and taking phone calls. You shuffle between unpacking and answering the stream of messages—friends checking in, old teammates trying to sound casual while circling the same question: are you really okay on your own? You type the same replies over and over, all variations of I’m fine, even when the silence in the house presses down so hard it feels like a weight on your chest.

It’s strange, trying to build a new life when the old one still hovers in the sidelines like a shadow that refuses to let you be. In this city, nobody knows you were once a face plastered on magazine spreads, that you stood on podiums with champagne dripping down your racing suit. Here, you’re just another newcomer with a wrist brace and too many boxes shoved into too small a home.

You could coast for months if you wanted to. The savings you scraped together during your pro years are enough to cover rent and groceries for at least half a year, maybe longer if you’re careful. But complacency feels like rot, and you can’t stomach the idea of sitting still while the world keeps moving. So, before you even packed your last box, you’d already sent out résumés, chasing whatever jobs your body might still allow.

That’s how you end up behind the counter of a flower shop on the corner of a sunlit street. The owner—a lovely woman named Gorgo—takes one look at you, smiles like she’s known you forever, and hires you on the spot. She treats you like her own kid in the way she fusses if you overexert yourself, and presses sandwiches into your hands before your break even hits.

It’s nothing like the life you left behind. But as leaves and petals brush your fingertips, and the air starts to smell of earth instead of asphalt and gasoline, you tell yourself it’s a start.

Your first week at the shop is quiet, mostly filled with learning how the register works, memorizing prices, and trying not to drop bouquets when your wrist flares at the wrong time. The bell over the door rings with a steady rhythm, and Gorgo’s warm chatter fills whatever silence lingers.

But then the bikes show up.

At first, you think it’s just a one-off—some gang rolling in to make noise on a slow afternoon. The engines snarl outside, the bass of laughter carrying through the glass, and you glance instinctively at Gorgo, ready for her to be annoyed. Except she doesn’t even flinch. She keeps braiding ribbon into a bouquet like the roar of engines is background music.

It happens again the next day. And the day after. Always the same crew idling near the curb, talking too loud, smoking too much, and revving their bikes just for the hell of it. Every single time, you notice the one with the blonde hair and red tattoos—his gaze flicking toward the shop window like he’s waiting for something.

By the fourth day, your patience frays. You’re bagging up daisies for a customer, an elderly woman with kind eyes, when the rumble of engines kicks up again outside. You mutter under your breath, mostly to yourself: “These stupid biker gangs…”

The old woman lets out a light, knowing laugh. “Are you new here, sweetie?”

Heat creeps up your neck. You didn’t mean to say that out loud. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Well, you’ll learn quick enough.” Her smile softens as you hand over her purchase and change. “Kremnos isn’t like the bigger city states. Around here, those biker gangs are the ones who help people.”

You blink at her, halfway between disbelief and wanting to crawl under the counter. Helpful biker gangs. Right.

Still, when she leaves with her bouquet, you can’t help but watch through the window. Sure enough, one of the bikers—a big guy in a leather jacket with tattoos on his knuckles—lights up when he sees her. He swings off his bike and gently takes her elbow to help her across the street with a grin. The engines quiet while they wait for her to reach the other side safely.

It’s wholesome. It’s bizarre.

And you still don’t buy it.

Nonetheless, the days slip into a muted rhythm. Wake up, drag yourself to the shop, sell flowers with a smile that never quite reaches your eyes, then come home to the silence of four walls and stacked boxes you still haven’t bothered to unpack. It isn’t thrilling, but you keep telling yourself this is what you needed.

A clean break. A smaller life. Something within your means.

You manage your wrist the best you can with your stretches and the occasional painkillers tucked into your pocket just in case. But the fatigue—there’s no brace for that. Some days it’s like moving through fog, every step a little heavier than it should be. Hyacine, your old doctor back in Okhema, keeps calling just to check in, always in the same careful tone. Any new symptoms? Any flare-ups? Has the exhaustion worsened? You respond with reassurances that are half-truths at best. You can’t bring yourself to admit that the tiredness isn’t just physical anymore.

Whenever Gorgo is feeling nosy enough to ask, you don’t give her the whole story. It’s a bad injury, but nothing that won’t heal in a few months after therapy.

She always watches you with those gentle amber eyes, like she can see past the neat excuse. But she never pushes, and you’re grateful.

You don’t tell Gorgo about that last race either—how the track blurred in the rain and the world flipped in an instant, how the crash mangled your hand and rattled your body in ways no amount of physical therapy can fully erase. You don’t say that the injury alone wasn’t enough to end you, not technically. It was the aftermath—the management that collapsed around you, the sponsors that pulled out, and the team that suddenly didn’t know what to do with a broken star.

That’s what cuts the deepest. Not the scar tissue. Not the wrist brace you’ll probably wear forever. It’s knowing you could have kept going, if only someone had believed in you long enough to wait for you to recover.

But no one did.

So here you are, selling roses instead of racing. Telling everyone you’re fine. Telling yourself that this was the right choice.

Some days, you almost convince yourself you’re fine with this new rhythm. It’s quieter than the circuit, safer than the track, and if you ignore the ache in your wrist and the fatigue that drags at your bones, it almost feels sustainable.

Almost.

Thursday evening proves otherwise. With groceries biting into your fingers and plastic bags straining against your wrist brace, you’re already running on fumes by the time you make it back to your house. The bus ride took longer than it should have, the climb up the hill left you lightheaded, and all you want is to collapse on the couch and forget your body altogether.

Instead, your keys slip out of reach while you’re juggling too much in one hand. A bag tears, apples scatter across the sidewalk, a can rolls toward the gutter, and a carton of milk bursts open with a sickly splash.

“Perfect,” you mutter, crouching awkwardly as the plastic handles cut deeper into your palms.

You’re reaching for the runaway can when another hand gets there first; larger and much steadier than yours. Ink sprawls across skin in sharp red lines, the patterns curling up from wrist to shoulder. Your gaze lifts, following the lines of strength upward. The man before you is built broad and solid, like he could carry the world on his back and barely flinch. His long, blonde hair tipped in crimson falls around his face, with one braid tucked neatly at the front as his amber eyes meet yours like a spark catching fuel.

Your stomach twists as the recognition hits. He’s one of them—the biker gang that’s been loitering around your workplace all week.

“Are you stalking me?”

The question hangs in the air, too sharp, too defensive, but you can’t take it back. He just looks at you, unbothered, as if weighing whether or not you deserve an answer. Then, with a voice low and steady enough to crawl under your skin, he says:

“...No. I live next door.”

Your stomach drops with his answer. Next door.

Of course. Because in your rush to set up a new life, you’d been too busy juggling work, unpacking, and pretending you were fine to actually scout out the neighborhood. You hadn’t so much as glanced at the faces living this close. Still, no offense to him, but he doesn’t exactly look like the kind of man who lives in a quiet street lined with town houses and garden sheds.

You swallow down the questions itching at your tongue and let him help, if only because your wrist is screaming from the weight. He gathers the bruised apples and dented cans with quiet efficiency, balancing the bags in his hands like they’re weightless. Together, you make it up to your porch, though it feels less like teamwork and more like you’re trailing awkwardly in his wake.

The silence gnaws at you the whole way. He doesn’t comment on the mess, doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t even grunt with effort. Just steady footsteps and that unreadable profile when you risk a glance at him. You can’t decide if it unsettles you or irritates you more.

Finally, you ask, “So what’s your name?”

The words come out sharper than you mean them to, but he only raises an eyebrow, pausing just long enough to make you squirm before answering.

“Mydeimos. But you can just call me Mydei.”

The syllables roll out slow and unhurried, like he’s perfectly at ease while you’re standing here with nerves buzzing under your skin.

“...Thanks,” you mutter at last, forcing the word past your teeth like it’s costing you something vital.

If Mydei notices the effort it takes, he doesn’t show it. He just sets the last bag on your porch, straightens to his full height, and gives you the faintest nod before stepping back into the night. You exhale only once he’s gone, realizing belatedly that your heart’s been hammering the whole time.

“You want me to what?”

Your deadpan tone could flatten mountains, but Gorgo just beams at you like you didn’t mean it that way at all.

“Make a bouquet,” she says again, cheerful as ever. “You’ve been watching me do it for weeks. I think it’s about time you tried it yourself.”

You blink at her, then at the rows of flowers crowding their buckets along the walls of the shop. There lies a variety of bouquets and arrangements—delicate colors bleeding into one another, textures balanced with ribbons and paper. They look effortless with Gorgo’s touch, like beauty spun with a mother’s patience. Not the sort of work you imagine for your own hands, still stiff from old scars, more used to gripping throttles and scraping against asphalt than coaxing stems into harmony.

“Miss Gorgo, I… don’t think that’s my thing.” You lift your braced wrist a little, like that explains everything.

Her only response is a knowing tilt of her head, the braid woven into her golden hair catching the light like strands of sunlight. The look says she’s not buying your excuses.

“Just try,” your boss tells you softly, as though she’s coaxing more than insisting, and the worst part is, it works. It’s hard to argue with someone who tucks flowers into her hair like they were always meant to be there.

With a long sigh, you mutter something that could be agreement, shuffle to the window, and flip the little ON BREAK sign so the next wave of customers won’t wander in. Gorgo smiles like she’s already won, and gestures you over to the worktable.

“Come on. I’ll walk you through it.”

You follow her reluctantly, and for the first time in a long while, you wonder if your hands could still learn something other than speed and steel.

You hover by the worktable like it might bite. Gorgo lays a clean towel down, and sets out a pair of shears, floral tape, twine, and brown paper. She moves slowly, letting you see each step before she takes it—like a pace lap before the checkered flag drops.

“First rule,” she says, rinsing a bucket with purposeful care. “Give them good water. Everything else is decoration.”

Your boss guides you to the wall of buckets and lets you choose. You point at the safest things—soft creams and greens—because color feels like a commitment you’re not ready to make. She nods as if you’ve done something brave. Into your hands go three cream roses, a handful of chamomile, eucalyptus, and a branch of olive. She adds a single apricot ranunculus that’s as warm as the late sun. Back at the table, Gorgo shows you how to strip the leaves from the stems.

“Leaves tend to rot fast,” she murmurs, “and you should know that rot spreads. We have to take off what will cause trouble so the rest can drink.” She hands you the next stem. Your wrist twinges when you pinch and pull; your grip tightening on instinct without meaning to. Gorgo notices and adjusts your hand with a gentle tap.

“Don’t clench too hard. Let the stem rest here.” She touches the soft triangle of your thumb and forefinger. “Think of it like holding a bird you don’t want to scare off.”

You breathe out. Try again. The eucalyptus shivers but stays.

“Second rule, when you cut the stems, do it at an angle. This gives them more surface to drink.” She demonstrates as the stem is nicked clean before passing you the shears. You mimic her movements carefully, the tiny slice of green satisfying in a quiet, precise way.

From there, Gorgo begins the spiral, and you follow her directions closely. One rose, tilt. A slip of olive, tilt. The ranunculus, slightly off-center, so it looks discovered rather than planted. Your hands remember how to calibrate pressure without strangling the thing you’re holding, like feathering a clutch you haven’t touched in months. You rotate the bundle; the stems cross neatly like a little star in your palm.

“Striking a balance doesn’t mean they’re all equal,” Gorgo says, laying in the chamomile like the breath between words. “It means that the pieces you choose are in conversation. Let this one speak, and let the others listen.”

You don’t mean to, but you smile. It’s small and crooked, there and gone. You breathe with the rhythm of her instructions, counting without realizing you’re counting like the way you used to measure distances between apexes. As you work through it, the ache in your wrist skates along the edge of tolerable, but you ignore it like you always do.

“Use the table for support. Don’t force yourself to carry all the weight.”

Gorgo slides the bouquet base to the towel so the pull eases from your wrist. You exhale slowly, surprised by the relief and her foresight. Then together, you choose the last touches. A single stem of veronica to draw the eye up, two sprigs of waxflower to soften the edges. You start to see how empty spaces aren’t failures but places to breathe, how quiet can be generous when it’s chosen, not forced.

“Now, the tape,” she says.

Your fumble when you rip some off from the holder, fingers clumsy against the stems, but Gorgo doesn’t correct you—only waits. The silence is patient enough that you find the angle yourself, holding them snug without choking. Twine follows in two careful turns before you knot it down. Gorgo lifts a sheet of brown paper and holds it against the bouquet, measuring like a seamstress at work. With practiced hands, she folds a neat pocket, tucks the stems into place, then passes the ribbon over to you.

You pause, the weave of silk caught between your fingers, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of how delicate this last touch feels.

“Go on.” She tilts her head encouragingly. “That will put the entire thing together.”

You have no reason not to trust her words, but Gorgo’s abject faith in you leaves you a bit stunned. Nonetheless, you do as she says—looping the ribbon in place despite the quiet tremble of your fingers. The bow you tie is not perfect, but it lies flat and clean against the bundle of stems. Gorgo’s approval comes in a soft sound, like a motor idling contentedly.

Your boss lifts the bouquet before setting it back down. “Where does your eye travel first?”

“…To the ranunculus,” you admit, surprised that you manage to catch the detail. “Then the roses. Then… the little white ones.”

“Good.” Her smile warms. “You left them room to be seen.”

You don’t know what to do with the sudden pressure behind your eyes, so you check the stems instead and trim them to a shared length, neat as a row of pit stops. You hadn’t realized how much you missed the clean geometry of finishing something.

“You’re adjusting,” Gorgo comments softly.

You want to tell her you’re not. The nights still stretch long when the fatigue sits on your chest and your wrist pulses hot and mean. You still haven’t called the therapist Hyacine recommended because making the appointment makes it real. You’re still afraid the hope will hurt worse than the ache if it doesn’t work.

Instead, you touch the apricot heart of the bouquet with the back of your knuckle. “Do you think it’ll sell?”

“It will,” she reassures. “But this first one goes home with you.”

You blink. “Miss Gorgo, that’s not necessary.”

“Firsts are more than necessary,” she replies, her golden braid glinting when she tilts her head. “It’ll remind you that your hands can do more than survive.”

There’s nothing to say to that without showing too much, so you clear your throat and reach for a receipt book you don’t need. Gorgo glides past the pretense with a knowing smile. She wraps the base with a little water pack, tucks the whole into a paper sleeve, and presses it into your arms like a small, living thing that trusts you.

At the window, you flip the ON BREAK sign back to OPEN. Minutes later, the bell over the door rings twice before your heart settles. You finish the shift with the bouquet propped in a back-room vase, catching glimpses of it between customers. It is not a trophy or a bottle of champagne at the podium, but it’s proof of your existence.

Later, when the streets are warm gold in the sunset, Gorgo walks you to the door with a gentle pat on your shoulder. “Good work.”

You open your mouth to thank her, but the low growl of an engine cuts you off. Someone pulls over right in front of the shop, tires crunching against the curb. The sound doesn’t belong to the usual cars that drift through this sleepy street.

It’s from a motorcycle.

Your stomach sinks before you even look.

Sure enough, it’s him. Mydei. The one from the biker gang that had loitered outside for days before vanishing just as suddenly. The one who turned out to be your neighbor. He swings a leg over the bike easily, unclasping his helmet and hanging it from the handlebars while the engine still hums beneath.

His expression lifts when his gaze finds you with a bouquet cradled against your arm, but it’s subtle, as though he isn’t the type to broadcast what he feels. You hesitate on the threshold, remembering that awkward night with your groceries rolling everywhere, the accusation you spat at him, and his simple reply. The last thing you want is a repeat.

Before you can manage a farewell to Gorgo, Mydei crosses the distance with that same steady, muscular stride you caught in a glimpse back then.

“Are the deliveries ready?” he asks casually.

The words throw you off for a moment. Deliveries? You’d wondered before how Gorgo handled them since you always clocked out before those late-day orders ever went anywhere.

Apparently, the answer is: the bikers.

“Inside,” Gorgo answers smoothly, already moving toward the backroom. She gestures for him to follow, and he does without hesitation, steps unhurried but sure.

You watch them for a beat too long as the resemblance tugs at you in ways you can’t quite place: the pale gold of their hair, both braided though hers is neater; the same steady shade of amber eyes, one softened with kindness, the other carrying a quiet weight. The similarity clicks sharply enough that you almost ask. Almost.

But then you catch yourself staring like a stranger in your own shop. Heat creeps up the back of your neck. You clear your throat, heft the bouquet higher in your arms like it needs you, and murmur something that might pass as a goodbye before slipping out the door.

On the bus ride home, when the nerves upon seeing Mydei again have all but fettered out, you deign to snap a photo of the bouquet to send to Cipher. Suffice to say, you’ve been rather terrible at keeping in touch with your best friend, so you thought it would be best to get her up to speed by showing her this.

Me: [Sent an image]

Me: Look what I made at the shop today.

Cipher: OOOOO you did that all by yourself?

Me: Of course not. I don't know the first thing about flower arrangement.

Me: My boss helped out and told me to take this one home.

Cipher: Hehe that's how you know you landed yourself in a good place

Cipher: Will you ever send any bouquets to me 🥺

Me: Sure. As long as you pay for the courier service. Why not?

Cipher: BOOOOOOO 👎

You get off your usual stop with a peal of laughter cinched between your teeth. The climb to your uphill neighborhood is still a climb. Your wrist still twinges when the wind shifts. Your bones are still tired in a way sleep doesn’t cure. But the bouquet is like a quiet anchor in your arms, and when you set it on your kitchen table, the room feels a fraction less empty.

Dinner ends up simple: vegetables sautéed over rice, a fried egg slipped on top. It isn’t glamorous, but it’s warm and filling—a meal you can make on autopilot. Only when you portion it out do you realize you’ve cooked enough for two, maybe even three.

For a moment, you hesitate with the ladle in hand. The thought rises before you can stop it: carrying a plate next door, knocking just once, and offering it up as something casual and neighborly. A thank-you, maybe, for tolerating your evasive presence since you moved in.

But then your mind flashes an unwanted image: amber eyes catching yours again, that unreadable steadiness in his gait, and the way that man who calls himself Mydei seems more solid than the ground you stood on. Heat creeps uninvited to your face, and you huff at yourself at how foolish the notion is. He’s probably still out on deliveries anyway, and you don’t even know which townhouse door belongs to him.

You shake the thought off and scrape the extra servings into containers, tucking them into the fridge quietly. But when you close the door, the faint reflection in the metal—your own tired face and the bouquet just visible behind you on the table—makes it feel less ridiculous than it should.

When you finally sit down to eat, the empty chair across from you feels harder to ignore than usual.

The main district smells faintly of fresh bread and something sweet—a pairing you only notice because the bus stops directly across from a bakery. You keep your head down as you step off to head to your actual destination. Before you, Kremnos General Hospital rises white and clean against the skyline, far removed from the grit and gasoline of the racing circuits you once knew.

Your physical therapist is easy to spot once you’re guided to his office. He goes by Krateros; broad-shouldered with dark hair at the roots but silvering fast at the temples. He looks like someone who hasn’t fought the years but learned to run alongside them instead. His handshake is firm without testing your strength, and when he gestures to the specialized chair opposite from his desk, it’s with an ease that puts less emphasis on the injury and more on the person.

“I’ve read Doctor Hyacine’s notes,” he begins, leafing once through a file before setting it aside. “You don’t have to tell me more than you want.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak just yet.

Krateros doesn’t fill the silence, he just lets it sit until you’re ready. His questions, when they come, are practical—pain scale, range of motion, what movements still feel impossible, what days are worse. You answer clinically, as though reciting data off a telemetry screen, and not pieces of your everyday life.

When he asks you to rotate your wrist, you grit through the pull, the memory of impact like a lightning strike behind your eyes. Krateros notices the way your jaw tightens, but he doesn’t comment. He only adjusts the exercise and steadies your arm with careful hands. “Your wrist will complain,” he says. “That’s not weakness. That’s just your body remembering what happened.”

Something in you flickers at that—because remembering is the problem, isn’t it?

By the time he finishes the initial assessment, you expect him to hand you a schedule and usher you out. Instead, your therapist leans back in his chair, considering you with an expression that’s thoughtful, not prying.

“You’ve come a long way to get here, haven’t you?”

Your throat closes for a moment. The old instinct is to deny, to keep it clipped and impersonal. But Krateros doesn’t sound like he’s asking for the story, just acknowledging that it’s there.

“…I didn’t exactly leave things clean back in Okhema,” you admit. The words feel like rust being scraped loose. “I didn’t want to… face the fallout of my career.”

Krateros nods once, slowly. “There’s nothing wrong with leaving when a place stops being livable. Sometimes survival means running first, walking later.”

You look at him, startled by how unvarnished the words are. He doesn’t soften them into platitudes, doesn’t push for more. He just sets them there, like tools you can choose to pick up or not.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you ran away,” he adds after a pause. “I think you ran toward a chance. That’s different. And now you’re here, taking the harder step—showing up.”

The room feels smaller suddenly, like air caught in your chest. You’re not sure if Hyacine warned him about your habit of dodging questions and shying away from sound advice, or if this is just how he talks to all his patients. Either way, it cuts closer than you’d like.

You don’t argue. You just nod.

Krateros flips his file shut and pushes it aside. “We’ll work slow. We’ll listen to what your body says before it shouts. You’ll hate it sometimes. But you won’t be doing it alone.”

After today, you book the rest of your sessions without hesitation. You tell yourself it’s accountability, a commitment to recovery. In truth, it’s just a safeguard—one more way to stop yourself from bolting when things get hard.

When you step out of the hospital, the air feels brighter than it did this morning. Some of the dread that had sat like a stone on your ribs has eased—not gone, but much lighter than before. You’re glad you showed up, instead of letting the comfort of bed and the ache of excuses hold you captive.

Still, the rest of your day off is too long. You don’t know what to do with yourself when Gorgo doesn’t need you in the shop. If you even dared suggest coming in off-hours to help without pay, she would scold you straight out the door with that unshakable authority of hers. There aren’t errands waiting either. Just hours stretching ahead, yours alone, and you can’t quite figure how to fill them.

You’re so tangled in thought that you almost miss the change of the light. You step into the crosswalk just as the pedestrian signal flashes green. Halfway across, the sudden roar of an engine rips into the intersection.

“WATCH OUT!”

The shout cuts through too late to stop your stumble. You twist at the sound, the blur of chrome and pale hair closing fast. The brakes screech in your ears as rubber burns across the asphalt. Your heart spikes; your knees buckle. You land hard on your tailbone in an instinctive effort to distance yourself from another injury, the shock shooting up your spine as the motorcycle jerks to a halt inches away.

Then, your world tilts in that strange way it does after near-misses—every sound too close, every color too bright. Pedestrians pause to crane their necks at you with disconcerted stares. A car window rolls down, the driver leaning over to get a better look at the situation. The weight of attention crawls over your skin until it prickles.

You glare up at the man astride the bike, the heat in your chest born half from the crowd’s eyes, half from his recklessness. Pale-blond hair pulled into a haphazard bun at his nape, a few strands loose against his face. For a second, recognition itches at the back of your mind—you’ve seen him before, you’re sure of it—but the rush of irritation drowns it out.

Of course it’s a motorcycle.

It’s not the machine’s fault—you’d trust two wheels over four any day. But the kind of riders who treat them like toys instead of extensions of their own body? You’ve never had patience for them. Loud for the sake of being loud, swagger masking the fact they don’t know half the control they think they do. And reckless ones? You’ve seen too many broken bones hauled off circuits to forgive that particular brand of idiocy.

But before you can bite out the words burning your tongue, the rider swings off the bike. Not with swagger, but urgency. He’s already apologizing, his voice low but earnest, words tumbling faster than you can process.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t see the light turn. I-I should’ve slowed earlier. Are you hurt?”

You grimace at him. You’d braced for blame, for that sneer drivers make when they’re convinced pedestrians exist only to ruin their day. Instead, he’s scanning you like he actually cares. His hands hover near your arm but never touch until you accept the offer, and when he hauls you upright, his grip is steady but not insistent.

Awkwardly, you dust off your clothes, muttering something like “I’m fine” more out of reflex than truth. The ache in your tailbone begs to differ, but at least the staring has begun to fade. The pedestrians drift back into their own errands; the car window rolls up with a disinterested hum. Relief comes in the form of anonymity restored.

Yet, the man is still there, repentance written across his face like he hasn’t run out of ways to say it. So much so that you completely overlooked the fact that he was driving without a damn helmet.

You level him with a look sharp enough to cut steel. “Well, congratulations. You’ve managed to make me fall on my ass in front of half the district. Should I send you the bill for my dignity, or will an apology cover it?”

“An apology and lunch. At least let me do that much.”

“…Lunch?”

He nods, as if this is the most perfect solution he can come up with. “There’s a diner a few blocks over. My aunt runs it. I was headed there anyway.” He hesitates, then adds, “Come on. You can hop on, we’ll get there faster.”

You blink at him incredulously. “You nearly ran me over with that thing, and your pitch is to ‘hop on?’ What makes you think I’d agree to that?”

“Oh.” His brows lift, and for the first time, he looks genuinely stumped. “Good point.”

You stare at him. He looks so disarmingly lost that the bite in your irritation slips for a second. Is he an idiot?

Still, you’ve got nothing else waiting for you today. Lunch probably wouldn’t hurt, and the thought of sitting in your empty apartment until dusk makes your stomach sink. Maybe it’s the absurdity of it all, but you hear yourself mutter:

“…Fine. Lunch.”

His face lights up like you’ve just agreed to save him from the gallows. “Great! You won’t regret it. I’m Hephaestion, by the way.”

You arch a brow. “What, no last name? No assurance you’re not about to drag me into a ditch?”

He grins. “If I were, I wouldn’t be offering to feed you first.”

Before you can rethink your choice, he’s crouching beside the bike, unlatching the compartment under the driver’s seat. He pulls out a helmet—an actual, intact helmet—and hands it to you like a peace offering.

You squint at it. “So you do own one.”

“Of course,” he says brightly. “Safety first.”

“And yet you weren’t wearing it.”

He coughs, looking away. “I, uh. Forgot.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. Whatever. The helmet fits snugly enough. When you climb onto the pillion seat, the leather is warmer than you expect. You settle behind him, your hands braced awkwardly at your sides.

It’s jarring, being back on a motorcycle—even as a passenger. The familiar vibration through the frame, the way the air seems to thrum differently around you. You haven’t been on one since the crash that ended your career. The ache in your wrist pulses in ghostly sympathy.

Hephaestion revs up the bike, the engine purring to life beneath you. “Ready to go? You can hold on to me if you want.”

Your face twists. “I’ll manage.”

“Suit yourself.”

The bike lurches smoothly into motion, weaving back into the current of city streets. You sit as stiff as stone, fighting the flood of memory with every turn.

The diner is the kind of place that seems stitched into the bones of the neighborhood—brick walls softened by decades of steam and grease, the neon sign outside buzzing faintly even in daylight. Inside, the air smells of coffee, frying butter, and something sweeter that you can’t place. Red vinyl booths line the windows. The counter gleams even when the chrome surface is worn smooth under countless elbows.

Hephaestion chats the whole way to the stools at the counter, words spilling like he’s afraid silence might catch him. You nod when it seems required, half-listening, half-letting the din of the place fill in the gaps he leaves.

Kiera, his aunt, has the warmth of someone who doesn’t just serve food but mothers it onto the plate. She laughs easily, keeps the counter moving with a practiced rhythm, and doesn’t seem fazed by her nephew’s endless commentary. At one point, she leans in to refill your water and winks. “He talks too much, doesn’t he?”

“Unstoppably,” you mutter, and Hephaestion only beams as if it’s a compliment.

It’s when he tugs off his cycling gloves that the itch of memory digs sharp under your skin. There’s ink sprawled over his knuckles—marks you recognize, because you’ve seen them before. The biker who helped the old woman across the street your first week at the shop. You blink back into focus before he can notice your stare. Hephaestion doesn’t mention it, doesn’t seem to place you either so you let it go.

Moments later, he sighs with a kind of theatrical satisfaction as he polishes off his plate. “Food’s perfect today. The cook in a good mood or something?”

Kiera snorts as she stacks empty mugs onto a tray. “That guy’s the same as always. Doesn’t matter if the sky’s falling. He’ll still serve dishes worthy of a five-star restaurant. He’s on break right now though.”

Hephaestion chuckles. “If you call two cigarettes and an energy drink a break.”

“Hey, he already quit!” Kiera corrects. “Substituted the nicotine for lollipops, too.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, but neither of them adds more. The conversation spins off into something else, Hephaestion tugging you along with sheer force of chatter.

By the time the plates are cleared, you’ve survived what feels like a verbal avalanche. Hephaestion hasn’t run out of stories, and half of them are about the so-called biker gang he rides with. He paints them less as outlaws and more as an overgrown pack of brothers: a mechanic who can fix an engine with duct tape and prayers, another guy who swears by karaoke nights as team bonding, the occasional scuffle with rival riders that sounds more like a barroom brawl than an epic feud. You’re not sure if you believe half of it, but the enthusiasm is impossible to ignore.

Still, you’ve had enough social endurance for one afternoon. When he offers a ride back to the main district, you shake your head firmly.

“I’ll take the bus,” you say. “You already paid for lunch. We’re even.”

He looks like he might argue, but then he just shrugs. “Fair enough.”

You’re halfway off the stool when his eyes light up again, like he’s remembered something important. “Oh! Before you go, you’ve gotta meet the cook. He’s also the leader of our gang, y’know?”

You blink at him. “…Your gang has a leader?”

“Of course,” Hephaestion says, completely unfazed. “Someone’s gotta keep us from setting ourselves on fire.”

Before you can unpack that, he’s already corralling you out the door with the same careless familiarity he’s shown since the intersection, as though you’ve been friends for years.

Outside, you spot him immediately. Sitting on one of the low concrete blocks that mark the edge of the diner’s lot, phone in hand, a lollipop stick jutting from the corner of his mouth. His shirt matches Kiera’s uniform but bears grease stains from the kitchen, a towel slung over one shoulder. He crunches down once, the sharp line of his jaw working before he pops the candy free and rolls it lazily between his fingers.

Mydei.

You almost laugh at the absurdity. You hardly ever cross paths with him in your neighborhood, and yet here he is, turning up again like some cosmic joke you’re not in on.

Hephaestion barrels forward, oblivious. “Yo! There you are. Thought you’d vanished. C’mon, meet—”

But Mydei’s gaze is already on you. Recognition strikes like flint against stone the moment your eyes lock. Neither of you says a word.

Hephaestion doesn’t notice. He just talks straight through it, recounting how you nearly became roadkill under his bike, and how you reluctantly agreed to lunch. By the time he winds down, Mydei flicks the bare stick aside with deliberate calm.

“Don’t you know,” he drawls, “they’re Ma’s new help at the flower shop?”

Mydei says it so casually it almost slips past you. Ma. You’d suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed still makes you pause before you school your face back to neutrality.

Hephaestion, meanwhile, looks like someone just dropped an anvil into his gut. “Wait—what? You mean I almost ran over Aunt Gorgo’s employee?!”

A sound slips out of Mydei, low and rough at the edges. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “Based on what you just told me? Yeah.”

Hephaestion does exactly what you feared—launches into another rambling cascade of apologies, swearing he didn’t mean it, that he’ll polish his brakes, that he’ll never, ever speed near intersections again. You’re halfway to snapping that you don’t care when Kiera’s voice cuts sharp from the back door.

“Heph! Quit blocking the lot and come help, we’re swamped!”

He jolts like a soldier under orders, fumbling for excuses, but one glare from the doorway has him deflating. “Uh—yeah, yeah, I’m coming!” With a final guilty look at you, he scurries back inside.

Silence folds over the lot, broken only by the faint hiss of traffic and the faint sound of Mydei fishing another lollipop from his pocket. He tears the wrapper with his teeth and slides it past his lips. You shift your bag strap, about to excuse yourself and head home—except your treacherous mouth says something else.

“So… you’re Miss Gorgo’s son?”

He doesn’t even look surprised. Mydei simply nods lifting the half-empty can of energy drink in his hand before draining the rest. You try very hard not to stare at the way his throat works with each swallow, but your brain helpfully catalogs it anyway.

“Yeah,” he says at last, crushing the can neatly before tossing it into a nearby bin. “Our relationship’s a little… complicated. But she’s still my mom.”

You catch the faintest edge under the words, enough to tell there’s more story buried there. Still, it’s not your place to pry. The silence creeps back in, and you’re sure that’s the end of it—until his eyes flick to you again.

“She told me you’ve been helping out with the flower arrangements.”

“Oh. Yeah.” You scratch your cheek, suddenly self-conscious. “She’s been teaching me.”

His gaze lingers when it drifts to your brace, just long enough that you feel heat crawl under your skin. For a moment you’re absurdly convinced that he can somehow sense the stiffness in your wrist fresh from today’s therapy session. Logic says that’s impossible, but the weight of his attention makes you second-guess it anyway.

“Thanks,” he says finally. “She’s been really stubborn about getting an extra pair of hands.”

“Really?”

“Really.” The corner of his mouth quirks, not quite a smile, but close enough. “She wouldn’t hire anyone else I recommended.”

You can’t help it—your mind snags on the irony. She wouldn’t hire anyone else, yet she hired you, brace and all. Gorgo really is strange.

Stranger still is her son.

You take another look at him, properly this time. His blond hair is tied back neatly, red tips catching the afternoon light. The grease-stained uniform that should look ordinary, but somehow lays crisp against his broad shoulders. You’d only ever seen him in leather before, with the kind of silhouette that screamed reckless danger. And yet here, in the dull gray of a diner’s parking lot, he looks… unfairly good.

A cook. The leader of a gang. The son of a flower shop owner. Strange repertoire.

“Well,” you say at last, forcing a casual shrug, “guess I should head out.”

He nods, raising a hand in a lazy wave as you back toward the bus stop.

By the time you climb aboard and sink into your seat, the last thing you see through the glass is the bright candy-red glint of the lollipop between Mydei’s teeth, sharp against the fading light.

The weeks slip into a rhythm you didn’t expect. You spend most of your days at the flower shop, where Miss Gorgo’s sharp eyes soften just enough whenever you get the arrangement right. And once a week, on your day off, there’s physical therapy with Krateros—equal parts exhausting and hopeful, a reminder that your body is still mending, however slowly.

It isn’t perfect, but it’s steadier than you’ve felt in a long time.

One morning, though, the steadiness tilts into terror: Gorgo hands you the keys to the store, says she’ll be out for the day, and leaves you with the shop. Alone.

The hours crawl. Customers trickle in, asking for things you’re sure you’ll botch—bouquets for anniversaries, wreaths for a funeral, someone’s nervous attempt at a first-date gift. You’re two seconds from bolting when the ribbon tangles around your wrist for the third time and the register drawer jams on you.

You’re muttering curses under your breath when the bell above the door rings again.

“Need a hand?”

You look up, startled. Mydei is standing there, calm as ever with the crate of plastic pots Gorgo told you to expect balanced against his hip. Behind him looms another broad-shouldered biker with an easy grin.

“Hi. I’m Perdikkas,” the stranger says, like he already belongs here. “Boss here said you might need backup.”

You blink at them both, heat crawling up your neck. “I don’t… This isn’t—don’t you have jobs?”

“It’s my day off at the diner,” Mydei replies simply, already moving past the counter like he knows where everything goes. Perdikkas just whistles low and plucks a stem from a bucket you hauled onto the counter, trimming it with surprising ease.

And somehow… they actually help. They follow your fumbling directions without complaint, fill vases, carry bags out for customers. It feels strange, giving orders to men who look like they belong in a back-alley brawl, but they take it in stride without a hint of mockery.

By the time Gorgo calls at closing, the shop is still standing, and you’re miraculously still alive and upright. Your boss hums approval down the line when you recount just how exactly the day went—grudgingly throwing in the fact that Mydei and Perdikkas helped you hold down the fort—and you swear you can hear the grin curling around her words when she responds.

When you hang up, your cheeks are hot, still a little awkward about it all, but gratitude tugs sharp at your chest. “Uh. Thanks, you two. I also ordered food a while ago. For a job well done.”

Perdikkas smirks. “What, from the shop revenue?”

You squawk, swattting at him with the rag in your hand, and he just laughs.

The three of you eat, lock up the store, and then Perdikkas waves off with some excuse about meeting the others. You’re about to head toward the bus stop yourself when you stop dead.

A motorcycle gleams at the curb. Not just any motorcycle—Mydei’s. But your eyes catch the changes instantly: the fresh stainless steel exhaust pipes, polished so clean they throw back the streetlight, and the low-profile seat swapped for a sleeker cut built for long rides. Your pulse kicks stupid-fast, your brain already running calculations on airflow, weight distribution, and what sort of control he’s after with mods like these.

It’s ridiculous, really. Geeking out over some guy’s ride like a kid spotting candy in a shop window. This isn’t even close to the customized monsters you once tore down tracks with, but it doesn’t matter. Two wheels are two wheels, and your gut still thrills at the sight.

“You like it?”

The voice comes from behind you. You jolt at the sound, and there’s Mydei with a lollipop stick tilted between his teeth, watching you with that same unreadable look in his golden eyes.

You open your mouth, close it again. “…It’s nice.”

He hums. “Want a lift? We live in the same neighborhood anyway.”

For a moment, all you can think is: what is it with this gang and offering rides like it’s nothing? But the bus stop is fifteen minutes away, your legs ache from standing all day, and the gleam of his bike still makes your chest stir with something you don’t name.

“…Fine,” you mutter. “Just this once.”

The corner of his mouth tugs. “Good thing I brought a spare helmet.”

Mydei takes it out quietly and it fits snugly when you settle it atop your head. He swings onto the bike first, steady and unhurried, before he jerks his chin for you to climb on. You hesitate but slide onto the seat, hands hovering uncertainly until the engine growls awake beneath you and your hands grip his leather jacket.

The first surge forward punches air into your lungs before you zip past the street. The city is still thick with traffic, trucks and cars crawling bumper to bumper, but Mydei weaves through it with unnerving ease. He doesn’t lurch or brag with his speed, doesn’t push the machine harder than it needs. He simply glides smoothly as if the road belongs to him.

It should feel like the ride you took with Hephaestion weeks ago. But it doesn’t. There’s something different in the way your pulse insists on climbing higher, something about the broad line of Mydei’s back beneath your hands that leaves your chest off-balance.

The city falls away when he takes to the bridge. Wind lashes sharp around you, carrying the smell of steel and salt from the river below. The sunset sprawls wide, orange and gold poured thick across the water, streaked with violet where the clouds drag their shadows. You’ve crossed this bridge countless times on the bus, pressed between bodies, the windows smeared and fogged. You never saw it like this—open and wild, with nothing between you and the sky.

For the first time since you moved here, you don’t regret it.

By the time the tires grind against the slope of your neighborhood, night has already begun stitching itself into the corners of the sky. Mydei coasts to a stop in front of your house, the engine of his bike still rumbling before he cuts it clean. You peel the helmet off with stiff fingers, hair mussed and cheeks warm from the wind.

“Thanks,” you murmur, passing it back.

“No problem.” He hooks the helmet to the side of the bike. His tone is so casual you almost miss your own question spilling out.

“Which house is yours?”

He jams a thumb toward the row towards the right if you’re facing your house. “That one. So just… ring the doorbell if you need anything.”

Your mouth works uselessly for a second. “Right. Yeah. Sure.”

He nods once, flicks the lollipop stick from his mouth into the trash can by the curb, and nudges the bike into gear. “See you around.”

Then he’s gone, tail lights cutting a sharp red line down the street.

You stand on the porch far longer than you mean to, bag strap digging into your shoulder as the wind cools the flush on your face. Finally, with a breath that feels too heavy for your lungs, you slip into the garage.

The air smells of dust and disuse. In the corner sits the tarp you’ve avoided for weeks, gray with neglect. You hesitate before tugging it free—like ripping off a bandaid for the first time.

Your motorcycle blinks up at you from beneath the layer of grit. Familiar, battered, but still beautiful. It’s seen better days, sure. The polish is gone, scratches line the paint, and it aches for maintenance you’ve been too cowardly to give. But even in this state, it’s yours. The most precious thing you own.

Your chest tightens, nostalgia curling sharp and painful as you rest a hand against the worn seat. Even if this machine carried you through so much, it was a piece of yourself you’ve been too afraid to touch since you settled into your new life.

The wrist brace presses faintly against your skin when your fingers trace the curve of the handlebar. Krateros had told you to be patient. Just another month of consistent therapy, and you might not need the brace at all.

For the first time in a long while, that doesn’t feel impossible.

“The Kremnos Festival?”

You tilt your head as you knot a ribbon around the stems of white and lavender blooms Hephaestion ordered for his sister’s graduation ceremony. Across the counter, the chatty biker nods like you’ve just handed him the perfect opening.

“Yeah. It happens every year around this time. It’s more like a gathering than a festival though. Bikers from all over Kremnos and the nearby areas roll in, line up their rides, talk mods, and compare engines. If the night’s good, someone calls a race across the longest bridge in the city.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” you point out as you adjust the wrap around the flowers. “I know people used to do highway runs back in Okhema when the roads cleared at night. Cops cracked down on it fast.”

Hephaestion waves off your concern. “It’s different here. It’s history—paying homage to Kremnos’ roots, you could say. A thousand years ago people were literally killing each other for sport in the name of some god no one remembers. Now? We just race like lunatics on a bridge. Vast improvement, don’t you think?”

You roll your eyes, sliding the finished bouquet across the counter. “More like a ridiculous one.”

“And yet you’re still listening,” he says cheerfully, fishing out some cash before tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm, the picture of a man pleased with himself. “So do you want to come along? Mydei thought it’d be a good idea.”

That makes you pause, fingers brushing the drawer of the register. Mydei. Why is he suddenly part of this conversation?

“…I’ll think about it,” you mutter.

Hephaestion only flashes you a no-good grin. “You should. It’ll make your Kremnos experience complete, I swear.”

The bell above the door jingles as he heads out, tail end of his humming cut off by the closing glass. In the newfound silence, you turn to Gorgo who was busy stocking up the carnation display in neat rows by the windows.

“Miss Gorgo, not to pry, but… I don’t suppose you approve of whatever illegal things your son’s up to?”

She looks up, sunlight glinting against the gold of her braid. Lines crease warmly at the corners of her eyes as she smiles. “Well, I hardly have any say in the choices he makes. Things have been that way since I divorced his father.”

The words stun you still. What you meant as a joke detonates into something else entirely, making you recall Mydei’s words sometime ago.

Our relationship’s a little… complicated. But she’s still my mom.

So that’s what he meant.

But your boss only returns to her flowers without any hint that she’s going to elaborate. So you do the same and let the silence fill the rest of your shift.

The walk home is just as quiet as the last of the daylight bleeds out over the roofs of your neighborhood. You’re halfway up the block when the low rumble of an engine cuts into the air. Your gaze snaps forward—only to catch sight of Mydei pulling into the curb right in front of your place.

Still in his diner uniform, his golden hair tied back in its usual loose tail, he swings off the motorcycle with a paper bag clutched in one hand. The bike ticks as it cools, and he shuts the engine with the same calm finality as everything he does.

You quicken your steps until you’re jogging the last few paces. “Did you need something?”

He glances up, unsurprised, and casually holds the bag out to you. “Made too much stir fry during the lunch rush. Thought you’d want some.”

Heat crawls fast up your neck. You take the bag, awkwardly heavy in your hands. “…You—you didn’t have to… Ugh! God, you’re so annoying.”

“Mm.” His mouth curves, but this time it isn’t the faint half-smile he usually offers—it’s a real grin, bright and open, and it jolts something right through your chest. “Guess you’ll just have to get used to having an annoying cook as a neighbor.”

You make a strangled noise, mumble some half-hearted thanks, and practically flee up the steps to your porch before he can say anything back. When you dare to look back, Mydei lifts a hand in an easy wave before disappearing into the house next door.

Even after your front door clicks shut behind you, your face is still burning. You set the bag on the dining table, wrestle with yourself for all of two seconds, and then open it. The food is warm, fragrant, and unfairly delectable. You try to focus only on the taste when you dig a fork out of your pantry to sample it, but your treacherous brain has other ideas.

Golden hair. Red tattoos curling bold across sun-browned arms. Eyes the color of honey catching light. A lollipop stick tilted at the corner of his mouth.

You snap back into yourself so abruptly you nearly choke. Why are you even thinking about Mydei like that? Absolutely not. You slam the lid back onto the container, push it aside, and head straight for the garage.

The sight of your motorcycle waiting under the dim light steadies you—at least, it’s supposed to. You let your hand skim the worn seat, trying to force your pulse into something manageable. But all it does is circle you back to Hephaestion’s invitation to the Kremnos Festival and the offhand line he’d dropped:

Mydei thought it’d be a good idea.

Your stomach flips.

Why?

While those unsightly thoughts about Mydei’s… appearance have abated, this new one nags at you relentlessly. Because why invite you in the first place? Why would Mydei suggest it at all? People don’t usually ask flower shop employees to go to some city-wide motorbike meet, do they?

You shake your head hard, trying to shove the spiral down before it swallows you whole. It’s probably nothing. Just a coincidence. Just him being… neighborly.

But the doubt lingers, tugging at the edges of your mind like a thread you’re not supposed to pull.

You’ve been counting down the days to this appointment, each morning marking one step closer. By the time you sit in Krateros’ office, your pulse won’t slow, tapping quick against your wrist—the same wrist he’s about to free.

He gestures for you to sit, his broad hands steady as he reaches for the brace right after a quick routine assessment. There isn’t much preamble as the velcro crackles loud in the quiet room, and with a final tug, it comes loose. The sudden lightness makes your chest seize up. Because this isn’t like those times where you have to remove it before a shower, or anything like that.

This is the day your brace comes off for good.

“There,” Krateros says, gruff but not unkind. “You should’ve known better than to assume a bit of surgery would solve everything. If you put off therapy any longer, it would’ve taken you a year to fully recover.”

You flex your fingers slowly, marveling at how strange it feels to have nothing weighing them down. Silly, almost, for how long you dreaded this moment. You’d convinced yourself that the brace was all that stood between you and breaking again, that without it you’d collapse. But the ache doesn’t come.

For months, you were afraid to look this new reality in the eye. Afraid the accident had ruined you forever, left you too broken to trust your body again. Yet here you are, breathing through the rush of relief instead of pain.

“Don’t get too sentimental,” Krateros mutters, though the edge of his mouth quirks. “Give it a month before you even think about driving anything. Maybe then you can decide if you want to crawl back into the professional circuit.”

You let out a shuddering breath through a wobbly smile. “Not likely.”

He waves you off, already scribbling today’s findings in your file, which he’ll no doubt send over to Hyacine soon. That’s Krateros for you—never lingering too long in moments like this.

You step outside his office, the door clicking shut behind you, and for the first time you hope it’s the last.

The bus lurches over a bump, sunlight streaming in through the smudged window. You lean your head against the glass as you stare at your unbound wrist. You can’t help yourself, so you snap a quick selfie with a peace sign, and send it off to Cipher before you lose your nerve.

Me: [Sent an image]

Cipher: whoa good morning

Cipher: you don’t usually send selfies. what’s up

Me: do you notice anything different

Cipher: …not particularly?

Me: my wrist brace is off…..

Cipher: OMG???

You snort so hard the old man across the aisle looks up. Before you can type back, your phone buzzes with an incoming call.

“Finally,” Cipher’s voice crackles through, bright and triumphant. “Do you realize how long I’ve been waiting for this? Congratulations! Free wrist! No more medieval torture gear!”

You laugh, cheeks hurting from how wide you’re smiling. “It feels unreal, Ci. Like I should’ve done this months ago.”

“Exactly what I’ve been saying,” Cipher declares. “I’m coming over this weekend to celebrate. No arguments.”

You hesitate, chewing your lip. “Sure, but… I might have plans in the afternoon on Saturday.”

“Duh. I’ll get there at night anyways. Do you know how long it takes to drive from Okhema to there? You have to let me sleep over.” There’s a pause, then her teasing hum: “But what plans are you speaking of, hmm?”

Your mind flickers to the Kremnos Festival, to Hephaestion’s grin as he recounted the story behind it, then to Mydei’s name woven casually into the invitation. Heat prickles at the back of your neck.

“Nothing special,” you say with a chuckle.

Cipher doesn’t buy it, but she lets it go, launching into a ramble about traffic predictions and snacks she’s bringing. You let her chatter fill the ride home as your wrist rests easy in your lap, free at last.

The city feels different today.

Streets you’ve walked a hundred times have suddenly transformed—every curb lined with motorcycles, engines glinting under strings of hanging lights, laughter and exhaust smoke blending thick in the summer air. The Kremnos Festival is here.

You shouldn’t be here, really. But ever since that first night with the stir-fry, Mydei’s “leftovers” have kept appearing at your door like clockwork. Always hot, always too much for one person, always shrugged off with a half-smile and a muttered don’t let it go to waste. You stopped protesting days ago.

So maybe that’s why you’re here now, weaving through the press of bikers and gawkers alike, eyes skimming every leather jacket, every flash of tattooed arms in search for familiar faces. You’d asked Mydei about the festival once or twice whenever his gang did their routine of loitering around the flower shop—an unspoken guard detail for Gorgo, though you only pieced that together recently. He’d looked hesitant to say anything, but the others all but grinned and told you to drop by.

So you did.

And now? You’re realizing maybe you should’ve gotten their numbers first.

The crowd is massive, a pulsing organism of revving engines and rowdy cheers. Every time you edge forward, more bodies press in—helmets tucked under arms, beer cups sloshing, someone already goading another into revving too loud. You keep tensing under stray glances, though you know it’s pointless. No one here should recognize you. Okhema and the circuits you once dominated are a world away.

Still, the weight of attention prickles along your neck like a phantom itch. You tug your jacket tighter and push on, determined not to spook yourself out of this.

Amid the roar of engines and shouting crowds, you fortunately pick out Hephaestion’s cackling laughter, sharp and familiar, carrying farther than it should. Following the sound, you weave through a forest of helmets and leather, until you finally spot a cluster of familiar faces. Relief floods you as you approach; it’s like a lifeline in the chaos of the festival.

“Ah, there you are!” Hephaestion booms the moment he sees you, clapping his hands together as if you’d just arrived on cue. “The Kremnos Festival looks ten times more official this year! I mean, look at all those sponsor booths, what the hell. Ptolemy, did you see the—”

Hephaestion drones on about engines, tires, and exhaust mods, but the words blur around the edges. Your attention drifts, and just a few feet away, Mydei leans against his own bike, golden eyes fixed on your form like he’s been watching you the whole time.

You snap your fingers in front of his golden eyes when you draw closer, a small, teasing smile curling your lips. Mydei blinks, startled, but doesn’t look away. The rest of the boys are completely absorbed in Hephaestion’s running commentary, leaving you and Mydei in your own little pocket of conversation.

“What are you staring at?” you ask through a smile.

Mydei shifts his weight, suddenly awkward as his gaze flicks off to the side. “I—it’s just… I haven’t seen you dressed like that before,” he admits quietly.

You raise an eyebrow, letting a small smile play at your lips when you momentarily glance down at your own get-up. “Thanks. Just thought I’d put in some effort.”

In fact, he doesn’t look too shabby either. His biker jacket fits like it was molded to him, his sprawling red tattoos crawling up his collarbones and peeking from beneath the sleeves. The black shirt underneath clings just enough to trace the line of his shoulders, and the cut of his jeans shows the lean muscle in his legs. Even the scuffed boots seem to carry a weight of ease and danger that’s all him.

You glance away quickly, letting your hands fidget with your own jacket.

The afternoon drifts past in a blur of lights, engines, and Hephaestion’s relentless commentary. You’ve both tried and lost a ridiculous game of strength and aim at one of the festival booths and for once, you’re content to lose. Laughter bubbles from you both as Hephaestion rants about the booth’s “rip-off mechanics,” but eventually, the gang begins to splinter off, chasing their own friends and mischief.

Before you know it, it’s just you and Mydei leaning against his bike, plastic cups of complimentary beer in hand, and the faint scent of fuel and rubber mingling with the amber liquid. The crowd still buzzes around you, but here, tucked into your little corner, it feels… quiet.

You take a slow sip of your drink before asking, “So… why’d you start riding in the first place?”

Mydei tilts his head in quiet consideration as a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know. I was a stupid teenager with a rebellious phase. Needed something to do with my hands, something to feel… free, I guess.”

You laugh softly. “That explains the tattoos then.”

“You could say that.”

The two of you let the silence stretch, comfortable now, the kind that hums low and steady under the buzz of the festival. Engines roar in the distance, muffled laughter rippling from some booth nearby, but neither of you feels the need to fill the air right away.

Mydei tips his cup, swirling the last of his beer. “Truth is, I was angry. All the time. My dad… he wasn’t easy to grow up with. When he passed, I thought it would lift off me, but it didn’t. Ma wanted to help, but… she’d already done what she could. She thought stepping in again would just make things worse.”

He glances at you briefly, then down at the pavement. “So I burned through it all instead. Bikes. Fights. Ink. Anything that felt like I was in control.” He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Then I met these idiots.” He jerks his chin toward the direction the rest of the gang disappeared to. “They’re loud and reckless, and half of them always broke, but… they kept me straight. Made me better than I had any right to be.”

Then his gaze softens. “I might be their leader, but they made me into someone who could walk into Ma’s shop and not feel like a disappointment.”

Your chest tightens at that, but you don’t push. You know better than to pry when someone’s already said more than they meant to. Instead, you let yourself think of your own reasons—the way a bike gave you wings, the wind against your skin, the illusion that you could outrun anything if you just leaned in harder. Freedom, distilled into throttle and speed. But those memories are yours alone, tucked away where no one here can reach.

So instead, you bump your shoulder lightly against his and raise your cup in a quiet toast. “To not being a disappointment.”

Mydei blinks at you, then huffs out a laugh, clinking his cup to yours.

“To not being a disappointment.”

The plastic rims knock together, flimsy but resolute, and for a moment the noise of the festival falls away. It’s just the two of you, leaning against his bike, caught in the amber glow of streetlights and something else neither of you is ready to name.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Mydei?”

You both glance up. A tall man in a leather jacket draws closer. His hair’s streaked with road dust, and a biker helmet dangles loosely in one hand. You don’t recognize him, but that doesn’t seem to be the case for Mydei.

“Atticus?” He blinks, surprise flickering across his features. “Shit, it’s been years. Thought you’d dropped off the map.”

“Nah. Just been doing my thing somewhere else.” Atticus’s grin is sharp, but it falters when his gaze lands on you. His eyes narrow before recognition snaps into place like a trap.

“So it’s true.” His voice drops, but loud enough to carry. “You are buddy-buddy with this racing superstar over here. The Circuit Serpent themself. It’s an honor to meet ya.”

The title leaves his mouth like a strike, clean and merciless—your old name on the MotoGP circuit dragging behind it like rusted chains. The pit of your stomach lurches as cold dread climbs up your throat before you can even breathe.

Atticus doesn’t stop. He appraises you openly, with a certainty that suggests he’s seen every headline, every highlight reel, every rumor that sparked after your involuntary exit from the track. He talks like he’s known what you loved, and how exactly you lost it all.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see the day you’d be hiding out at some street fest like this. Guess you really did fall from grace after the accident, huh?”

You can’t even get a word out before the crowd closes in around you. Atticus’ voice carried far, and the whispers ripple through the onlookers. They speak your name and your title, testing the sound of it on their tongues as if daring it to hold meaning here. Phones lift to capture every moment. The murmurs grow louder, a chorus of curiosity, pity, and fascination that presses against your chest.

Your pulse hammers in your ears. You can’t breathe.

The flashes from cameras slice through your vision. For an instant, you’re no longer in the Kremnos Festival. You’re back at the track again—on the day of the accident. You see the asphalt beneath you, the journalists murmuring about your “lacking performance,” the sharp sigh of your manager that cut deeper than any pain in your body. No concern, only disappointment.

Before you can crumble entirely, Mydei’s hand closes over yours. His grip is firm, grounding, and without a word, he guides you out of the commotion.

“Mydei—” you start, but he only glances at you briefly, amber eyes steady and calm as he leaves his bike behind with you in tow.

You stumble after him, heart hammering as the world around you blurs. Whispers follow you, cameras click, and you can feel every eye in the crowd on you. Your name. Your title. Your past. The air feels oppressively thin as dread coils in your stomach.

Finally, he ducks into a quieter alley between two vendor tents, tugging you behind him. The noise fades just slightly, leaving only the distant roar of engines and muffled shouts. Your breath comes in short, shallow bursts, and the weight of all those eyes pressing in on you threatens to crush what little composure you have left.

In the silence, the suspicion you’ve carried for a while now finally bears fruit.

“You knew,” you hiss, pulling your hand out of his grip instinctively, “you knew who I was! And you— You told all your stupid friends for what? Bragging rights? That’s why they let me tag along, isn’t it? So you could all flaunt me around like some weird fucking trophy.”

He doesn’t refute or respond right away. He simply stares at you with that same, infuriatingly unreadable look in his eyes. Part of you knows that you should probably calm down and collect yourself. But the tears are already stinging your eyes, just as sharp as the betrayal that simmers deep in your gut.

“Yes,” Mydei says finally, voice quiet but steady. “I knew who you were. But it was never my business to pry. I didn’t care about the rumors, or why you disappeared from your team. That part of your life… it wasn’t mine to go snooping around in.”

You blink through the sting of tears, trying to steady your shaking hands. “Then… why? Why let me hang around with all your friends? Why bring me to this festival?”

He leans against the brick wall beside the alley, calm as ever, his amber eyes meeting yours without judgment.

“Because I wanted to,” he tells you simply. “I wanted to be around you. Not for the stories or the bragging rights. Not for gossip or some thrill. I wanted to… help, in whatever small way I could. That’s all. You didn’t need to be anyone other than yourself.”

The steadiness in his voice is infuriating. Soothing, even. And your chest tightens at how little it seems to waver, how rational and patient he is in the face of your outburst. You hate it. You hate the way it makes your own emotions feel raw and fumbling, how suddenly your fists feel too heavy for your sides, and your thoughts spin with bitter irony.

“I…” you begin, but the words stick in your throat. Your chest rises and falls quickly, and with an abrupt movement, you pull your hands free and turn away.

“I need… some air.”

Mydei doesn’t move to stop you when you start walking before you can say something you’d regret. He just watches silently as you retreat toward the edge of the alley.

The world feels slightly unreal as you step back into the festival’s main path. The din of it all presses against your senses again, but now the dread is tinged with something else. Bitterness, yes. But also a strange, tentative warmth. You were discovered, exposed to the ghosts of a life you thought you’d left behind. Yet someone had been looking out for you the whole time.

You shake your head, scolding yourself silently. Of course people would know who you are. You were a rising star who disappeared without explanation. It was ridiculous to assume anonymity. And Mydei… he hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, he’d done everything right.

But right now, you can’t let yourself accept it. You just keep walking, keeping the distance between you, feeling the ache in your chest as the bittersweet truth settles. Mydei had wanted to help.

But you aren’t ready to let him. Not yet.

That night, after you’ve cried yourself raw and your head throbs dully against your pillow, your phone buzzes.

Cipher: Raincheck on tonight’s celebration. I’m really sorry.

You stare at the text for a moment, then swipe away the wetness still clinging at your lashes. Your throat feels too tight to talk, but your thumbs move anyway.

You: Don’t worry about it.

You: I’m not exactly in the mood to celebrate either.

Cipher doesn’t push. She never does. All she does is send back a string of hearts and a “we’ll make it up soon.” You set your phone down, bury your face in the sheets, and let the silence fold over you again.

The days that follow are smothered in haze. You scroll past the article Hyacine sends you—a glossy headline screaming about your “first sighting since the accident.” You don’t click. You don’t need to relive it. You just send back a curt “I’m fine,” when she checks in, and leave it at that.

But avoiding Mydei and the others isn’t so easy. They drift in and out of Gorgo’s flower shop when they feel like helping, their laughter filling the space like they own it. You keep your head down, ring up customers, water the hydrangeas, and pretend you don’t notice. Pretend harder when Gorgo presses a takeout bag into your hands before you leave.

She never says it aloud, but you don’t have to look to know what’s inside. It’s the same food Mydei always brought when things weren’t a mess. The first time, you almost set it back down on the counter. But your pride twists sharp in your chest, and you take it anyway, the weight of it burning your palms all the way home.

The worst part isn’t that he still thinks of you, even now. The worst part is that it makes you falter.

Your wrist has healed. Your body has caught up. But your head and the mess inside your chest—those parts refuse to let you move forward. Not when every headline, every whisper, every amber-eyed look reminds you of how completely you lost everything. Not when you can’t tell whether Mydei meant to help or simply made you a fool.

You go on living in that limbo, dragging yourself through each day with quiet misery, until the knock at your door shatters the monotony.

When you open it, Cipher is standing there, the car she drove the day you moved in months ago parked by the street behind her. A helium balloon bobs in her hand with bright letters spelling out Congratulations!—the kind usually given to people discharged from a hospital. The other hand balances a paper bag stuffed with snacks and food from Okhema, all your old favorites.

“Surprise!” she exclaims, but the word falters as soon as her eyes take in your face—your red-rimmed eyes, the exhaustion etched into your skin. Her mouth parts, eyebrows rising in alarm.

“Oh,” your best friend says flatly. “What on earth happened here?”

Cipher drops the balloon by the couch, the string bobbing against a cushion, and unloads the snacks on the low table like she’s laying out an arsenal. Chips, bread, skewers, even a couple of desserts that smell like home. You close the front door with a sigh of finality.

“Alright,” she says, flopping into her usual spot and patting the cushion beside her. “Talk to me. Or cry. Or both. You look like hell, and I’m not leaving until you spill.”

You hesitate, arms crossed, but habit drags you down onto the couch anyway. The familiarity of it—the way you two always ended up like this, shoulders pressed together with food between you—undoes you more than you’d like to admit.

For a while, you nibble on a skewer, picking at the edges, until the words finally force themselves out. Broken and hesitant, but steady enough to keep going.

You tell her everything. About Atticus, the Kremnos Festival, the crowd pressing in. About how you couldn’t breathe, and the way the flashing cameras took you back to the accident in a heartbeat. About Mydei’s hand dragging you out and how you lashed out at him after, because what else could you do when the ground had already crumbled beneath you.

Your voice cracks once, twice. You wipe at your eyes with the back of your sleeve, keep eating snacks because chewing feels safer than silence. It’s ridiculous, you think. Spilling your guts here, in your own living room, half-crying, half-laughing through the sting. But Cipher doesn’t laugh. She just listens, arms crossed loosely over her chest, gaze steady and soft in a way few people ever see.

“Kremnos is fine,” you finish quietly. “This city’s… perfect for me. But no matter where I go, I carry it—the accident, the disappointment. Even if my wrist’s healed, even if the brace is off, I can’t seem to move forward. And now… now I’ve gone and pushed away one of the few people who actually helped me feel like I belonged here.”

Cipher tilts her head. “Why?”

You press your lips together. A thousand images flash: the takeout meals, the lollipops tucked into your hand with a lazy grin, the ease with which Mydei always made the day a little lighter.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, staring at your knees. “I don’t know why I started ignoring him. I guess… I was scared.”

“Of what?”

The question lands softly, but it cracks something open anyway.

You draw in a shaky breath, eyes stinging again. “Scared that the version of me he knows doesn’t exist anymore. That he still sees that person when he looks at me, and when he realizes that’s not who I am now, he’ll leave. Just like everyone else did. My managers. The scene. Even the press. They dropped me the moment I wasn’t worth their expectations anymore.”

Cipher leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “So you decided to drop him first.”

The truth of it makes your throat close. You can’t even deny it.

“You know the Pygmalion effect, right?” she asks. “People tend to live up—or down—to what others expect of them. You were surrounded by people who only wanted the myth. Not you. But this Mydei person… are you sure he expects that? Are you sure he ever even wanted that?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because you don’t know.

Cipher sighs softly, reaching over to shove the tissue box closer to you. “You’re not scared of him dropping you. You’re scared of letting yourself believe that someone actually sees you and not who you used to be.”

You stare down at the half-eaten skewer in your hand, tears blurring your vision all over again. For once, you don’t try to stop them.

Finally, Cipher exhales and leans back, stretching out like she owns the couch. “Okay. Here’s the deal. You can keep hiding, keep pushing him away, keep convincing yourself you’re still broken if that’s the story you want to tell. But you shouldn’t blame him for the walls that you built yourself.”

You glance at her, throat tight. “It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it isn’t. It never is. But you just admitted he’s been nothing but good to you. If he wanted the Circuit Serpent, he would’ve paraded you around at every street race like a collector showing off some rare bike part.” Cipher pauses only for a moment, making sure you catch every word. “But he didn’t. He wanted you—the grumpy little hermit with a half-healed wrist and a habit of crying over skewers in their living room.”

You blink at her, startled, and she grins like she’s scored a point. You swat at Cipher half-heartedly, but the corner of your mouth betrays you with a twitch. She softens at that, her teasing giving way to something steadier.

“Listen,” your best friend murmurs. “I’m not telling you to run to him tomorrow and bare your soul. But maybe… stop punishing him for expectations he never even set. He’s not your manager. He’s not the press. He’s just some guy who happens to care. Don’t you think you owe yourself the chance to see what that actually means?”

The balloon string bumps gently against your shoulder, ridiculous and light against the weight in your chest. You let out a shaky laugh and curl further into the couch cushions. Cipher reaches over, squeezing your hand, and you let finally yourself breathe.

For the first time in weeks, the haze thins just enough to let a sliver of light through.

When your day off hits, you spend hours pacing your apartment, glancing at the window every few minutes. You tell yourself you’re just curious, that it’s nothing more than casual observation. But the truth is, your stomach knots with the weight of anticipation.

Part of you wants to retreat, hide behind the familiar hum of your apartment, and pretend it’s not happening. Another part keeps whispering in a voice suspiciously like Cipher’s, telling you it’s time to face him and stop punishing him for your own evasiveness.

You fidget with your keys, your hands tapping against the kitchen counter. The seconds stretch into minutes, and then, finally, the deep, familiar roar of Mydei’s motorcycle reaches your ears.

The engine rumbles down the street, growing louder and you quickly press yourself against the window, peeking out just in time to see a blur of black and gold zip past. The sound follows him all the way to his property before quieting.

Your pulse races. You check the mirror quickly just to make sure you look halfway presentable and take a shaky breath. Okay. You can do this. You have to.

Pulling the door open, you step onto the street. Each step is deliberate, your legs trembling slightly as you jog toward the familiar driveway. By the time you reach the bike, your lungs burn, and your chest is a frantic drum.

Mydei is in the middle of dismounting, one boot on the pavement, hands still gripping the handlebars. He freezes at your sudden appearance, eyebrows lifting in surprise, just enough to register a flicker of wariness—like he’s bracing himself for a confrontation.

“I… uh…” You gulp, trying to steady your voice. Your hand gestures toward the bike, and before the moment can stretch into something unbearable, you blurt out, “I need to do some maintenance on my bike. Do you have any tools I could borrow?”

For a heartbeat, he just stares at you, the faintest crease between his brows softening as he tilts his head. Then he exhales through his nose, a short, amused huff that doesn’t quite reach full humor.

“Tools?” he asks, voice calm, but there’s something behind it—a hint of relief, maybe even a little curiosity. “Yeah. I’ve got some in the garage. I’ll hand them over in a bit. Just gotta put my stuff down inside the house.”

You nod, a little dumbly, and start jogging back toward your apartment. The world feels a little heavy, every step a mixture of dread and reluctant anticipation. Once inside, you head to the garage and push open the shutters for the first time since the movers wheeled your motorcycle in. Dust motes float lazily in the late afternoon sunlight. The bike gleams beneath it all, a little layer of grime and time spent untouched.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed, trying to settle your racing thoughts. Your chest feels tight, your stomach knotted, but… there’s also a small, reluctant relief. He didn’t turn you away. He didn’t act as if your sudden reappearance had broken some unspoken rule. Mydei is still Mydei. The same guy you’ve slowly started to like—

Whoa. Like?

You scowl at yourself internally, blinking away the thought before it can root too deeply.

The sound of footsteps pulls you from your spiral. Mydei steps into view, the sun catching the red glint of his hair and tattoos. He’s carrying a slightly battered canvas tool bag littered with grease marks and scuffs. It’s well-used, like it’s seen a hundred repairs and countless rides.

“Hey,” he says casually, setting the bag down by your bike. “I got the tools you wanted.”

Your eyes track the bag, then flick up—and freeze.

Black tank top. Red tattoos snaking down his arms, muscles tense beneath the fabric. Biceps that could probably crush a wrench. Your breath catches, and for a second you forget why you even asked him for tools. He doesn’t notice your gawking, amber eyes trained intently on your motorcycle.

“Wow,” he says finally, a low note of genuine admiration in his voice. “This thing really does need a touch-up.”

You let out a small, incredulous laugh, running a hand over your face like you’re trying to convince yourself you’re not losing your mind.

“Yeah… tell me about it,” you mutter, finally moving toward the bike.

Your hands hover over the metal and leather, inspecting every scratch you’ve neglected for the better part of the year. For all the tension buzzing in your chest and all the dread you felt stepping outside earlier, there’s something grounding about what you’re doing now—fixing what’s yours and reconnecting with something tangible.

“So, what’s first on your maintenance list?” he asks.

You point to a scratch along the frame and mutter, “This one’s driving me crazy. Also, maybe check the chain tension. It’s probably seized up after sitting here.”

Mydei nods, already moving his hands to the tools, and you find yourself watching him work. You end up diving into the discussion, the two of you quietly geeking out over brake pads, suspensions, and the sweet spot for tire pressure. Every so often, he offers a tip or a correction, and you counter with something you learned in your racing days.

There’s laughter, some mild bickering about which grease is best, and a few accidental smudges of oil on both of your hands. But mostly, there’s an easy rhythm to it, the kind you forget can exist until it’s in front of you.

At one point, he brushes a lock of hair back from your forehead just to get it out of the way, and you nearly lose your grip on the wrench. But he doesn’t linger or let the moment stretch into something it’s not. He’s focused on the bike and letting you set the pace of conversation.

When the tasks are done, you step back to admire your handiwork. The scratches have been buffed, the chain are polished, and the tires are gleaming under the garage lights. Mydei leans against the workbench in the corner, wiping his hands on a rag as his amber eyes quietly appraise your expression.

“Looks good,” he says softly.

And in that quiet, serene moment, you realize something important: it was easy to let him into your life—not because the walls weren’t there, but because he never tried to tear them down. Mydei doesn’t need to know your past to care about your present. And maybe that’s enough to start believing he’ll stick around, no matter the scars you carry.

However, Mydei blinks suddenly, like a thought has just landed in his head. He pats at the front pocket of his jeans, frowning in concentration, then pulls out two slightly crumpled, brightly wrapped lollipops.

“Almost forgot,” he says casually but his eyes carry a faint warmth. He unwraps one, pops it into his mouth with an ease that makes the gesture oddly endearing, and holds the other out toward you.

You stare at it for a moment. “…You just carry candy around with you?”

He shrugs, lollipop stick between his teeth. “Never know when you’ll need it.”

The ridiculousness of it makes something in your chest flutter. You take the candy, unwrap it, and let the tart berry sweetness settle on your tongue.

Your garage is thick with the smell of oil, rubber, and metal but it grounds you in a way you didn’t know you needed. For the first time in months, the chaos of your old life is starting to fade, replaced by the soft certainty of something simple:

Here and now, this feels like peace you don’t have to fight for.

Weeks later, your work day winds down slower than you expect. You’d asked to clock out early—pre-set plans already nudging at the edges of your thoughts—but Gorgo had slipped away to the back, leaving you to finish up the last bouquet on your own.

Your hands aren’t nearly as skilled as hers, but they know enough. Strip the thorns, trim the stems, weave the greens where the gaps threaten to look too bare. It isn’t elegant, not like the pieces she sells for triple the price, but it’s something. Something you built out of almost nothing, and that feels satisfying enough.

The bell above the shop door jingles as the last customer leaves, and you start untying your apron. Just as you’re about to call out your goodbye, Gorgo appears again with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Not so fast,” she says, holding out a small bunch of gladiolus flowers. Their upright stalks and vivid petals look almost ceremonial in her hand.

You blink. “What’s this?”

Her mouth curves into a sly grin. “You have plans with Mydei, don’t you?”

Heat prickles at the back of your neck. “I—”

“These are his favorite.” She presses the flowers into your hands with no room for protest. “Go give them for me.”

You want to argue, but what’s the point? Gorgo’s intuition has always been sharp enough to cut steel. You’re fairly certain she knows about the weird in-between you’ve been stuck in with her son for the past month—friends, sure, but not just friends.

Not when you sometimes catch Mydei looking at you for too long, too fondly even when you’re hanging out with the rest of his biker gang. Not when you’ve sat across from him at your dining table, eating some leftover stir-fry he brought over, and found yourself hopelessly distracted by the way his upper lip curves, perfect and distracting and stupid.

You shove the bouquet into your bag before anyone else can see your expression and mumble a rushed goodbye, the bell overhead announcing your escape.

By the time you collapse onto the bus seat, gladiolus tucked awkwardly against your leg, you’re still burning with embarrassment. But it softens as your phone buzzes in your palm and his name waits like a spark you’ve been secretly craving all day.

Mydei: Where are you?

Me: I’m on my way home. We still riding?

Mydei: Yeah. You don’t need me to check anything for you?

Me: Mydei, I know my bike more than anyone else.

Me: And we did a test run last night. Even got a noise complaint lol

Mydei: Just making sure.

Mydei: Take care on your way home.

Your heart trips over itself at the simplicity of it. There’s nothing in his words that warrants the way your stomach flips, nothing in his tone that should make your throat feel tight, and yet…

You hug your bag a little closer, a smile tugging at your lips despite your best efforts.

“For me?”

Mydei blinks down at the flowers in your hands, his amber eyes flicking from the blooms to your face. He doesn’t say it in disbelief—more like the thought catches him off guard. Your heart kicks against your ribs so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

Play it cool, you scold yourself, even as your palms sweat around the stems.

“They’re not from me,” you blurt, a little too quickly. “Miss Gorgo wanted you to have them. She said they’re your favorite.”

You try to shrug like it’s no big deal, but the words tumble out defensively. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. You can already tell he doesn’t buy it—the amused twitch at the corner of his mouth says as much—but he doesn’t push.

Instead, Mydei takes the bouquet carefully. “Then I’ll put them in a vase before we go” he says simply. He gestures toward your garage. “Go grab your bike. I’ll meet you in five.”

Before you can sputter a response, he jogs back toward his house, bomber jacket flaring with the movement. The image sears itself into your brain, and you stand frozen for a moment, clutching your bag like it might keep your chest from splitting open.

Then the embarrassment burns away into restless energy. You dig for your keys and stomp toward your garage like you’ve got something to prove.

The shutters creak open, dust curling up in the golden light, and there she is—your bike. The sight should be triumphant, but your gut twists instead. Last night’s test run didn’t count; this is different. This is real. And though your hands itch with anticipation, there’s still that clawing part of you that whispers about failure. About hurting yourself again.

You shake your head, as if the motion could scatter the thought.

No. Not anymore.

You swing your leg over the seat, grip the handlebars tight, and roll the bike outside just in time to meet Mydei. He’s waiting on his own with his helmet tucked under his arm, his maroon jacket catching the fading light. He glances at you, and his expression is unreadable for a beat before it softens into something else.

The two of you slip helmets on, the world narrowing to the thrum of engines under your legs. Mounting side by side feels surreal, like stepping back into a version of yourself you weren’t sure still existed.

“The ride’s about twenty minutes,” Mydei says, his voice muffled by the helmet. “Easy stretch. It’s a good place to start.”

Your chest tightens. Not in dread, exactly, but in something dangerously close to awe. He says it so matter-of-factly, as if this isn’t monumental, as if you’re not standing at the edge of something you’ve been too terrified to touch again.

You close your eyes, take one sharp breath, and shove all your inhibitions into the back of your skull. The engine growls to life beneath your palms, familiar and alive. Your lips twitch into a shaky grin as you rev the engine until you feel goosebumps.

“I’ll be right behind you,” you promise, more to yourself than to Mydei.

The engines roar beneath you, and suddenly it’s nothing but you and Mydei, side by side, carving through the busy streets until you reach the winding outskirts. The wind whips past your helmet, tugging at hair you can’t see, and the city sprawls behind you like a patchwork quilt of lights and shadow. For a long moment, you forget your doubts, your fears, your bruised pride.

The exhilaration hits you like a wave.

Oh my god. I’m riding again.

Your hands grip the handlebars with reverent joy, your chest soaring with each turn, each press of the throttle. Every vibration, every rumble through your body, feels like reclaiming a piece of yourself you once thought was lost in the past.

Beside you, Mydei leans into every turn with a fluid confidence that makes your pulse spike in a mixture of wonder and…something else. You steal glances at him every now and again, and realize how much you’ve missed sharing moments like this with someone else.

Twenty minutes slip by in a blur of wind and laughter, tiny cheers when you nail a tight corner, quiet concentration on stretches of straight road. Then, the cliff opens up to the lookout: sheer drop, jagged rocks below, and the entirety of Kremnos City stretched beneath the fading sun. You both pull up with the wind still tugging at your jackets.

You remove your helmet first, letting the warmth of the sunset wash over your face. Mydei does the same, and for a heartbeat, you just stand there, hearts still thudding from the ride and the awe of the view.

He tilts his head, amber eyes curious. “So…how’d it feel? Your first ride in a while.”

Your chest tightens again. How do you even say it? Your lips part, words catch somewhere behind your teeth, and then, abruptly, your vision blurs. Tears spill down unbidden, your hands shaking slightly as you bring them to your face. The ride, the sunset, the sheer…happiness of being here with him, it’s too much.

Mydei’s expression shifts immediately, panic flitting across his features. “Hey, hey—” he crouches slightly to meet your level, fishing out a handkerchief. “Here, let me…”

His hand brushes yours as he reaches toward your cheek. The moment stretches, too quiet, too intimate. Your tears meet his gentle touch, and then you’re both made aware of how close your faces are.

Golden eyes flick down to your lips before meeting your gaze again, as if he’s asking permission without words. Your pulse hammers in your ears, and every nerve in your body is alight with a delicious tension that stretches the seconds endlessly. You tilt your head, instinctively closing the last fraction of distance, and for a moment, the world holds its breath with you.

And then Mydei’s lips are on yours.

It’s soft, almost hesitant at first, a question that your body answers instantly by leaning into him and melting into the warmth you’d been craving without realizing it. He tastes faintly of those berry-flavored lollipops he uses as a nicotine substitute, and you find yourself grinning into the kiss the moment it registers.

The world shrinks to the warmth of his lips, the quick thrum of your hearts, and the quiet, electric space that seems to exist only between the two of you. When you finally pull away, both of you are slightly dazed, breaths catching in the quiet. Your forehead rests against his for a fleeting second before you stumble backward, mind reeling from what just happened.

“Oh god. I…” you stammer, face flaming. “I actually…uh…have ingredients to make…um…carbonara! I was gonna whip up a meal for you as thanks for…for the ride…”

It feels stupid, inviting a literal chef to your home so you could cook some subpar pasta for him. But it’s the only excuse your idiotic, kiss-addled brain could think of.

Mydei blinks at you, still a little flushed. “Yeah…okay. I’d like that.”

…Maybe that wasn’t such a stupid idea after all.

Both of you share a shy, lingering smile before reaching for your helmets again. Mounting your bikes side by side, the world feels impossibly full of color, light, and possibility. The engines roar to life once more. You rev yours, heart still racing faster than the bike beneath you, but there’s a different rhythm now.

Hopeful, warm, and entirely yours.

When you both pull up into your neighborhood, the kiss is still fresh in your mind, replaying itself over and over like a song you can’t turn off. You can tell it’s the same for Mydei—the way his gaze lingers when he thinks you aren’t looking, the way he fumbles just slightly with his helmet strap, a rare crack in his usual composure.

You dismount, heart still jittering in your chest, and move to wheel your bike toward the garage. Mydei kills the engine of his with a flick of his wrist, the purr of it cutting abruptly into silence.

“I’ll just grab something from my place,” he says, sliding his helmet under his arm. His voice is steady, casual even, but you swear there’s a faint flush across his cheekbones, barely visible in the twilight. “I’ll join you for dinner in a few.”

“Y-yeah. Sounds good,” you manage.

You don’t dare look too long at him. Instead, you retreat into the safe, familiar rattle of your garage, parking your bike inside with hands that still tremble from adrenaline—or maybe from something else entirely.

In the kitchen, the motions of cooking blur together: water set to boil, pancetta sizzling, eggs whisked with grated cheese. You move like you’re dreaming, your mind not on the pasta but on the feel of his lips against yours. The softness of them, the faint taste of those berry lollipops, the grounding scent of his cologne lingering in the air between you. You lean against the counter with a laugh too quiet for anyone to hear.

The sharp trill of your doorbell jolts you back to earth. Heart lurching, you wipe your palms on a towel and hurry to the door.

Mydei stands there with his maroon jacket still on. In his arms is the gladiolus bouquet—the same one you pressed into his hands earlier.

You blink. “Why’d you bring that?”

“So we can admire it together.”

The words sink in slowly, and something in your chest tugs. You step aside to let him in, the warmth of his presence filling the space that has too often felt too big and too empty.

Soon, the two of you are seated across from each other, steam curling up from two plates of carbonara. The gladiolus rests in a vase on the table, bright against the dim light of your dining room.

It’s warm and cozy—a feeling you’ve rarely associated with this new house in Kremnos City. But now, with a tattooed biker across from you, his golden eyes the warmest you’ve ever seen, the space feels less like a stranger’s walls and more like a home.

Your fork twirls pasta, and you can’t stop the small, shy smile tugging at your lips. Mydei notices, though he doesn’t comment, only lets the corner of his mouth lift in that quiet way of his.

The chair across from you isn’t empty tonight.

And for the first time since moving here, you don’t feel so alone anymore.

⟢ end notes: funnily enough, this is the fic that indirectly got me into f1 LMAOOO the research for motogp intersected at times with formula one content and then the rest was history! but i digress, if you made it this far, you deserve a golden star and a bouquet of gladiolus. thank you for reading!

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[ishiin-esque]

rockstar? alucard wip

[danijaci]

alter ego.

[box-artist]

I will not hear such words from you, Varka.

⇥ Reference

Hsr players when you say "See you tomorrow":

[pieandfigstew]

Together in Death - ROR

Beelzebub x sunshine reader <3 Slight NSFW/smut towards the end. You have been warned!

Sypnosis: As Nikola's apprentice, you go around hjelping him find materials--only to bump into a strange man on the way back, accidentally injuriing him in the process. After patching him up and informing him you're immune to curses due to actions in the past, you seem to pique his interest. As unforunate events unfold, you end up injuring yourself and waking up in the same stranger's...lab? In the process of your recovery, something like affection dangerously blooms in his heart and it doesn't take long for something more to develop between you two. 8.3k~wc Spoilers for S3❗ Xreader, MOSTLY FLUFF, NO ANGST, slight smut, finger sucking idk, mentions of injury, reader is Nikola's apprentice, he vibrates his finger against your thumb idk, likely contains mischaracterization, you make out idk. I decided to write a Beel fic in honor of season 3 and his fight being animated (I was tweaking out during the entire thing) There are huge inconsistencies and errors due to me rushing this during exam season, apologies beforehand! Enjoy yay

Before you read ❗❗❗ There is most likely mischaracterization + I kept switching between present tense and past tense cus I kept forgetting which one I was writing with. Beware of inconsistences and mistakes, read at your own risk uwu

You’re hastily running through the hall, feet hurriedly hitting the ground as your hands clutch the box full of metal pieces and tools tightly—excitement evident when you continue to speed up your pace. After hours of searching and asking around, you were finally able to find the tools your dearest teacher had requested for an experiment. Eager to see the happy expression on Nikola’s face and spend as much time with him as his apprentice before he would be selected for a match, you swiftly make a sharp turn—

—and slam directly into someone.

Due to all that momentum you had built up, you run into the unidentified individual quite hard, the collision causing you to stumble back, trip over your own feet, and crash into him again.

In a measly and unsuccessful attempt to regain your balance, you cause the stranger to fall backwards before he can even recover from the earlier collision, ending with the two of you on the ground in a heap of tangled limbs. The box flies out of your grasp and overturns in the air, causing sharp metal pieces and tools to fall onto you both.

On instinct, you take a protective stance, closing your eyes and bringing your hands over your head to shield it from the rain of screws, bolts and the occasional screwdriver. The stranger lets out a strangled grunt as the sonorous sound of metal hitting the grounds echoes around you. You retract your hands when the onslaught finally comes to a stop, only moving to place your hands on the ground beneath when the feeling of your back being hammered by materials halts.

Slowly, you hesitantly open your eyes, dreading the embarrassment of having to face the stranger and excuse your clumsiness. With the apology already forming on your lips, you look down at the man underneath you, only to pause when your gaze landed on the pretty, caught off guard man underneath you.

A tall, lean, well built, beautiful young man with dark unkempt messy black hair and deep alluring reddish-brown eyes was currently sprawled on the ground beneath you, your hands caging him in on either side of his head. His expression radiated utter annoyance as he looked up at you, his eyes boring into yours while you did nothing but stare. The man at your mercy was currently quite aware of every point of contact between your bodies, extremely desperate for you to move the hell away and stop straddling him as he glared at you.

“Get off.”

“Oh! Right of course! I’m so sorry!” you splutter, flush crawling up your neck and face as realization punches you in the face. You quickly push yourself off from the floor and bolt several feet away from the individual, muttering more apologies and promises of giving him your firstborn when you see him holding a bloodied metal piece in his hand.

“I really, really didn’t mean to I promise,” you continue to blurt. “I’ll make sure to be more careful from now, I swear it on my left pinky toe.” The man only grunts in response, dusting off his robe before looking at you as if he was allergic to your sincerity.

You examine his face, and on further inspection, realize one of the pieces had split open his cheek, a thin line of red now visible on his cheek.

“Ooh, crap. Some of the metal pieces scratched you,” you say as you suddenly reach a hand towards his cheek with an expression of concern. “You’re injured, let us head to the infirmary, I know for certain there’s a first aid kit lying around there.”

“There’s no need,” the stranger mutters and brushes your hand away—his fingers coming up to brush against his cheek where a thin line of blood trickled down. “I have things to do.”

Your hand immediately darts out to grab his wrist, fingers curling tightly around his wrist to prevent him from leaving. “No, I insist, truly. I would hate for you to walk around with untreated wounds, it’s the least I can do.”

“That’s not—”

“Great! We shall head there now! Just, give me a moment,” you decide for him as you scramble to pick up the discarded tools and components. After taking a second to insure you picked up everything, you swiftly grab his hand and drag him along as you skipped off towards the infirmary.

The stranger stumbled behind into the infirmary, (much against his will) his movements stiff and reluctant. He hated how some foolish mortal was fussing over some minor scratch—especially when he had better things to do. If he wasn’t far too fazed by your intoxicating cheeriness, he would’ve made you regret your hands on him in the first place.

He sat on one of the chairs(which you had forced him into) as you rummaged for supplies, his eyes tracking your every movement—waiting to strike if you pulled any funny business.

“This is unnecessary,” he grumbles when you finally turn back to him with a bottle of antiseptic and bandages.

“Oh be quiet, we went through this like twenty times on the walk here,” you say as you pour the liquid onto a cotton pad.

The strange mans brows furrow together when you reach up to disinfect the minor injury. “I can do it myself. I don’t need your hands on me,” he mutters.

“How about you stop being so rude to someone’s who’s currently in the process of helping you? I offered to help and I’m going through with it. If you really have things to do, you would shut up so we can finish faster.”

The man blinks at your sharp tone and opens his mouth to argue, but snaps it shut at the last moment—gritting his teeth and grudgingly tilting his head slightly to give you better access to the scratch on his cheek. He stays silent as you work. The antiseptic looks like it stings, yet he doesn’t react—not even when you purposefully press harder than necessary out of annoyance.

It was stupid, he was the more experienced one here. He could patch up his own wounds better than you could ever dream of. Yet he couldn’t get the protests out of his mouth—your sickening insistence and the glowing…positivity radiating off of you.

“Hand.”

He blinks at your demand. His hand? Too busy being pissed off about the cut on his face—he hadn’t noticed the scratches on his fingers.

“Just give it here,” you scoff—grabbing his hand. “If I’m going to treat your face may as well treat your hand as well.”

He watches in silence as you carefully wrap the small wound on his finger, your hands gentle. His eyes remained fixed on your face—the way your brows furrowed in concentration, how you bit your bottom lip while you focused. It was a stupid little injury—barely even worth bandaging—but here you were, treating it like it mattered.

His throat suddenly felt tight for some reason that went beyond his control.

“All done!” you say after a minute, grinning at your work.

The man stares down at the bandage tied around his finger, blinking rapidly as if he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing.

There, on his index finger—was a cute little bow.

You had wrapped up his finger and then finished it off with a little tied… bow—a method you deemed efficient for getting rid of the extra bandage without cutting it. His entire body went stiff—face a mix of emotions as he tugged on the bow. “…What is this?” he ground out, voice low and filled with pure baffled confusion.

“A bandage, silly,” you chirp proudly. “The bandage was too long so I tied the remaining length into a bow. It totally suits you.”

Suits him.

The stranger’s eye twitched at your response—you were calling it a bandage as if that stupid little bow wasn’t the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen. He wanted to rip it off immediately, wanted to crush the fabric in his fist and shove it down your throat…but for some goshfrosaken reason, he couldn’t. Instead, he just sat there stiffly with his wrapped finger—his jaw clenched so tight as you chuckled at him like this was all some big joke.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, glaring down at the damn bow like it had personally offended him.

“This is ridiculous,“ he muttered under his breath—but still didn’t move to take it off. He told himself it was because it’d be too much of a hassle to re bandage it. He just sat there, letting you laugh at him with that stupid little ribbon on his finger like some pampered child instead of a god who’s hands were stained with blood.

You find the stranger’s aloof facade quite amusing and adorable, unable to resist the urge to bring your hand down and ruffle his hair, letting out a chuckle when he flinches violently—his entire body locking up in shock at the unexpected touch before giving you a baffled and disgusted expression.

His mind short-circuited when you just stayed there, ruffling his hair like he was some stray pet. His touch starved heart began to hammer against his ribs without his permission, fear creeping up on him at the thought of you possibly hearing it. “Stop…” he choked out weakly, swatting your hand out of his hair.

You let out a soft chuckle—coming to the conclusion that the pretty man was just shy. “Sorry again,” you say as you start gathering your items and prepare to leave. “I’ll be more careful next time, get well soon!”

He sits there bewildered as you scan over the items in your box.

No one ruffled his hair. No one dared to be that casual—that playful—that affectionate with the literal Lord of Flies. Yet you here you were, treating him like some damn puppy—completely unaware of who you were talking to.

“Wait.”

A hand shoots out and wraps around your wrist when you approach the door, stopping you from leaving. ‘He probably wants to thank me for helping him,’ you think confidently. You turn around smugly, already prepared to blurt out a: ‘of course’ or whatever.

“You’re wel—”

“Are you a half blood?”

His question catches you off guard, and for a moment you’re confused.

“What?” you ask slightly annoyed for not getting the thanks you deserve.

“Are you—”

“No what. Look, I’m running late. If it’s not a ‘thanks’ you’re giving me, I best get going. Careful on your wounds, see you around!” you interrupter after glancing at the clock. You quickly pry away from his grip and confusing question before making a run back to your original destination, leaving the stranger standing there blinking at your retreating figure.

You swiftly enter your teacher’s place, passing by a woman and a girl on the way in.

A few hours.

That was the amount of time your beloved teacher had before his upcoming match.

You had prepared yourself for this. Prepared to receive news on how he’d be chosen next to represent humanity. You had readied yourself to see him risk his life—or worse, the reality of never seeing him again.

Just not so soon.

You had been told his opponent was quite strong, and with no prior battle experience, you couldn’t help but doubt Nikola’s abilities. You tried to stay optimistic as usual, but without thinking, you had stormed out of his workspace with dread written all over your face, desperate to clear your thoughts. You knew you should cherish the last few hours with him, but your feet wouldn’t move back towards his lab.

As you leaned against the railing of some random balcony, praying for Nikola’s safety, you suddenly felt movement at your side.

“Praying to the gods isn’t so smart when they are your opponents,” you hear a familiar cold voice mutter.

“Thanks, mystery man, real helpful.”

“You have an odd, sickening…glow around you. One I have yet to see in a mortal,” he suddenly states.

Recognition sparks in your eyes as you look back at the horizon, eyes focusing on a passing bird. “The clan I come from once defeated a foul beast.” You explain. “My ancestors reclaimed its treasures—one of them being some holy golden wine that grants us immunity towards misfortune or curses. It’s been passed down through generations and blesses our line with good fortune and luck.” You flash him a halfhearted and partially smug smile. “I’m basically immune to curses and draw in good luck, isn’t that great?”

His eyes widen slightly at your explanation before fading into one of interest. “I see… You’re, immune to curses.” He seems to choke out the last part.

Realizing you don’t have his name, you turn to ask him. “Yeah. Anyways, who—” Only to speak towards air, the aloof individual no longer standing next to you.

“What a weirdo,” you mutter to yourself as you watch him walk away.

Immunity towards curses.

The stranger’s mind was still processing the information you gave him, his interest piqued. What experiments could he conduct on a mortal immune to misfortune? The ideas swirled inside his mind.

What would it be to acquaint himself with someone who would not be affected by his curse? Would he be able to be able to love freely without Satan getting in the way? Those thoughts made his heart hitch slightly.

You can’t help but fidget in your seat as you nervously await for the match to start, eyes glued anxiously to the arena as you prepare to possibly never see Nikola again.

You mentally prepare yourself as you wait for Heimdall to announce the opponent, your leg bouncing up and down in anticipation and fear.

And then—he enters.

The mystery stranger from before.

You watch him walk out—your little bow still tied around his finger and the bandage you put on him yourself still on his cheek. It was the same person from earlier who you had bumped into—no doubt.

That was the stranger you had patched up. He was the guy you had happily bandaged while telling him you were ‘blessed with good luck.’

‘Good luck my ass,’ you think. None of that fortune had come in clutch, you had literally sat down and helped up the enemy.

‘Beelzebub, the Lord of Flies, the one cursed by Satan.’

You sit frozen for seconds after hearing his name—then looking down at yourself, amazed at the fact you were still alive.

You had bumped into Beelzebub, injured the Lord of Flies, then teased him like he was a child—and still somehow survived.

As the round comes to an end, you watch your precious mentor speak his last inspirational words, and then take his last breath with a smile.

You feel like hurling, the sight of watching one of the only people who cared enough to take you under his wing die enough to send you into a panic attack, but you are unable move—much less shed any tears.

You stay there paralyzed in your seat even as the next round progresses and ends, a blank expression on your face during the entire time.

When the ninth round came to a close, you finally gained control of your body again, the grief and sorrow crashing over you in mighty waves. Feeling a strong need for fresh air, (or you’d end up vomiting on someone) you quickly run out of the stadium, your hand clasping over your mouth as hot tears streamed down your face.

Unable to see properly due to the tears fogging up your vision, you end up tripping down a flight of stairs, hitting your head in the process. Unconsciousness taking hold of you as your visions turns black.

You don’t recall much of what happened after—only the faint memory of bandaged arms carrying you off to somewhere.

When you wake, you’re lying on a small cot in some sort of lab, your head pounding in pain and your wrist wrapped in some sort of cast.

“You’re awake. Good,” you hear a voice say almost gently.

“Hey what. Where—hey its you!”

There, standing above you is none other than the Lord of Flies himself.

“You nearly cracked your skull, have a severe concussion, and your wrist is slightly broken,” he informs you motionlessly. “You will stay till you are recovered.”

“W—” you open your mouth to argue, but pause when a sharp pain pangs through your head, causing you to rethink. You were indeed injured, you had nowhere else to go now that Nikola was literally dead, and the stranger was giving you free healthcare. “Okay,” you comply.

Thinking he was just being kind, you agree without much of a second thought, oblivious to his reputation.

During the days of your recovery, you and Beelzebub slowly get more acquainted with each other with every passing day. After being in isolation for so long, your bubbly personality was quite a shift in routine.

At first he had found you annoying. You were just another nuisance, another being in his life who wouldn’t leave him alone no matter how much he scowled at your or mentioned boundaries. You were annoyingly persistent, always smiling at him, always touching his arm, or laughing too damn loud near his ears as if ‘distance’ wasn’t a word in your dictionary. He hated it at first, constantly thinking of ways to get rid of you and use you as the nominee for his next experiment. But as time passed, he slowly took a liking to you.

He hated it, hated how easily your cheerfulness rubbed off on him, hated that stupid little beam whenever he reluctantly acknowledged you. But you kept coming back anyways, and that—mixed with the hope you wouldn’t be affected by his curse, may have sparked something in him.

Slowly—so slow even he, himself didn’t realize what was happening until it was already too late, something inside him began to shift towards warmth instead of coldness around you. His irritation softened slightly whenever your laugh reached his ears, his meals suddenly less bland when eaten with you, his interest piqued every time you face lit up over simple flavors.

When he had realized his feelings may have been slowly begun to morph into affection, he began to fear he may lose you.

After being alone for so long, he couldn’t help but bask in that light you emitted.

He began to notice your absence more, caught himself memorizing trivial details—and most importantly, he began to act how he used to before he had figured out he was Satan. The younger him who had laughed with Lucifer began to slowly unbury itself from his heart.

When he realized he truly admired you, yearned from a distance for so long, yet you were still alive and well, things escalated quickly.

It didn’t take long for your heartfelt confession to be reciprocated.

He’s currently laying on his back with his head on your lap, sulking about something as you played with his hair. He was trying to play it cool, but every time he felt you run your fingers through his hair, his mind went blank for a second.

He was trying to keep his expression even—not show how much he was loving the feel of your hand in his hair—but the way his breathing was coming out a little too ragged gave him away—he was touch starved after so much isolation.

“You were complaining about something earlier, want to talk about it?” you ask.

Beelzebub’s entire body stiffened at the question—his breath hitching as his eyes snapped up to yours. The way your fingers were still tangled in his hair made it damn near impossible for him to form a coherent thought, let alone respond properly. His jaw worked silently for a moment before he finally managed to mutter up something. “Nothing.”

An obvious lie. Earlier, while passing by some minor gods, he overheard them calling him ‘Baalsack’, ‘Beelzeboob’ and some other ridiculous blasphemy. He had been unable to do anything about it besides sulk. He could still see their stupid smirks, hear their stupid voices—just the thought of any of them having the guts to say such things about him made his eye twitch in annoyance.

Though Beelzebub’s heart clenched when he saw the look on your face. He hated that look. He hated that you were concerned, that you were getting all worried over some stupid Beelzeballs bullshit he didn’t want to speak of.

He took another deep breath before looking away with an almost pained expression. “It’s really nothing important,” he insists. “Just some idiots running their mouths.”

“You never tell me anything,” you say frowning.

His breath hitched. Beelzebub knew damn well he was being closed-off, keeping you at a distance when what he wanted to do was just… tell you everything. His hands clenched into fists in the blankets—anything to distract himself from the desire to just give in for a minute. “It’s not like it’s any of your concern,” he finally mutters gruffly.

You go quiet, his words hitting you hard and causing your hand to still in his hair. What an asshole, here you thought you were making progress.

Beelzebub’s gut twisted the moment you went quiet, and he was damn near cursing himself out mentally. He knew it was his damn fault, knew it was his words that had gotten to you—the way your hand had stilled in his hair only made him feel worse.

He wanted to apologize—to say something, anything to bring that gentle smile back onto your face. But that would mean admitting weakness—admitting that he actually cared about all this stuff between you two, and he couldn’t help but fear it would result in your death.

Beelzebub’s hands twitched with the desire to reach out—to grab your hand and… he didn’t even know what he would do. “…Don’t be like that. I just I don’t see a reason to bother you with it.”

“I don’t see a reason to tell you anything either,” you retort, crossing your arms and turning your head to look at anything but him.

His chest clenched—sharp and painful. The way you threw his words back at him made him feel like he’d just been stabbed in the damn heart. You were so damn stubborn, so damn difficult, and—he loved it. He loved the way you pushed back at him like that. He loved the way you never backed down even a single goddamn inch when it came to him. Sometimes he’d still contemplate the experiments he could conduct on you. He had to suppress the urge to just beg you to not shut down like that—to not go cold and distant on him. He wanted nothing more but to pull you against him, to wrap you up in his arms and not let go until you were smiling again.

“Are you mad at me?” he suddenly asks a few minutes later.

“Yes.”

He slowly sits up and blinks at you—unsure of what to do. He didn’t like this, he didn’t like you being pissed at him—he wanted to just… fix it. His hands twitched again before finally giving in, his fingers brushing against your arm lightly, trying to get you to look at him, though you did nothing but turn away.

He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, couldn’t stop his fingers from gently grasping your chin. “…Look at me.” His voice came out rougher than he intended, his grip on your chin almost desperate as he tried to make you look at him. He hated this distance between you—hated the fact that he was the reason for your pissed-off expression.

“Stop this,” he muttered gruffly. “Look at me.” He sounded almost like he was begging at that last part, his voice too soft to sound like his usual aloof distant tone.

“No, I don’t want to,” you say, turning your head away again. “You don’t want to tell me anything, I don’t want to look at you.”

Beelzebub wanted to argue, wanted to force you into looking at him—into listening. Wanted to let you know that he could just snap your neck here and now, but he pushed that thought away.

His hands dropped away completely now, leaving them hovering uselessly between you two before clenching into fists again as if punishing himself for even trying. He was conflicted. Having never experienced these emotions before, he was unsure of what to do.

His fingers twitched again before finally giving in—his voice coming out too soft. “There were just idiots talking shit about me,” he finally admitted.

You turn back to finally look at him, a victorious smile plastering on your face. “See, was that so hard?”

Beelzebub’s chest clenches at the sight of your smile—his entire body going rigid like he’d been caught doing something wrong. His face burning too hot now, his pride warring with the way his heart was near pounding out of his ribs.

He scowled down at you, too gruff to cover up how flustered he was. “Whatever” he mutters under his breath—but there was no real bite to it this time. Just a quiet admission that yeah, maybe telling you things wasn’t so impossible after all.

Beelzebub’s scowl deepens when you dared to laugh at him—a slight pink dusting his ears as he tried (and failed) to look like he wasn’t flustered. “You’re lucky I don’t throw you off this bed right now—” before being cut off by the feeling of your lips on his.

His breath caught—every muscle going tense the second your lips touch his own, though he doesn’t even hesitate before kissing you back—his hand burying itself in your hair as the other grabbed your leg, yanking it over his hip to drag you even closer. His entire body trembles when you wrap your legs around his torso—a ragged, guttural groan slipping from between his lips as he ground you even closer against him. His hands were everywhere—in your hair, on your hips, your waist, your thighs.

Beelzebub suddenly pulled away when he felt you giggle against his lips—his grip on you tightening like he was two seconds away from just flipping you onto your back and pinning you there. His voice came out too rough when he spoke. “You’re enjoying this too damn much.” His hands slide down to squeeze the backs of your thighs, pulling them tighter around his waist as if daring you to laugh again.

He was loving the way you looked right now, with your legs wrapped around him like that—your lips curling into your signature teasing smile. “You think it’d be so goddamn funny if I just… took you right here, hm?”

You watch as he lifts his thumb up your bottom lip, gently pulling it down so you would open your mouth for him, his breathing hitching the second you obeyed. His eyes widen slightly as he stares down at you like he can’t believe you’re real. He continues to look at you with a mixture of lust and something too close to worship.

Beelzebub doesn’t hesitate to slide his fingers into your mouth once it’s fully open. His eyes flickering down to watch the way he did it, a groan slipping out against his will. When you didn’t protest, he let his fingers slide deeper into your mouth, his breathing ragged like he was near suffocating. He was watching the way you took them so easily, holding back the urge to moan at the way your tongue continued to wrap around his fingers—how you sucked on them like that, like you were doing it on purpose just to get a reaction.

Beelzebub’s fingers curled against your tongue, the tip slipping almost into your throat. His eyes closed for a second, like he was trying to hold onto some thread of self control. Beelzebub’s chest was heaving, his breathing too rough as he keeps watching you. His fingers were still curling in your mouth, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the sight of them disappearing between your lips. Still, the crippling fear that he would hurt you weighed heavy on his mind, the hesitance in his actions quite noticeable. He was without a doubt inexperienced—yet still eager to please.

Beelzebub groaned at the way you whimpered—his entire body shuddering as he felt your tongue swirling around his fingers. He pushed his fingers deeper into your mouth, not stopping until he could feel them brush against the back of your throat.

Beelzebub was still staring down at you, his eyes fixed on your face like he was trying to memorize every damn detail—but his eyes kept dropping to your mouth, to his fingers slowly sliding in and out. He sounded like he was having a hard time concentrating right now. He could feel your tongue sliding around his fingers—feel the warmth and wetness as you sucked on them—and it was like pure torture. His entire body was taut like a damn bowstring, all his muscles clenching so hard as his fingers curl against your tongue again.

Then, without thinking, he pressed his thumb onto the center of your tongue and began sending tiny vibrations through his thumb, his finger pad vibrating teasingly soft against your mouth appendage.

You felt the sensation through your whole body, nearly choking as his finger continued to vibrate deeper and faster against your taste buds. (Idk how to describe how this feels stop pls js use your imagination)

Beelzebub watched the way you took his thumb—watched the way your eyes fluttered at the tremors on your tongue, the way your lips close over them, and he damn near whimpered. He almost didn’t know what he wanted more, to kiss you, or to just watch you like this.

His fingers twitched against your tongue, his throat bobbing like he was swallowing back a moan. He couldn’t stop staring at your mouth—at the way your lips wrapped around him so perfectly. It was driving him insane in the best possible fucking way.

His free hand reached down to grip your thigh again, needing to touch you somewhere else to ground him and keep him tied to reality. He whimpered when you sucked harder on his fingers—his entire body tensing up like a live wire about to snap.

“You’re going to kill me,” you hear him choke out hoarsely.

Beelzebub’s fingers pulled out of your mouth, his other hand squeezing your thigh like he was holding onto the last shred of sanity. His breathing had gone completely erratic—short, sharp gasps rather than his usual composed stable ones.

His fingers were slick with your saliva, hovering uselessly in the air where they’d just been inside your mouth for a second before his tongue slides out to lick at them—not breaking eye contact for a second.

He’d give you anything. Anything, if you kept looking at him like that.

His hand suddenly slid from his mouth to grip the back of your neck—yanking you forward until his lips crashed into yours. Beelzebub kissed you like he was starving, like he needed you to breathe—his tongue slipping past your lips in a way that was damn near filthy. His hands grabbing you and pulling you flush against his chest like he wanted to fuse your bodies together. He was practically devouring you, claiming every inch of your mouth like it was his for the taking.

Beelzebub’s entire body shudders when you tangle your tongue with his, his hands roaming a path across your thighs before grabbing the underside of your ass and lifting you against him.

His hands tangle in your hair, holding you in place—not that you needed it, not with how eager you were being. He let out a sharp, rough groan as if you were doing something downright sinful—and maybe you were. What was a mortal and Satan himself doing?

Beelzebub whined—a high, desperate sound that he didn’t even recognize as his own—when you pulled away. His fingers twitched at his sides, still slightly moist with your spit, before he finally forced out a shaky words. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, just need air,” you answer before moving your hands up to ruffle and card through his hair.

Beelzebub flinched at the sudden touch—his entire body tensing before melting into it like a damn cat. His breathing was still too ragged, his chest rising and falling unevenly as your fingers carded through his hair. All the tension drained out of him at once—his shoulders slumping forward as he let out a shaky exhale. He leaned into your hand almost desperately now, chasing the contact like he’d been starved for it.

His hands clenched into fists on the bed beside your hips as if to stop himself from doing something embarrassing like begging for praise or whimpering like a pathetic little mutt.

Beelzebub stayed like that for a long moment—his face pressing against your shoulder, his breathing uneven as he tried to process what the hell just happened. His fingers slowly uncurled from the sheets, one trembling hand lifting hesitantly to brush against your arm… testing if you were still there. Still real.

Noticing the action, you can’t help but lean down and press a few kisses to his face, fingers still softly soothing his tangled locks. When they touch his cheek—his entire body tenses like he wasn’t sure how to react—his face staying buried against you. He still wouldn’t lift his head… too embarrassed by how soft this was making him feel, but his face remained half-buried against you—a quiet hum of peace escaping him. His body had gone slack with contentment, leaning into every stroke like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Beelzebub stayed like that for a long, quiet moment—his breathing slow and steady now, his body pliant under your touch. The tension had bled out of him entirely, replaced by something warm and heavy in his chest… something dangerously close to joy.

For once—for the first time in what felt like centuries—he didn’t feel restless. Didn’t feel like he needed to die or fear or repent.

His breathing slows even further, his lashes fluttering as he practically drowns in the warmth of your affection. His fingers uncurl from their death grip on your arm and instead settle limply at his sides, completely boneless against you as he buried himself fully against you.

Beelzebub didn’t say another word. Didn’t need to. The way his body curls around you—the way his arms lock tight—his face nestling against your skin like he was trying to absorb every bit of warmth—said everything for him.

For once in his miserable existence, Beelzebub wasn’t worried about his bloodstained hands or experiments. He was just… here. Holding onto you like if he let go, the world would collapse beneath him all over again.

Seeing how clingy he had suddenly become, you let out a laugh, eyes crinkling with pure amusement and adoration as you relaxed further into his desperate embrace.

That quiet sound you let out made something in his chest loosen, and after a beat, he huffs quietly against your neck—almost like he was trying to laugh too, but didn’t know how. It came out as more of an awkward exhale than anything, but it was there. A tiny, stifled attempt he’d hone to perfection if you asked.

Beelzebub let himself just be. No experiments. No bloodshed. Just this: your laughter, his arms around you, and the quiet understanding that he’d never trade it for anything. His arms squeeze you again—like even if words failed him entirely, it could convey every word he wanted to say.

“I’m so happy,” he whispers.

You make me so happy.

And then his eyes closed.

When Beelzebub’s eyes reopened, the sight that greeted him filled him with nothing but dread.

You were slumped on the ground.

His hands were covered in blood

Your blood was pooling out from a wound in an area that seemed too dangerously similar to the places where vital organs would be—your face white as a sheet and scrunched up in bewilderment.

His hands were covered in blood, the sticky red substance coating over his fingers and arms as he slowly processed what had happened.

You were pressing down on the wound in your abdomen, trying to stop the blood even though it was useless, you could already feel your heart slowing as your breaths became more labored. You look up at Beelzebub(who was still petrified) weakly, your mind still conflicted with surprise—but your eyes were soft, as if you were expecting this to happening long ago.

With your mind hazy and unable to think properly, you did the only thing you felt like doing—providing comfort. “It’s alright,” you choke out while letting out a teary, strangled laugh. You knew it was practically useless and would not reach deaf ears, but the look on his face made you feel as if you were complied to.

Then he finally processed the scene in front of him.

“No…”

The word tore out of him raw and guttural as he immediately fell to his knees beside your dying body. His hand flew to your face immediately, thumbs brushing frantically at the blood as if he could wipe it away like some bad dream. The other fell onto your hand, helping you press down on the wound hard.

“No, no, no. I thought—” His voice cracked on every syllable—panicked in a way that was foreign even to himself.

Beelzebub’s hands shook violently as he frantically wiped the blood from your mouth—face—hands—his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I—this can’t be happening, you were supposed to be immune,” he choked out helplessly.

But the proof was already there—smeared across his fingers and dripping onto the ground beneath you—the glow that usually hugged your frame had also gone.

“Tell me what to do,” he begged—voice breaking like a child’s. He’d kill gods for this if it meant saving you right now. He’d rip apart heaven and hell with his bare hands just to fix this, but all he could do was hold you tighter between choked words. “I’ll fix you up, you’ll live, you’ll stay,” he stated shakily.

His words were so sincere, and for a moment, you almost believed him.

“It’s alright,” you say again, this time with a more solemn smile. “Don’t hold it against yourself, ’kay?”

Beelzebub froze—his entire body going rigid as he stared down at you, your words not computing for one horrifying second. His breath continued to come out quick—his entire body still shaking with the aftershocks of panic. The blood was still fresh on his fingers, and this image of you wasn’t leaving his skull anytime soon.

He began gathering you up in his arms, ready to make a break for his lab—when you stopped him.

“A minute at most,” you whisper. “That’s how long I have left, I know it. Just stop, I don’t want that minute to be on your operating table while you conjure up something that’ll fail.”

Beelzebub stared at you for a long, silent moment—his expression caught somewhere between devastation and reluctant realization. Then, slowly… his hands curled into fists beside your hips. A muscle in his jaw twitched violently as he swallowed back whatever damning emotion was threatening to spill over. Though he knew one thing was clear.

He couldn’t save you.

He couldn’t cut you open and rearrange your organs.

He couldn’t put you on his operating table and fix whatever pain he caused.

Beelzebub was described to be a very calm and collected yet cunning and apathetic individual, as he would treat other beings as experiments without any remorse or guilt.

But currently, the thought of even touching you made him sick.

For one endless second, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you with eyes that had gone terrifyingly hollow… like the realization had carved something vital out of him and left nothing behind but a gaping wound where his soul used to be.

Then—his fingers dug into your shoulders hard enough to bruise as he shook you once—just once, his voice raw with something too broken for anger. “Liar.” A sob clawed up his throat next, tearing free before he could choke it back down.

Beelzebub collapsed over you—his forehead pressing hard against your collarbone as his entire body shuddered with silent, violent sobs. He didn’t even try to hide it now; the dam had burst, and all that was left was the ugly, gasping wreck of a man who’d just been handed a death sentence for someone he loved more than life itself.

His arms locked around you like iron bands—not restraining, but anchoring, as if letting go would mean watching you slip away right then and there—though you quite literally were.

“Please,” he begged into your skin between shuddering breaths “I’m sorry. I should’ve never even touched you—should’ve scolded you and patched up my own cut that day.”

He let out a strangled sound when you began to disintegrate and fade. A sob ripped from his throat—ugly and guttural—as he crushed you against him so tightly it probably hurt. His entire body trembled with the force of holding back a scream, his face buried in your hair as if he could breathe life into you through sheer proximity alone. His hands were shaking where they gripped your back—one sliding up to cradle the base of your skull like something precious while the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades… anchoring. Desperate. Begging silently—but not praying. He knew none of those gods would ever respond to him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please,” he mutters the mantra over, and over, and over again as tears continued to spill down his bloodstained cheeks.

“Stop,” you command, using the last of your strength to raise your hand and wipe the salty droplets off his cheeks. “It’s okay, really. Just listen to me.”

He looks up at you slowly, lifting his head out of your neck as his eyes bore into yours with desperation.

“I love you, heh.”

Four words.

Those were the last four words you said while flashing him one of those familiar, warm smiles he loves

Those were the last four words you said while the remaining essence of you faded away and was swept off in the rain.

Those were the last four words that escaped your mouth as he watched you disappear in his arms.

Those were the last four words he’d ever hear you say.

Heh

Beelzebub didn’t scream.

He couldn’t. The sound got lodged somewhere between his ribs and throat, strangling itself into silence as he stared at the bloodstained floor—your scent still clinging to him like a ghost.

He collapsed, not in grief—not yet—he hadn’t come to believe you were gone. You were still here, just in another room, ready to kiss away his sorrow and calm his aching heart.

His had legs simply gave out beneath him, the weight of what he’d done crashing down all at once. He hit the floor hard, knees hitting marble with a sound that should’ve hurt, but he didn’t feel it.

Nothing could hurt like this did.

His hands clawed at his own hair instead—yanking until strands ripped free from their roots—a broken noise tore from his throat, half-snarl, half-sob… something too wounded for words.

You were gone.

Beelzebub stayed there for hours—curled on the cold floor, his forehead pressed to the ground like a man in prayer. But he wasn’t praying—none of those selfish deities would ever respond.

He was begging.

Begging some unseen force to undo this, to rewrite reality where you hadn’t left him…where you were still breathing beside him instead of gone. His tears pooled beneath him—salty and endless—as silence swallowed.

Then.

Beelzebub didn’t notice you at first—too lost in his own shattered thoughts, still half-sprawled on the floor like a broken thing.

But the faintest rustle of fabric made his head jerk up.

His breath caught so hard it hurt—his entire body freezing mid-motion as if moving might make this blessing of an illusion disappear.

There you were. Standing by the balcony doors, bathed in golden light from the setting sun… alive. Here.

For one agonizing second, he just stared—his red-rimmed eyes wide and disbelieving, taking in the way the sunset painted your skin gold, how you looked so fragile yet real.

Then his entire body lurched forward like a puppet yanked by its strings—stumbling to his feet with unsteady legs before practically launching himself toward you.

He didn’t know how this was possible—didn’t care. Something had happened, something had brought you back. Maybe something rewound time for him. Maybe nothing had ever happened and he had just woken up from a nightmare. Nonetheless, none of it mattered in the moment.

Beelzebub didn’t stop running.

He crashed into you the second he reached the balcony—arms wrapping around your waist with enough force to bruise(breathing a sigh of relief when he didn’t feel any blood), his face burying itself in your neck like a man starved for air. His breath came in ragged, desperate gulps against your skin—his entire body trembling from sheer disbelief that you were here and alive and real.

He pressed his forehead hard against yours and sobbed. Ugly, guttural cries tore from him as if every second of pain he’d suffered since waking up alone could finally pour out now that you were here again.

His whole body curling tighter around you like a child seeking comfort—pressing himself against your chest so tight anyone would’ve thought he would dig a hole in your chest and stay tucked in your heart. He didn’t even try to stop the tears now; they flowed freely, soaking into your clothes as he clung to you with both hands fisted in your shirt.

His lips found yours then—not in passion but desperation, kissing you over and over like he needed proof this was real. Beelzebub kissed you like he was trying to rewrite the past—each press of his lips a silent plea.

Stay.

Don’t leave again.

Let me keep you.

His hands cradled your face with unbearable gentleness, thumbs wiping away his own tears that had dripped onto your skin… until finally, breathlessly, he rested his forehead against yours and just breathed. In sync with you. Alive together.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered so quietly it was almost lost in the wind.

His arms slid around your waist again—not tight enough to hurt this time, just holding, anchoring himself to you as if he could fuse your ribs together so nothing would ever tear you apart again. His hands then slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling gently in your hair as he tilted his face down to meet yours properly this time, kissing you with something painfully close to reverence.

It wasn’t hungry or desperate anymore—just slow and aching, pouring every unsaid apology into it.

The kiss deepened—soft, lingering, the kind that felt like a vow. Beelzebub’s hands cradled your face with near worship now, his thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones as if memorizing every detail all over again. When he finally pulled back, just enough to see your eyes—his own were still wet but steadier than before.

Then, he did something so unexpected even he seemed surprised by it.

He kissed you on the forehead next. A gesture tender and simple, one he’d never given anyone else in his long existence. Beelzebub’s lips lingered on your forehead—a silent prayer against your skin, his breath warm and uneven. When he straightened again, there was something new in his gaze, beneath his lingering grief, because you were here. You’d come back.

But when you didn’t speak a word after—infact you hadn’t uttered a word at all, he began to panic.

“Stop that,” he choked out, closing his eyes and swiping roughly at his own tears with the back of one hand while the other stayed curled possessively around you. “Say something,” he quietly pleaded. Yet his request was only met with your soft unmoving expression.

When he reopened his eyes and removed his hands, he was back on the bloodstained ground.

It was just a dream.

The world as he’d known it, the future he’d dared to believe in…all of it was gone now, snuffed out like a candle in the wind. He didn’t get up from the floor. Didn’t move, didn’t speak. The only sign that he was even still alive was the ragged, shaking breaths he took occasionally and the silent tear tracks trailing down his otherwise expressionless face.

Whether your immunity to curses wore off or you just never had it, there was one truth he was now sure of:

As long as Satan is within him, he will forever harm those he comes to love.

He will drown in self loathing and guilt for the rest of his existence.

A/N: help did yall fr think there was gonna be a good ending

anyways reqs are open and apologies again for mischarztation n mistakes! with exam season here ion have time to throughly edit and i was hella sleep deprived while writing ts 🧍‍♂️ low-key I'm js realising how many unnecessary em dashes I used but can we ignore that pls i had some obsession with em dashes or sum

there will probs be another beel fic but it might be angst idk oops

[pieandfigstew]

Do people enjoy or want record of ragnarok fics cus I'm really tempted to write one

[pieandfigstew]

Love You Anyway<3 (An Itoshi Rin Fic) Pt.1

Carrying you on his back amidst a storm to shelter. Grumpy x Sunshine (?)

Sypnosis: Though it may not seem like it, you and Rin have been in an established relationship for a while. After bonding over music and forced closeness, he eventually asked you out on a concert--and boom! Here we are now. Walking home together one day, it suddenly begins raining heavily, leaving you both soaked and in search of shelter. After Rin piggybacks you all the way to his house, the two of you grow closer and Rin begins to slowly learn there may be more to life than soccer--running out in the rain to help you find something you've lost. (Even though it's not mentioned in this fic, you are unfortunately below soccer on his priorities list.) 9.9k~ wc Xreader, fluff, mentions of minor injury, established relationship, cheery reader, desperate search in the rain, you guys were originally friends which is why he is already comfortable around you. Title inspired off the song I was listening to at the time: Love You Anyway - The Marias Ok yayy first bllk fic! All info was from the Internet so I cannot guarantee that it will be 100% correct. Keep in mind there will be inconsistencies and grammar mistakes but hopefully less than my other ones. Unlike my other fics that were written in a day or two, this one took me a few weeks, so that means it's also less rushed! I am slowly getting the hang of this stuff but I am still quite new to the Xreader department. There might also be mischaracterization but no one knows how someone is like in a relationship until they actually get in one so go easy on me. Apologies beforehand I despise and I mean DESPISE writing nonchalant/stoic characters but I love Rin enough so here's a 10k fic for him🥹. + I have continuations if people actually end up liking this (though I'll probably write it regardless) Enjoy!

The sun casts it’s bright glow across the football field as you sit on the bleachers, watching Rin finish up practice. You’ve come to return a few important notes he let you borrow on the condition you’d give them before he would need them, which is now. After a few more intense drills, he eventually finishes, quickly stretching before slinging his bag over his shoulder and making his way to you.You toss him a towel you had brought for him and he catches it with ease, muttering a gruff ‘thank you.’

“I came to return your notes, they were really useful,” you say and flash him a grateful smile.

Rin nods before he shifts his weight, jaw tightening as he struggles to maintain eye contact—something that clearly doesn’t come naturally to him. “…It’s dark,” he mutters suddenly as he takes the notebooks and shoves them into his bag. Then, with forced indifference: “Don’t just stand there. I’ll walk you.”

He’s already turning on his heel before you can respond—but there’s a deliberate slowness in his steps, an unspoken demand for you to catch up as if this is somehow your idea rather than his own stubborn act of… whatever this is supposed to be.

You and Rin have been together for a little while now—a fact even you yourself have yet to comprehend. But you’re not truly surprised, after all…its Rin—someone you never thought you’d proudly stand next to and call your partner. He was quiet, reserved to himself—things you were unfamilar with.

But the universe enjoys an interesting pairing here and there.

Back when it was your first day, you unexpectedly collided straight into Rin while in a rush to get to class, knocking his cellular device right out of his hand.

The ‘stranger’ had looked as if he wanted to snatch the phone out of your hand, shove it down your throat and personally push you off the nearest rooftop. His beautiful teal eyes were filled with annoyance as he look at you, his ethereal lashes fluttering as he blinked.

“Quit staring,” he has said

“Oh, yes sorry,” you blurt out as you advert your gaze to anything but him.

It eventually landed on the—his phone you’re still currently holding, and you notice a familiar song playing on the screen.

“Oh wow, you listen to King Gnu?” you had said happily before handing the phone back to him.

The stranger’s gaze had soften slightly at your question, expression changing from agitation to slight interest before he let out a reluctant nod.

“That’s great! Which one’s your favorite?” you had asked while smiling more than necessary. A desperate plan to distract him from the small crack he had yet to notice on the bottom right of his phone.

“Prayer X,” he muttered.

“Hm, that one’s great,” you said. “But I like Asura way more.”

He tilted his head and gave you a questioning look, opening his mouth to reply—but before he can, you’ve already excused yourself and disappeared from his sight.

You remember cheering a little on the inside as you settle into your first period seat, congratulating yourself for being able to get out of that situation without losing a dime or an arm. You cheerily looked over to greet your desk mate, only for your smile to drop as you’re met with a familiar face.

“Hey,” he had said—nonchalantly holding up his phone, screen facing you. “There’s a crack.”

After partnering up for multiple projects, letting you copy his notes, discussing music, and him eventually asking you out to a concert, the rest was history.

Rin sets a brisk pace, his strides long and unfaltering as he walks beside you in silence. Despite his aloof exterior, there’s a subtle watchfulness in the way he moves and glances at his surroundings, the other pedestrians, the streetlights, you—even as he feigns disinterest. As you two walk, the sun begins to dip beneath the horizon, casting the world into twilight. Rin seems lost in thought, his face set in its usual neutral expression. “You’re slow,” he abruptly mutters, almost as if speaking to himself or maybe an attempt to make conversation.

“No, you’re just fast,” you mumbles back.

Rin stops walking so suddenly that you nearly bump into him. He turns his head just slightly to give you a sidelong glance. “Is that so?” His voice drops low, carrying an edge of something unreadable. “Then keep up, its not that hard.”

Despite his blunt words, he starts moving again—this time deliberately slower, matching your pace with an exaggerated slowness that feels like its own kind of taunt. Though after a few minutes of silent walking—you feel it.

The first few drops hit your shoulders before the sky opens up completely—a sudden, heavy downpour soaking through clothes in seconds. Rin doesn’t react at first, just tilts his head slightly upward as if silently cursing the weather gods for this inconvenience. Then, without a word, he grabs your wrist and pulls you under the nearest awning, pressing you both against the brick wall of a closed shop as rain drums violently against pavement around you two.

When you’re both completely shielded from the rain, he finally releases your wrist with an irritated click of his tongue—but doesn’t step away either. He’s close enough that water drips from his bangs onto your shoes. A beat passes before he asks gruffly, like it pains him to say, “Did you bring an umbrella?”

“No, I didn’t know it was going to rain. Did you?”

Rin’s eye twitches at your question—clearly not expecting to be called out. His jaw tightens, glare intensifying as rainwater drips down his nose. “Tch.” He looks away sharply, crossing his arms like a petulant child caught in a lie. “…No.”

Silence stretches between you two—nothing but the sound of rain hitting pavement and Rin’s damp hair sticking even more stubbornly to his forehead now, though he eventually breaks it. “We’re waiting it out.”

“Sure! If you’re fine with waiting the whole night,” you say as you look up from your phone and turn the screen to him—displaying the weather app.

Rin scowls at your phone screen like it personally offended him, then abruptly grabs your hand again—this time to drag you straight into the pouring rain without warning.

“Then we’re not waiting.”

He doesn’t let go as you whine, picking up speed, cutting through alleys and side streets with the precision of someone who’s memorized every shortcut in this city—water splashing violently underfoot as he leads you both toward shelter at a near-jog.

He finally stops beneath a bus stop awning (both of you now thoroughly drenched), there’s something almost victorious in how sharply he exhales—as if daring you to complain about his methods while rainwater still drips from his lashes onto flushed cheeks. He turns to you, noticing your irritated expression.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, a microscopic tint of worry in his voice.

“Yes!” you exclaim frowning. “We’re currently in the complete opposite direction of my home, I’m drenched, and we’re waiting for a bus that doesn’t come until another hour!

That response clearly hadn’t been what he was expecting—for a brief moment, Rin looks taken aback, his confident facade slipping just slightly. Then he bristles at your criticism, jaw clenching as he crosses his arms again.

“Well, whose fault is that for forgetting an umbrella?” His reply is sharper than usual, more defensive, though whether it’s due to embarrassment, annoyance, or something else entirely is anyone’s guess. He glances sidelong at you under the bus stop, eyes narrowing slightly as if daring you to argue further.

“Both of us!” you snap back, equally as defensive.

Rin opens his mouth, ready to counter with another sharp reply—but the look on your face seems to make him falter just slightly. He takes a moment, jaw tightening before he lets out a frustrated sigh—a sign that, even if he won’t admit it, he knows you’re right. His eyes dart away from yours, focusing on the rain instead as he sulks in silence for a while, arms tightly crossed over his chest as water still trickles from wet hair.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of stubborn silence, Rin finally decides to break the silence. “I can walk you home,” he mutters, just loud enough to be heard over the rain. The words come out clipped, almost defiant—as if daring you to call him out on his sudden change of heart. Though there’s something almost apologetic in the way he won’t look at you now, his gaze fixed resolutely on the waterlogged sidewalk beneath his soaked sneakers.

You blink at him for a few seconds before sighing and reaching down to wring the water out of your shirt. ‘That’s sweet and all, but its nearly a thirty minute walk.”

He stiffens at that, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he does mental calculations. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, weighing the idea of a thirty-minute walk in this weather—and, worse yet, having to worry about you for the entirety of it.

Despite his annoyed expression, however, he doesn’t move—doesn’t ditch you to be rid of one less problem. Instead, he just stands there beneath the bus stop awning, water still dripping from his hair and rain pelting against the sidewalk around you two. He seems conflicted, caught between his natural brusqueness and a rare moment of chivalry—the internal debate waging a silent war across his features.

He steals a sidelong glance at you, his teal eyes flashing almost irritably as he mutters under his breath. “You’re shivering.”

You just look at him as if he’s just pointed out something painfully obvious—which in this case, he has. “Well I’m kinda cold, its a natural response.”

Rin exhales sharply through his nose, returning your look, then, without another word (and likely to avoid any more unnecessary conversation), he yanks off his soaked training jacket and shoves it at you, looking anywhere but your face as he does so. “Take it.” His tone leaves no room for argument—though there’s a slight tension in his shoulders that suggests even he realizes how contradictory this all is to the aloof persona he usually maintains. The jacket drips between you both, heavy with rainwater but still radiating residual body heat from when it was pressed against him moments ago. “Its soaked, but its better than nothing.”

“You’ll get cold,” you say as you look at his jacket in reluctance, your tone hinted with guilt.

“I just came from training. I don’t get cold.” It’s a bold-faced lie, and you both know it—but he’s stubborn enough to maintain it nonetheless. He gestures impatiently toward the jacket still in your hands, water still pouring from the damp fabric.

“Just take it before you freeze to death, you stubborn idiot.” His words are as sharp as ever—but his tone lacks the usual bite. There’s also a rare undercurrent of genuine worry beneath the surface.

“It’ll be worse if you get sick rather than me. What if you get sick before a game?”

That, of course, hits close to home. Rin’s expression darkens for a moment, his sharp eyes narrowing. He hates the thought of being sidelined by something as foolish as a cold—especially during training and matches. But he’s also smart enough to understand that stubbornness won’t make this situation go away. As much as he loathes the idea of catching a cold, he loathes you getting sick even more.

“I’m not getting sick. I train in worse conditions than this.” His voice is firm, almost defiant—like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. “And even if I did, the next match won’t wait for me. So stop worrying and put the damn jacket on,” he mutters under his breath.

Rin’s impatience visibly mounts as your hesitation persists. His gaze hardens, teal eyes flashing with a mixture of annoyance and something else you can’t quite place.

He doesn’t wait for you to agree this time. Instead, he steps forward, grabs the wet jacket from your hands, and forcibly drapes it around your shoulders himself. It’s heavier than you expected, damp material clinging to your soaked shirt with a cold, chilling weight. “Shut it,” he cuts you off sharply as you start to protest.

He stands too close—close enough that you can see every droplet of rain on his lashes, the way his dark green hair clings to the curve of his neck. His hands linger for a second too long before he pulls away abruptly, as if touching you has left something raw in him he doesn’t know how to process.

“I wasn’t giving you a choice,” he mutters, voice low but genuine. “You’re going home somewhat dry. Even if it takes me thirty minutes.” He turns his face toward the rain again, jaw set hard—but you got to give it to him, he’s set onnot leaving your side.

“We can’t walk thirty minutes in this weather,” you gesture to the relentless rain that continues to pour down.

“Thirty minutes is nothing. I’ve ran through mud and snow, you think rain will stop me?”

“Well it’ll stop me.”

For the first time since the rain started, he actually looks at you—really looks—and seems to see it. Your soaked clothes clinging to your skin, the way you’re shivering despite trying not to show it, how pale your lips are from the cold. His jaw clenches hard enough that a muscle ticks in his cheek. The arrogance falters. The defiance wavers. And then—so quiet it almost gets lost in the downpour—he mutters: “…Then I’ll carry you.”

“What!?” you exclaim surprised.

Rin’s face darkens instantly—half from having to repeat himself, half from something he clearly doesn’t want to name. He turns his head sharply, avoiding your stunned expression as if just saying it out loud was bad enough. “I said I’ll carry you,” he repeats, voice lower now but no less firm. “If you can’t walk through the rain, then I’ll get you home. That’s it.”

Then surprisingly, he actually crouches slightly in front of you without waiting for a response—the broad span of his back exposed between the wet fabric of his shirt and soaked hair.

You just stand there for a moment, dumbfounded. Rin may be many things, but the idea of him carrying you hadn’t even crossed your mind until now. Now that he’s actually crouching in front of you, waiting for you to get on his back, the whole idea seems completely surreal to the point of absurdity. But then he glances over his shoulder, sharp teal eyes glaring at you like you’ve personally offended him by not getting on immediately.

“What are you waiting for?” he snaps. “Hurry up before I leave you here.” (Just like how Sae left him)

“What do you mean ‘what are you waiting for?’ I’m not going to let you walk thirty minutes in the rain with me on your back.”

“Don’t underestimate me,” he grumbles, shifting his weight as if preparing to stand up again. “I’ve run drills on worse, carried heavier loads for longer. I won’t falter just from carrying an idiot like you on my back.” He pauses, gaze flicking over you—and there’s a slight waver of uncertainty in his usually confident demeanor.

“If you don’t get on in three seconds, I swear I’ll knock you out and carry you anyway.”

Again, you’re left stunned—half from the threat, half from an unfamiliar feeling stirring in your chest. Rin clearly isn’t joking—he seems absolutely serious about carrying you all the way home. But the image is too bizarre, too strange to actually process. You’ve always seen him as aloof, almost distant, so the thought of being on his back—of him carrying you is…well, odd.

When Rin’s patience visibly begins to run out with each second of your hesitance, he actually starts counting under his breath. “One…two…”

You eventually give in when he gets to two and a half, reluctant getting on his back and wrapping your arms around his neck. “Okay! Okay! I’m on!”

The moment you get on his back, Rin stiffens—just slightly—as if your weight is nothing, but the closeness of it catches him off guard. His shoulders tense beneath your grip, and for a split second, he doesn’t move. Then, with a low grunt, he mutters a: “Hold on tight.”

He shifts to secure you—hands briefly gripping your legs just enough to keep you steady—and suddenly surges forward into the downpour. Rain hammers down as he steps out from under the awning without hesitation, boots splashing through puddles with purpose. His voice cuts through the storm moments later—quiet but firm. “Don’t go falling asleep on me. I’ll drop you.”

After a few minutes of Rin carrying you through the storm on his back, the rain has begun to get worse and nearly unbearable. It worsens—falling not in drops but in sheets, slashing sideways with the wind like it’s determined to wash everything away. The sidewalk blurs into a slick mirror, streetlights smearing into ghostly halos. Rin stumbles slightly on a hidden crack beneath water, boots slipping before he catches himself with a sharp intake of breath.

You shiver violently against his back.

He feels it.

Without warning, he adjusts his grip—tightening one arm firmly around your leg while angling his body forward to block more of the downpour from hitting you directly. His voice comes out strained over the storm’s roar.

“…We’re stopping.”

Not waiting for an argument this time—he turns sharply and kicks open the door to an unlocked public shelter near a closed sports park. There’s nothing but four walls, dim lighting, and dripping echoes—but at least its dry.

Once inside, he lowers you slowly to your feet… then immediately spins away like touching you was too much all at once. Water pours off him in rivulets as he stands there—back turned—with shoulders rising fast under ragged breaths that don’t sound quite like exhaustion alone. “Let’s just…wait it out,” he mutters.

“That’ll be hours,” you say as you carefully brush his bangs out of his face—which he actually allows. “Maybe even till tomorrow morning.”

Rin exhales sharply through his nose—frustration, impatience, helplessness all tangled in that one breath. He reluctantly pulls away from you, lifting a hand and dragging it roughly through his drenched hair, water splattering off his fingers onto the shelter’s concrete floor.

“Then I’ll carry you through it,” he says lowly—voice edged with something determined and confident. “Doesn’t matter how long it rains.” His teal eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. “I told you I’d get you home. That hasn’t changed.”

You sigh and run your hand through your own hair—when an idea suddenly pops into your head. You poke your head out of the door and peer outside, scanning your surrounding for a few minutes before popping your head back. “Your house is way closer than mine, is it possible we head there instead? I can always go home when the rain gets better.”

For a moment, Rin seems genuinely thrown off by the suggestion—as if it never occurred to him to seek his own shelter instead. But slowly, the surprise turns thoughtful, then determined. He glances out at the rain still slicing down outside, then turns back to you. “I guess that makes sense,” he grumbles—then, as if suddenly realizing how absurd this whole time has been: “Why didn’t I think of that before?”

You grin at him smugly, happy to be the one having the upper hand yet again.

Rin catches your smirk and immediately scowls, muttering under his breath as he turns away. “Tch. Don’t look so satisfied.” He kicks water off his shoes toward the door, then jerks a thumb over his shoulder—toward the rain-swept darkness beyond the shelter. “Come on,” he says flatly—but there’s less bite in it now, almost resignation. “It’s only five minutes to my place if we run.”

Unfortunately, because the universe likes laughing at you, you and Rin collide with a bicycle halfway to his home. The collision hits like a freight train—a blur of metal and motion as the bike swerves on the slick pavement, slamming into Rin from the side. He staggers with a sharp grunt, instinctively twisting his body to shield you as he crashes hard against a lamppost, one arm wrapping tightly around your waist to keep you from falling. Rain hammers down on both of you now as Rin pushes himself up fast—anger flaring in his teal eyes like lightning.

“Are you kidding me?” he snarls at the cyclist, voice raw with fury. But before he even checks himself for injury—or lets you check—he turns fully toward you, grip still locked around your arm.

“Did it hit you? Are you hurt?” His voice is sharp—not with annoyance at you, but with something urgent beneath, fear masked by aggression. There’s blood trickling from his elbow where the lamppost scraped through skin—but he doesn’t seem to notice. All that matters right now is your answer.

“Just about as much as you are,” you answer and flash him a reassuring smile.

Rin’s breath catches—just slightly—the moment he sees the raw scrapes on your knees and elbows, blood mingling with rainwater in thin pink trails down your skin. His expression darkens instantly, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps beneath his cheek.

Without a word, he crouches again—faster this time—and turns his back sharply toward you.

“Get on,” he orders, voice low and unyielding. “We’re going now.”

His tone leaves no room for protest. No space for pride. The accident lit something dangerous inside him—not rage at the cyclist, not pain from his own wound—but worry.

“No way,” you argue. “I’m not letting you carry me when you’re equally hurt.”

“You just got knocked over by a bike,” he snaps, as if he too—did not just get hit by it too. “I’m fine. I’m not letting you walk the rest of the way.” You can tell he’s worried, but he’s too proud to say it.

“You just got hit by a bike too!”

“It’s just a scratch,” he mutters—though the blood dripping down his elbow says otherwise. “I’ve had worse during training. Plus you’re wearing shorts, I’m not.”

“Well this isn’t training!” you scold. “We’re basically stuck in a damn hurricane, not soccer practice!”

“So what do you suggest? That we walk the rest of the way? You’re injured.”

“So are you!”

Rin opens his mouth to argue—then immediately snaps it shut.

Because you’re right.

And he hates that.

His shoulders tense, jaw working as he stares at you like you’ve personally insulted his entire existence. But the truth is written all over him. The way his breath comes just a little too fast, how he’s leaning slightly against the lamppost for support without meaning to, the blood now soaking through his sleeve from both elbow and shoulder where metal scraped bone-deep.

“…Fine,” he bites out, voice low and rough. “But only because this rain isn’t stopping anytime soon.” He pushes off the post with a grunt—not smoothly—and finally does something uncharacteristic.

He offers you his hand. Not for carrying. Not for pride or power.

But to help himselfup.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, eyes on the ground between you two.

You hurriedly grab his hand and yank him along, your fingers closing around his. The sudden tug causes him to stumble forward with a startled grunt, caught off guard by your sudden pull. He nearly crashes into you—but at the last second, his arm shoots out to brace against a lamp post, his body half-twisting to shield you from impact.

For a moment, he just stands there—close again—drenched hair clinging to his face, breath uneven. Then he turns his head slightly toward you, teal eyes narrowed in that familiar mix of irritation and something quieter beneath.

“…I said together,” he mutters. “Not ‘drag me like trash’.”

But there’s no real anger in it. In fact—if you listen closely—you might even catch the faintest hint of affection buried under all that gruffness. Not that Rin would ever admit it. Instead, he adjusts his grip on your hand—tighter now—and starts walking forward at a slower pace than before. “Just… keep moving,” he says quietly. “And don’t let go.”

You laugh, the sound cutting through the storm and traveling it’s way straight to his ears despite the loud downpour. “Okay, I promise,” you say amused.

Rin actually flinches at your laugh, as if he didn’t quite expect that response from you. He’s silent for a moment, eyes straight ahead—but you catch a flash of something across his expression.

Is that… relief?

No.

He’s probably just too tired and hurt to process feelings properly. After all, he did get hit by a bike.

“What are you even laughing at,” you hear him grumble—but there’s none of his usual sharpness. “This situation is hardly funny.”

Neither of you let go of the other’s hand.

You’re both standing outside Rin’s apartment building—silent, soaked and bruised, but finally safe. Then he turns toward the door… pauses… and then turns around again—his eyes meeting yours.

“You’re staying for ochazuke.” It isn’t a question. It’s an order. A demand disguised as inevitability. “You need food. I’m not letting you walk off with scrapes and an empty stomach.” And just like that—his hand on the door handle—he lets his words hang there between you.

“Deal!” you agree without a second thought. After all, who in their right mind would deny a nice hot meal after being drenched in rain?

Rin seems genuinely surprised that you answered so quickly and cheerfully. He looks at you again—properly this time—and his expression goes through several complicated phases.

Surprise, confusion, disbelief, reluctant respect… and just faintly—in the subtle softening of his eyes—the faintest hint of something else. Something hidden, barely there, beneath all his usual aloofness, as if it’s something he doesn’t even know how to process himself.

Then he looks away quickly, opens the door.

“…Come on,” he says gruffly. “I have a first-aid kit inside.”

Inside the apartment, the air is warm and dry—a welcome contrast to the outside. There’s no one else around, but everything is clean and well-organized. The floors are spotless, the furniture simple yet elegant, the decor minimal but with a few personal touches.

Rin sets a first-aid kit on the coffee table and sits down wearily across from you on the couch, head bowed slightly. “Let me treat your scrapes.”

You move closer as Rin starts going through the first-aid kit—gently taking your injuries one by one. He cleans the scrapes on your knees and elbows, then applies antiseptic and bandages with surprising care. It’s clear he’s done this before—his hands are careful but efficient, calloused fingers ghosting against your skin in a way that almost feels…

Intimate?

But it’s Itoshi Rin we’re talking about here, so you can keep those fantasies to yourself.

He’s also completely quiet, teal eyes fixed intently as he works. Only the faintest hint of a frown betrays his concentration. “Alright, done,”He finally says after a few minutes.

“Then I’ll treat yours,” you instantly insist, grabbing his arm.

Rin freezes the second your hand closes around his arm. His breath hitches—just slightly—and he turns his head sharply toward you, eyes narrowing like he’s been caught off guard. Not in anger. But in something deeper. Something vulnerable.

“I don’t need it,” he says automatically—his usual defense—but there’s no force behind it. Just exhaustion, pride, and that quiet want to let someone in—even if only for a moment.

You don’t let go.

Instead, you hold on tighter and give him that look—the one that says, ‘Stop lying.’

He exhales sharply through his nose and finally looks away, jaw twitching once since he knows you’ve got him figured out. “Fine.”

Then—with stiff movements—he rolls up his sleeve to reveal the deep scrape on his elbow now caked with dried blood and rainwater. He doesn’t look at you as he offers the wound like a reluctant offering. “Hurry up,” he grumbles. “And don’t make it hurt.”

The entire time, Rin sits rigid—staying perfectly still like the slightest wrong movement might shatter whatever strange, delicate moment this is. It isn’t just that you’re treating him. It’s that he’s letting you. As your fingers touch his skin, he winces ever-so-slightly—not from pain, but from the unexpected tenderness of it all. By the time you’ve finished bandaging the cuts on his arms, he seems almost dazed—like he’s not sure what to say or do next.

“That was unnecessary,” he says.

You roll your eyes at him before cradling his face between your hands and tenderly begin treating a scrape on his cheek. “Sure, whatever you say. Now quit moving.

Rin doesn’t move a muscle the moment your hands cradle his face. All the irritation and exhaustion from before just… vanishes. His jaw literally drops slightly as you begin to gently dab away the dried blood on his cheek. He swallows hard, throat working for a second as you work. From this angle, you can see every minuscule shift in his expression—how his eyes dilate slightly, how his cheeks start to flush ever so faintly, how his whole body is suddenly frozen and tensed.

“Okay, all done!”

He blinks. Again. As if that will somehow make your hand disappear and reverse this moment. For the first time since this morning, Rin is completely and utterly speechless. In any other circumstances, the idea of him being thrown off like this would be hilarious. But right now, all he can muster is a hoarse, “…You’re done?” which you nod at.

Rin sits there for a beat—then another—like his body hasn’t gotten the message that it’s safe to move again. His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to do something with them but doesn’t know what.

Finally, he stands abruptly—too fast—and turns away, rubbing the back of his neck like he can wipe away the warmth creeping up his ears. “Good,” he mutters. “Then…food.”

He heads toward the kitchen without looking back, voice regaining its usual sharp edge—but even that sounds forced now. Like armor put on too late. “Sit,” he says flatly over his shoulder. “I’m making ochazuke.” And though you can’t see it… there’s a flicker in his eyes—not just determination. But something softer.

Something almost grateful.

“Food? Right now? While we’re both soaked?” you ask, still wrapped up in his rain soaked jacket.

Rin pauses in his tracks—then looks down at his own soaked clothes like he’s just realizing how thoroughly he’s been soaked through. He glances over, eyes narrowing. “You’re right. Come.” he says as he gestures toward a hallway. “I’ll get you something dry to wear.”

He leads you down the short hallway without another word—movements stiff, like he’s trying too hard to appear unaffected. At the door of a closet, he crouches and pulls out a neatly folded pile of spare training gear: black sweatpants and a gray soccer hoodie. “Here,” he says, tossing them at you—though his throw is careful. It lands softly in your lap instead of hitting your face like it could have. “You can change in my room. Bathroom’s down the hall if you want to wash up.”

Then—he turns sharply toward his own bedroom door… hesitates… and mutters, “I won’t come in until you’re done.” As if that’ll make anything less awkward.

“Wait, wait, wait. Hold on, isn’t this worth a ton? I shouldn’t be wearing it, what if I like—I don’t know, damage it?” you say slightly panicked as you hold up the hoodie.

Rin hesitates, as if the concept of you damaging anything he owns is unthinkable, let alone something as trivial as a hoodie. He crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall. “It’s just clothes,” he says, with a note of finality that sounds almost like a challenge. “It’s not going to fall apart if you breathe on it.” He hesitates.

“Just… wear it, alright?”

“What if I stain it? Or ruin it? Or rip it, or—”

“Then I’ll buy another one,” he interrupts—and the absolute sincerity in his voice flabbergasts you, as if getting a new hoodie is no more burdensome than picking a new shirt from his closet. Rin seems to realize how weird it sounds on his tongue when he adds, more firmly, “I have plenty. Do I look like I can’t afford it?”

The truth is written all over his face: he doesn’t care about the cost. He wouldn’t hesitate to buy a thousand more if that’s what it took. That, of all things, is what makes his next words come out so quietly. “It’s just cloth. It’s not a big deal.” He glances at you briefly, teal eyes narrowing. “Just make sure to dry your hair. Don’t drip all over the place. I don’t know how to wash floors.”

Before you can ask even one more question… he disappears into his room.

The apartment is warm now—quiet, lit softly by the evening light filtering through drawn blinds. Rain has fully passed. Outside, the city hums back to life.

You’re sitting on the couch in Rin’s oversized hoodie and sweatpants, hair damp but no longer dripping. The faint scent of green tea and broth lingers in the air—ochazuke simmering gently in the kitchen.

Rin emerges from his room, changed into clean clothes—black training joggers and a tight gray t-shirt that shows every defined line of his shoulders and arms still wrapped lightly with fresh bandages from earlier.

He walks over without a word, sets a steaming bowl on the table for you… then another for himself. “Eat,” he says flatly—but waits until you pick up your spoon before he does too.

Though he doesn’t get through two spoonfuls before his eye twitches—just slightly—as he sees your dripping hair, droplets falling onto the hoodie’s shoulder like you’re deliberately trying to ruin it.

“You didn’t even dry your hair?” he mutters, voice tight with disbelief. “Do I have to do everything?”

Before you can respond, he stands abruptly and strides down the hall—only to return seconds later with a dark blue towel in hand. He stops in front of you, lifts it without warning—and starts rubbing it over your head roughly, like you’re a disobedient dog instead of a person. “Idiot,” he grumbles under his breath. “You’ll get sick.”

For the second time in an hour, you’re left speechless—this time, from the unexpected intimacy(?)of the moment. He’s standing close enough that you can smell the clean laundry detergent on his shirt and the soap from his shower still clinging to his skin. The way his hands move is almost… careful, fingers rubbing gently across your scalp for someone who was so harsh just seconds ago. His eyes are focused on your face instead of your soaking hair, expression unreadable behind a mask of concentration. You can’t help but tilt your head back to look him directly in the eyes.

Rin pauses mid-motion, hands still buried in your hair as your eyes meet. Even in that moment, he doesn’t look away—as if he’s already braced for this kind of intimate scrutiny. But for the first time in a while, his usual indifference falters—something flickering in the back of his eyes. “…What?” he mutters curtly, pretending like his heart isn’t hammering suddenly in his chest as he meets your gaze.

“Nothing,” you murmur as you reach your hand up to touch his cheek but pause midair.

Rin’s eyes narrow slightly as he watches your hand hovering near his face—but he doesn’t flinch away like he would normally. He just stands there, almost like a statue, with only his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath the t-shirt. His lips part slightly like he’s about to say something—but whatever words were there get lost in the tension, his throat bobbing when he swallows hard. His eyes flicker from your hand to your face, unreadable but… expectant?

It’s a strange moment of silent power play. You on the couch, towel-headed and still dripping—him standing over you, hands frozen in your hair, eyes locked on yours. He could move away. He could pull back, shove you away, snap and tell you not to touch him like that.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stays—a silent challenge in his eyes, the faintest hint of a flush on his face as you hesitate. Waiting.

And because he’s acting like this, you can help but grin up at him childishly. “I have the best partner in the world,” you say to fluster him.

Rin seems genuinely caught off guard by that—not just because of the suddenness of it, but because it sounds like something a child would say. It takes him a few seconds to recover—and when he does, he grumbles something under his breath just to spite you. “…Stop acting like a kid.” But there’s no real bite behind it—no anger. Just a subtle softness that only you get to see when his defenses are down.

You grin again, enjoying the rare sight of him taken off guard. But just as you’re about to say something to push his buttons—just to see how many more buttons you can push today—Rin finally pulls away suddenly, taking the towel with him. He’s back to his stoic self in an instant, folding the towel absently as he looks away. But even in the evening light, his cheeks are uncharacteristically flushed. “Hurry and eat so it doesn’t get cold,” he mutters, more irritated with himself than he is with you.

“Okay,” you say while smiling.

For the next several minutes, there’s no sound but the quiet clattering of spoons against ceramic as you both eat the ochazuke. There’s a comfort to it that might seem unremarkable to anyone else—but this moment feels more significant than anything in a long time. Rin keeps his eyes down, focusing on his food with meticulous attention—almost as if he’s afraid you’ll notice his flushed cheeks and the way his hands are holding the bowl a little tighter than necessary. You steal glances when you think he isn’t looking—watching how his bangs fall slightly over one eye, how his expression softens just a fraction between bites.And then, out of nowhere—

“…You’re not bad,” he mutters.

Just that. No explanation. No context.

He doesn’t look at you as he says it. Just stares into his half-finished bowl like it holds the answers to everything. But it’s as close to affection as Rin Itoshi will ever get—for now.

You clutch you chest dramatically and flash him a look of mock pain. “Ouch, really? That’s it?”

Rin glances up at that, eyes narrowing at your melodramatic reaction. “What do you want, a freaking medal?” he grumbles, irritation back in full force. “Eat your damn ochazuke or it’ll get cold.” To which you comply, happily consuming the dish.

Rin watches you for a few moments from the corner of his eye—like he’s trying to make sure you’re actually doing it—then turns back to his own bowl with a low sigh.

It’s a strange kind of intimacy, eating in silence—not because there aren’t things to say, but because neither of you wants to say them out loud. He glances at you every now and then as you eat—but every time you catch him looking, he quickly looks back down at his food like nothing happened.

As the two of you finish up and consume the last few spoonfuls of the ochazuke, the lights go out with a sudden click, plunging the house into darkness.

Rin stiffens immediately—fork halfway to his mouth—as silence falls over the room. Outside, the city’s glow filters faintly through the blinds, but inside, it’s just shadows and shapes. He exhales sharply. “Unbelievable.” Before you can react, he stands—calm but efficient—and mutters, “stay there. Don’t move.”

A second later, you hear rustling in the dark—the sound of drawers opening and closing. Then a soft click. A small flame flickers to life as Rin lights a candle on the coffee table with a lighter. The dim golden light casts sharp angles across his face—his bangs shadowing one eye slightly more than usual—and for a moment, he just looks at you through the flame like he’s checking if you’re okay.

“Ooooh, how romantic! A candlelit dinner! I’ve always wanted to try it out,” you say gleefully, more joyful than you should be in a situation like this.

Rin’s eyes narrow—half in shadows, half in the candle’s glow—as you tease him like that. A muscle twitches at his jaw, like he’s fighting the urge to say something snarky. Instead, he exhales slowly—one hand still clutching the lighter in his pocket. “Just… don’t trip over the damn furniture,” he mumbles under his breath.

He’s slowly beginning to learn.

“It must’ve been the hurricane,” you state as you put your bowl in the sink. “Good thing we made it on time, its getting bad out there.”

Rin grunts—half agreement, half annoyance—and turns his attention to the rain pounding outside. Streetlights reflect dimly through the blinds, illuminating the room just enough to make out his features. For a long moment, he just stands there—thinking, probably. Considering things he doesn’t want to say out loud. Eventually, he turns back to you, a strange look on his face.

“…You’re staying the night.”

The way he says it—so flat, so certain—leaves no room for argument. He doesn’t look at you as he adds, “electric might not come back until morning. And you’re already wearing my clothes, would be stupid to go back out in this storm.”

He walks toward the hallway without waiting for a reply—already making decisions like he owns the night itself. “Take the bed,” he calls over his shoulder, voice gruff but final. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” And just like that… Rin Itoshi seals his fate: soaked partner in his room, power out, city under siege by wind and rain.

Your hand shoots out as he’s about to retreat to the couch, wrapping arond his wrist. “Wait, it’s a power outage, let’s do something fun.”

Rin stiffens the moment you grab his hand—almost jerking back like he’s being electrocuted. His eyes widen the slightest fraction as he looks down at your entwined fingers—at the sudden feel of skin on skin in the dark. But just like that, he snaps back to his usual stoic self, scoffing almost too loudly. “‘Something fun’?” he mutters, frowning as if the words are ridiculous. “It’s the middle of the night, a storm, and the power’s out.”

“Exactly, how often does that happen?”

Rin opens his mouth to argue—then stops. Because you’re right. How often does this happen?

A storm knocks out the power. The city falls quiet. You’re sitting here—in his hoodie, eating his food, holding his hand like it’s nothing. And he’s letting you. He glances away, throat bobbing as if searching for some cold, logical rebuttal—but finds none.

“…Fine,” he mutters at last, voice low and reluctant. “What do you even suggest?”

“No idea,” you confess.

Rin scowls at that, clearly annoyed by your lack of plan. But he doesn’t let go of your hand as he glances around the dark apartment, contemplating the empty room like it might hold some kind of answer. “We don’t have many options,” he mutters—almost to himself. “Lights are out. Internet’s down. Can’t watch anything. Can’t play games.

“Come on, think of something,” you press.

Rin stares at you—then exhales sharply through his nose, like you’re testing him.

“Fine,” he mutters. He pulls his hand free—not roughly, just deliberately—and turns toward the hallway. “Wait here.” A minute later, he returns with two things: a dusty analog chessboard under one arm and a small box of matches in the other.

“It’s not ‘fun’ like stupid games or laughter,” he says flatly, setting the board on the table and lighting another candle for better glow. “This is logic. Strategy. Real competition.” He glances up at you—teal eyes sharp in the dim light. “If you lose, you clean my training gear for a week.”

“Deal!” you agree almost immediately. “And if I win you have to binge a romcom with me as I paint your nails.” That earns you a repulsed look.

Rin’s eyes narrow at your immediate agreement—like he expected you to hesitate, to back down. “Tch. Confident,” he mutters, already arranging the black pieces with quick, precise movements. “You won’t last ten minutes.” The candlelight flickers across the board, casting long shadows as you sit across from him on the low table—knees almost touching, the silence broken only by the soft click of each piece being set into place.

Rin is ruthless. He plays to win. He plays to destroy. For all his earlier hesitation, he moves pieces like he was born to do it—each move an attack, a counter, an inevitable path to checkmate. And yet, even after his first three easy wins, he doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t even look your way. Doesn’t say anything except to order you to set up the board again. By the time the fourth game ends with a swift, ruthless checkmate, you’re getting used to the silence.

“Rematch!” you demand as you slam your hand on the table for the eighth time.

Rin looks up—eyes narrowed—at that gesture. For a moment, you might think he’s going to argue, going to tell you to just take your losses like a good loser. Instead, he merely nods. He grumbles like he’s irritated at himself for agreeing. But he resets the board, setting the pieces in place with almost methodical focus.

The eighth game starts—then the ninth. Then the tenth. You try every strategy you can think of. You play defensively, offensively, recklessly, tactically. No matter what you try, Rin seems to counter it. Every time you think you’re safe, he strikes—one move, two, then three, and suddenly you’re at the edge of defeat again and he’s got you in checkmate. By the time he finally checkmates you for the twelfth time, Rin is beginning to look a little frustrated.

You throw your hands up in surrender. “I give up. You win.”

Rin scowls at that, eyes narrowing. Something seems to flicker in his gaze—part irritation, part disappointment. Like he expected you to keep going. “Already?” he asks gruffly. “I thought you’d last longer.”

You gape at him. The audacity.

“What do you mean ‘already’!? It’s been like what—twelve games!? I surrender! I’ll just clean your damn training equipment.”

Rin freezes—just slightly. His hand hovers over the chess piece, breath catching in a way he immediately tries to hide. “Twelve games,” he mutters, voice low. “And you lost every single one.” He pulls his hand back slowly—not harshly, just deliberately—and leans back slightly as if needing space.

“You don’t have to clean anything. I wasn’t serious about that.”

His eyes finally meet yours—not cold, not mocking. Just… tired. Focused on something deeper than a stupid game in the dark.

You lean forward and cup his face in your hands, fawning over his sudden out of character generosity. “Since when were you this lenient?”

Rin’s breath hitches—entire body tensing like he’s been struck. His eyes widen slightly, pupils dilating in the dim candlelight as your hands cup his face. He doesn’t pull away. He can’t. Not when you’re looking at him like that—soft, knowing, too close to everything he keeps buried.

“…Shut up,” he mutters—but there’s no force behind it. His voice cracks slightly, just enough to betray him. His skin warms beneath your palms. “You’re… annoying,” he grinds out weakly—jaw clenched like he’s fighting an internal war between pride and this, whatever this is becoming.

But even as he says it… his hands don’t move to push you away.

Instead?

One of them slowly rises—to rest lightly on top of yours where they cradle his face.

Just for a second. Then another second passes… Yet neither of you move a muscle.

You’re close. You’re in his space. In his apartment. His clothes. With candle light and shadows dancing across his face, and no electric lights or city noise to drown out the sound of his breathing. Rin’s hand feels warm on top of yours, fingers calloused and strong. His eyes are locked yours, and as the moment between you stretches—silent, tense, dangerous—his jaw clenches as he struggles to say something.

“I…” he mutters. Then stops.

Then tries again. “I…”

Damn it.

Then, your eyes dart down, and you suddenly jolt up in horror.

Rin’s eyes snap to you as you suddenly stand—heartrate picking up, muscles tensing like a cat about to pounce.

“What?” he mutters, voice low. “What’s wrong?” He follows you, standing too—body unconsciously stepping closer, like he has to close the distance you’ve just put between you. “You look like you saw a ghost or something,” he says under his breath, eyes darting as if searching for a threat you might have seen.

“My necklace, its not here,” you whisper.

Rin pauses, confusion crossing his face at that. “Your… necklace?” he echoes, raising an eyebrow. “What, did you misplace it or something?” He glances around the room—as if expecting the thing to be lying somewhere nearby.

Rin’s breath catches at the look on your face—real panic, not just worry.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Stay here,” he mutters, already moving toward the hallway. “If it fell off earlier, it’s still in the apartment.” But before he walks away, he turns back—just slightly—and adds in a voice so low it almost drowns into the storm:

“…I’ll find it.”

And for once, there’s no arrogance. No cold logic. Just a quiet promise.

Rin searches for hours.

He tears the apartment apart. Literally. Checks the closet, the bathroom, under beds, between couch cushions, underneath the kitchen table and counters. He turns the mattress upside down, rifles through drawers, even checks the goddamn air vent, just because it might have fallen in there. By the time he’s done, he’s covered in spiderwebs and dust, looking like he just went through a hurricane of his own.

But… no necklace.

Rin lets out a ragged breath as you tenderly dab the dust and sweat from his skin—part exhaustion from his frantic search, part something deeper. His eyes lock on yours, searching deeper than the surface. And there’s a strange vulnerability there you’ve never seen before—like a storm finally breaking. He opens his mouth—hesitates—closes it. “It’s not here,” he mutters finally, voice quiet and rough.

“It’s okay, maybe I lost it outside or something,” you say softly, flashing him a smile—though your disappointment is evident.

Rin frowns at that, shaking his head like the possibility of you losing something is somehow unacceptable. “Don’t be an idiot, it’s not ‘okay’,” he mutters, eyes narrowing. “It’s your necklace. It’s probably important, right?” He looks away, jaw working as he fights down his own frustration. “I… should have been paying more attention.”

You drop your head onto his shoulder. “Yeah, it was my favorite.”

Rin goes completely still. Your head rests on his shoulder—warm, trusting, heavy with loss—and he freezes like he’s been struck by something far worse than any storm or checkmate. For a long moment, there’s silence. The candle flickers. Rain hammers against the windows. His hands hang at his sides, stiff and uncertain.

Then—slowly—he lifts one arm.

Not all the way. Not around you. Just… enough. His hand rests lightly on your back—fingers tense at first, then gradually relaxing as if teaching himself how to do this. “I’ll get it back,” he mutters into your hair—voice low, rough with something that isn’t just pride this time. “If it’s out there… I’ll find it.”

“I’m going to go look for it,” you say, getting up and walking to the door. You quickly put your boots on and grab your coat, hand already reaching for the door knob.

“Like hell you are,” he snaps—voice sharp as a whip. “It’s pouring out there.”

“Then tomorrow it’ll be rusted and unsalvageable. If I manage to find it now there’s still a chance. Don’t worry, I won’t get your hoodie wet, promise.” You smile at him in quiet promise before heading out, forgetting to grab an umbrella.

Rin stares at the door as it clicks shut behind you—just stares, eyes wide, breath shallow. Then, with a low, furious exhale—like he can’t believe how reckless you are—he yanks open the closet and grabs an umbrella. He doesn’t even bother closing the door behind him as he storms out into the storm.

Rain pelts his face the second he steps outside. Wind howls. The streetlights flicker weakly in pools of broken light. And there you are—already halfway down the block in your coat—in his hoodie, sleeves too long, hair starting to stick to your face—with no umbrella, no plan, just blind determination.

He catches up fast. Long strides eat up the distance between them until he’s right beside you—wordless—and shoves the umbrella into your hand.

“Idiot,” he mutters through clenched teeth. “You think I’d let you do this alone?” He doesn’t look at you as thunder rumbles overhead. But when lightning flashes across his face—you see it. The worry in his eyes, the quiet fear that whatever matters to you, might be gone for good.

It’s almost like he’s come out to save you.

You don’t think before you’re pulling him into a tight hug, your arms wrapping around his torso and your face buried in his coat.

The umbrella tilts—water splashes his shoulder—but he doesn’t care. You’re hugging him. In the rain. On a broken street, soaked and shivering, holding him like he’s something real.

He doesn’t move at first—arms stiff at his sides, body tense as if you’ve bypassed every defense he’s ever built.

Then… slowly…

His hands rise—not to push you away. Not to pull back. One arm wraps around your waist. Tight. Almost desperate. The other presses against the back of your head, fingers curling slightly into your wet hair like they’re afraid to let go.

“Don’t…” he mutters into your shoulder—voice cracked, raw in a way you’ve never heard before. “…Don’t run off like that again.”

You stay like that—wrapped in each other, the storm still raging around you, water soaking through clothes and hair—as if holding on too long might make it real.

Eventually, Rin exhales—long and slow—his breath warm against your neck. His voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “…We’re both gonna get sick.”

Hours pass.

You scoured the streets—alley by alley, puddle by puddle—flashlight beams cutting through the rain-soaked dark. The city feels hollow after the storm, litter scattered like debris of some quiet war.

And still, no sign of it.

Eventually, you return to his house—drenched, shivering, mud-streaked on your knees. Rin says nothing as he shuts the door behind you. No blame. No anger.Just silence—and movement.

He strips off his soaked jacket first—then wordlessly grabs a towel and thrusts it at you with that same sharpness he uses when barking orders on the field. “…Dry yourself,” he mutters. “Now.” But this time? His voice wavers underneath—not quite soft… but not cold either.

When you don’t move fast enough for him—he mutters under his breath and steps forward to do it for you himself, rough hands dragging fabric over your hair too firmly—but not because he doesn’t care. Because he cares too much.

“Idiot,” he mumbles again—but there’s no heat in it now. Just exhaustion… and something quieter beneath that neither of us can name yet.

Suddenly, a glint catches your eye as Rin bends down to pick up a discarded shoe near the couch leg—a tiny silver chain wedged between floorboards.

“…What’s this?” He pulls it out slowly, the cold silver curling in his palm.

The necklace…it was here all along.

You look at him in utter bewilderment, refusing to believe after all that hard work and searching in the rain, your necklace was just wedged between floorboards no one would ever check.

Rin stares at you for a long moment, fingers still holding the delicate chain—as if you’re a puzzle he’s struggling to solve. Then, in the middle of it all, he suddenly blurts out his thoughts.

“I don’t like seeing you with your hair stuck to your face like that.” The words seem to slip out unplanned, like his thoughts got ahead of his mouth. His cheeks flush for a moment almost as if embarrassed—but he doesn’t take them back, doesn’t even pretend he didn’t say them at all.

“Oh—I—uh, does it look bad?” You question, hands coming up to brush the stray locks out of your hair.

Rin blinks—once, then twice—as if the very question physically offends him. “Idiot,” he snaps, voice sharper than before. “I didn’t say that.”

The apartment is quiet now—warm, dry air humming from the heater Rin turned on without a word. The necklace rests safely on the table, cleaned and laid out between them like proof this night wasn’t just some fever dream. You’re wrapped in one of his oversized training sweatshirts—sleeves too long, smell too familiar—and sitting cross-legged on the floor across from him. No chessboard this time. Just silence.

“Don’t do that again,” he says suddenly—voice low, rough at the edges. “Running off like that. In the rain.” He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, instead staring down at his hands—calloused palms open and closed slowly as if they still remember holding yours. “You think I care about some stupid hoodie getting wet?”

Another beat drags by before he finally turns his head toward you—not all the way—but enough for you to see it: that flicker behind his teal eyes. Guard down.

“…I care about you.”

And just like that, it’s said.

No smirk.

No prideful boast or cold dismissal after.

Just Rin Itoshi—soaked through with feeling he doesn’t know how to name, sitting across from someone who made him feel something foreign.

And realizing… maybe winning isn’t always about destroying your opponent after all.

He’s slowly beginning to learn.

[pieandfigstew]

Hopelessly Devoted to You <3

Yearning pathetically for you while you're miles away. Charcoal<3 continuation

Synopsis: After letting him back in, the two of you are snuggled up in front of a horror movie,--when you inform him about the business trip you're going on for a few days. After he crashed at Mydei's house for way more than a 'few days,' you've finally returned to him and his teasing remarks about getting on the ground for you. (I think I like writing about people getting on their knees.) 7.6k~ wc Xreader, sfw, fluff, yearning, mentions of minor injury, quiet devotion/worship, Hyacine and Cipher mentioned + Mydei being in a good chunk. Title inspired off the song I was listening to at the time: Hopelessly Devoted to You - From "Grease" Once again there will be inconsistencies/grammar mistakes since I'm inexperienced in the xreader department and still trying to find my writing style for this type of literature! It's also sorta rushed since I've been locking in for exams and assignments. Apologies beforehand I honestly didn't expect my other fic to get more than like 70 likes at all--especailly after I went back to look at it. Buttt since it did, here's a continuation! Enjoy!

Pt 1 🥹🥹🥹

After the charcoal incident, you and Phainon are currently snuggled up on the couch, limbs tangled together in comfortable closeness. Empty plates are scattered across the coffee table, leftover pancakes abandoned on the counter, long forgotten. A horror movie is playing on the TV, all flashing shadows and tension, but it’s obvious only one of you is actually paying attention.

Phainon is currently far too fixated on the warmth pressed beside him to fully focus in the movie.

One of Phainon’s strong arms is wrapped around you, his thumb unconsciously rubbing circles on your shoulder as you focus on the events on the screen, fully immersed in whatever scene was playing out. The back of your head rests on his chest—which is effectively serving as your shield for whenever the movie decides to hit you with a jump scare. It does it’s job well when bury your face into his shirt.

You both let out a shriek as another scare abruptly pops up on the screen, your face instantly finding solace in Phainon’s chest again—fingers tightly gripping his shirt. Only after a few seconds do you pull your face out—noticing that the TV has gone silent.

“I think… that’s enough for tonight,” Phainon murmurs, grabbing the remote and turning the TV off. “I’m done with nearly shitting my pants every second, we can finish it another time,” he says, eager for you to give him some of the attention the movie was hogging.

“Hey no turn it back on! I can’t wait till ‘another time’ to find out what’s next!” you whine, fighting him for the remote.

Phainon holds the remote out of your reach, dodging your swiping hand and dangling it just within reach to taunt you. “Yes you can, this movie is so cheeks. Can’t we do something else? Like, I don’t know…you up for dessert?” he says as his eyes dart to your lips.

“No! Who the hell stops a movie halfway? Turn it back on,” you demand, placing your hand on his abdomen and pushing yourself up to grab the remote.

Phainon yelps at the sudden pressure on his stomach, his hands flailing up and down in panic—when suddenly, one of his hands fly straight towards your face, accidentally hitting you smack dab on the cheek .

Phainon immediately stills when he hears the quiet ‘smack’ sound—only to start freaking out again when he registers what just happened, hands flying up to hover over your face helplessly. “Oh—Fuck—I—that was an accident, I swear. I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Do you want a band aid? Ice pack? First aid? Hospital? Ambulance!?” When you don’t respond instantly, Phainon’s worry only increases, pulling out his phone and already searching up the nearest hospital.

“No. Stop. I’m fine. I don’t need a hospital, or an ambulance. Your nail just scratched my cheek, nothing’s broken or whatever,” you say as you dab at the thin line of blood on your face—grimacing at the slight sting.

Of course, seeing that you’re currently bleeding—Phainon’s concern just increases, hands coming up to touch your cheek—which you swat away, not wanting him to get blood on his fingers. He immediately retracts his hands at your action and holds them up, palms open in surrendering. Okay! Okay! No touching, got it!”

“Can you just grab the antiseptic? It’s in the first aid kit under the bathroom cabinet,” you mutter.

“First aid kit! Right—I-I got it,” Phainon splutters before sprinting to the bathroom and returning within a few seconds, medical kit in hand. He sets it down on the floor and rummages through it, searching for the bottle of antiseptic. When he finds it, he pours some on a cotton pad and starts carefully dabbing at the small cut on your face, wiping away the blood softly as you flinch at the stinging sensation.

“I can do it myself y’know.”

Phainon shakes his head, reaching a hand up to tenderly hold your face in place as he resumes his actions. “No, I hit you. I should be doing this or people will begin think I beat you instead of the other way around,” he mutters with a hint of teasing intention.

You crack into a smile, which he returns instantly. “I do not beat you! Quit acting like I’m an abusive partner for flicking you on the forehead here and there.”

“Oh yes you are, you sadist. You bully my pancake attempts and then proceeded to make me beg on my knees after you kicked me out,” he retorts as he gets on the floor to rummage through the kit again.

“Okay well, can you really blame a girl for liking that stuff? Plus you were the one who did it out of free will! If I’m a sadist then you’re a masochist!”

Phainon lifts his head just enough to look up at you, eyes full of affectionate amusement as his lips twitch into a playful grin. “Oh, you did, did you?” One of his hands reach up to catch your chin gently, angling your head so he can put the band aid on. “You’re saying you like seeing me on my knees begging and pathetic?” He lifts a brow. “Good to know.” That earns him a beaming peck on the lips and you can’t help but wrap your arms around his neck—pulling him closer so that he’s on his knees in front of you, his head rests between your thighs.

He lets out a rough, almost choked-off laugh of disbelief at your actions, eyes locked with yours as he searches your gaze. “…Gosh, I love you, you sadist,” he murmurs after a moment, tone half exasperated and half adoring as one corner of his mouth curls up into a sharp, familiar grin. “Of all the people in the universe, you had to pick a masochist. You’re lucky I put up with you.”

You frown. “What’s wrong with that? I heard sadists and masochists compliment each other nicely,” you state as you cup his face in the palm of your hands.

Phainon laughs at that, the sound muffled against your palm as he nuzzles his cheek into it. He brushes his lips against your fingers in quiet worship before dropping his forehead against your thighs for a moment—head turning after a second to meet your gaze properly. “Oh, we do,” he admits, smile back in place as the last traces of raw vulnerability still linger beneath it.

“It’s quite hard to find masochists like you nowadays y’know? You’re going to be stuck with me forever,” you say jokingly.

Phainon actually blushes at the statement, cheeks coloring as the smirk softens into a brief look of almost bashful uncertainty in spite of everything. He tries to hide it by ducking his head against your thighs again—burying his face against them with a muttered complaint of, “Stop it,” muttered against your skin. “You make me sound like I get off on being on my knees or something.”

“Oh you nasty dog. You’re a weirdo,” you say before bursting out laughing.

Phainon tries to hold on to his attempted veneer of indignation for all of two seconds before he gives up and just lets himself smile against your thighs. He doesn’t make any move to stop your laughing either, clearly far too compliant to really mind being the butt of the joke for once. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters under his breath—cheek pressing firmly against you so you can’t see how stupidly fond his expression is right now. “Laugh it up.”

“You love me though” he grumbles half-heartedly a second later, words muffled. “And that makes you more of a weirdo, y’know.”

Phainon finally pulls back just enough to look at you properly—eyes warm in a way that doesn’t convey how soft his heart has gone as he watches you with poorly concealed adoration.

“You’re the one who chose me,” he points out smugly after a second—lips curling up into that stupid, self-satisfied little smirk of his again despite everything. “So if I’m weird? That’s on you.”

“Well you’re still the weirder one for liking it” you say back.

Phainon lets out a chuckle—honest and soft. His grin is crooked, bright, and just this side of reckless as he leans forward to bump his forehead gently against yours in playful reprimand. “Excuse you,” he teases—voice low and rough but unbearably fond all the same. “I think you’ll find that you liking me liking it makes you way weirder than I could ever hope to be.”

“You’re talking an awful lot for a person who was going on about how you’d ‘live on a leash and bark’ after I kicked you out of the house,” you remind him smugly. “What happened to all the ‘eating scraps and letting me shove you around’ stuff?”

Phainon’s smile twists into a sharp, familiar smirk at the reminder—he’s far too shameless to look even the slightest bit ashamed of any of it. If anything, it just makes his expression even more smug.

“What can I say? I was feeling desperate.” His voice is just as low and playful as ever. “I’d absolutely still bark for you.”

You flick him on the forehead. “Eww weirdo,” you mutter as you roll your eyes.

Phainon actually yelps when you flick him, jerking back with exaggerated indignation. His expression twists into an almost comically wounded pout—eyes wide and lips pressing together like he’s been grievously insulted.

“Eww?” He repeats in mock outrage—but there’s already a laugh threatening to break free in the way his shoulders shake slightly despite himself. “Excuse me, who was just sitting here enjoying watching me beg on my knees like an hour ago?” He lets out an indignant huff before leaning back in again—pressing his face against your thighs dramatically as he mutters: “Unbelievable.”

After a second, Phainon lets out a soft huff—so quiet the noise is almost just lost in the sound of his breathing against your skin. His arms find their back way to you, pulling you in flush against his chest and onto the ground with him as he lets himself go boneless for a second—leaning his full weight on you without any of his usual controlled grace or careful poise.

“…You’re insufferable,” he grumbles—the words muttered against your shoulder. “You’re a goddamn menace and if I had any sense left, I’d run screaming and never look back.” He sighs before turning his head to look up at your bandaged cheek, a frown morphing on his face at the sight. His hand comes up to softly brush at the bandaged wound, concern etched into his face as he asks: “Does it still hurt? I saw you grimace when I patched it up earlier.”

“Grimace shake.” You blurt out without thinking. “Uh, no. It doesn’t matter anymore, can we finish the movie now?”

Phainon groans into your neck. “Again? I’m going to grimace shake my booty on your face if you keep asking. Like I said before, I don’t want to continue watching that crap.”

“Let’s just finish it, I won’t be able to watch it when I’m on my business trip,” you grumble, reaching for the remote—successful this time.

Phainon goes rigid at that, head whipping up from your shoulder fast enough that it’s a shock he doesn’t just straight-up give himself whiplash in the process. His eyes are wide as he stares at you, shock and alarm and what looks like a hint of panic flaring over his features. “You’re…going on a trip?” His voice is still unnaturally soft, but the words come out more like a strangled whisper.

“Yeah, just for two days though, I’ll be back in no time,” you reassure him.

“Two days—when?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me until now!?” he asks devastated.

“I did,” you mutter. “I’ve been telling you for the past month, and its on every calendar. This is on you for forgetting or never paying attention.”

Phainon sighs, rubbing his hand down his face in quiet acceptance. “Fine, two days right? You’ll be back by then?” He breathes a breath of relief when you nod.

You never end up finishing the movie that night.

Phainon is slumped dramatically across the couch in Mydei’s living room, an arm thrown over his face as he rants to his friend. “She’s been gone for eleven hours,” he whines, his voice cracks on the last word as he lets out a miserable groan. “Eleven agonizing hours without her.”

Mydei just snorts at the pathetic display from across the room, folding his laundry as he slowly grows more annoyed. “You’re acting like she’s dead, dumbass. She’s just out on a business trip. You can’t honestly expect me to believe you’re this miserable because you miss your girl.”

“Let a man be miserable,” Phainon mumbles back.

Mydei rolls his eyes so hard that it’s a wonder they don’t roll right out of his head. “You’re being melodramatic again.”

Phainon lifts his head just enough to glare over at Mydei for that, still slumped on the couch with an expression that’s half sulking and half annoyed as he retorts: “You’re being an unsympathetic jackass as usual.”

Mydei lets out a scoff of exaggerated disbelief at the insult. “Oh, I’m sorry, should I be falling all over myself to sympathize with your overly-dramatic ass? I’m so sorry your girlfriend left for a few hours and you’ve suddenly decided to turn into a pathetic love struck puppy—”

Phainon actually squawks at him for that, sitting bolt upright so fast he knocks a few cushions onto the floor. “I am not a love struck puppy!” he half-screeches, voice just shy of cracking in his indignant outrage.

Mydei just raises a single, thoroughly unimpressed eyebrow at the reaction, still effortlessly folding a shirt. “You’ve been whining for the last eleven hours about how much you miss her.”

“You’re just being a hater because you’re a fat single loser. Can’t you—” Phainon starts before he’s interrupted by his ringtone, an incoming call displaying on the screen. He practically lunges to answer it, every trace of his previous protestations vanishing as he reads your name on the screen. His eyes fix unblinkingly on the small communication device as he whispers a hushed: “It’s her!” at his friend.

Mydei snorts again, still looking thoroughly disgusted at Phainon’s eagerness as he mutters, “great Kephale, you’re pathetic. There’s not a single word in the Kremnoan dictionary to describe how pitiful you are. I swear, if you start to cry—”

Phainon shoots a scathing look over at him—something close to panic flickering across his face at the idea that you’d somehow hear this conversation and find out he’d been moping the whole time you’d been away. “I won’t,” he half-snarls, already scrambling to tap the answer button on the communications device as he adds: “Be quiet for five damn minutes, would you.”

“Hello? Phai?” your voice softly echos through the room.

Phainon lets out a choked noise—a sound that’s somewhere between relief and raw giddiness as he practically presses his entire face against the cellular device like that’ll somehow bring you closer. “Hi,” he breathes, voice already cracking halfway through the word as if the tiny greeting has physically broken him. His fingers grip the communicator tighter, lips curving into a helplessly wide grin before he can even think about stopping himself. “Missed you. What’s up?”

Mydei is staring at him in pure disgust from across the room.

There’s shouting and the sound of cars honking in the background as you quickly reply: “I’m in a rush right now, but I thought I’d let you know that things came up and my trip is getting extended to a week.”

Phainon nearly drops the communicator.

His mouth opens slightly, closes again without a sound, and then—finally—he manages to croak out a broken: “…What?”

Mydei manages to hear the news and immediately bursts into laughter. But Phainon doesn’t even bother to glare this time. He’s still frozen in horror, staring blankly at the communicator as he lets Mydei’s smug laughter at his misery ring over his stunned shock. When he finally manages to speak, his voice is oddly quiet as he murmurs hoarsely: “You’re…joking, right?” He sounds oddly fragile now, like he’s half-convinced the words were all part of some cruel fantasy and any moment you’re going to tell him you’re coming home. “Please—gosh please just tell me it’s a joke. Hahaha you’re so funny—now come home.”

“It’s not,” you answer out of breath—rushing to get to your destination. “I’m sorry. I know it gets lonely and that the estate is practically unlivable right now since there’s people doing repairs. It’ll reek of chemicals so just crash at Mydei’s for the week. I’m sure he’ll let you.”

Phainon stutters in despair—nearly doubling over with the force of it like he’s been physically gut-punched.

“No!” His voice cracks again on the word, louder this time as his head shoots up to glare daggers at Mydei (who is still wheezing with laughter). “Not him! I refuse! He’s usually fine, but right now he’s the worst. Love, please, you can’t do this to me!.”

Mydei barely manages to stop laughing long enough to choke out a breathless: “This is great, I have a homeless friend now.”

Phainon make another strangled sound, all but collapsing back into the couch and burying his head back into his hands. It’s an almost pathetic display—a stark contrast from his previous confidence and cockiness as he whispers, so softly it’s almost a whimper: “You’re abandoning me to him for a whole week.”

“Hey, I never said you could stay for an entire week.” Mydei is still laughing, though there’s a hint of actual interest in his voice now as he raises an eyebrow.

“Okay I’m sorry. But I’ll be back before you know it. Anyways gotta run, I’m handing up now, love you!”

“Wait no—” Phainon manages to say before the call disconnects and hes left staring at his phone. He quickly texts a: ‘I love you too’ before putting the device away before slumping back into Mydei’s couch and slinging an arm over his face.

He continues to ignore Mydei’s protests and attempts to kick him out.

It’s been a few days ever since you gave Phainon the news, and he’s been able to progress through his daily life normally so far, but once more—he’s beginning to miss your presence.

After helping Hyacine find Little Ica and running a few errands for Mydei, he’s finally allowing himself to mope again as he sprawls across a pile of pillows on Mydei’s couch again. If it could be considered any more pathetic, he has one of your shirts clutched in his arms like some lovesick fool. Mydei, watching him with obvious annoyance, takes another bite out of what looks like a fresh bowl of fruits.

Phainon lets out a dramatic sigh that shakes his entire body, rolling onto his back to stare up at the ceiling with an expression of pure suffering. “She’s still not back,” he mumbles, flinging an arm over his eyes for extra theatrics. The stolen shirt is still clutched in his other hand, wrinkled beyond belief from how tightly he’s been clinging to it.

Mydei crunches loudly into another piece of fruit. “You realize you’re acting like a kicked puppy, right? It’s been five days, man up.”

A muffled whine escapes Phainon as he curls around your shirt like a particularly dramatic burrito. “Five days too many.” His voice cracks on the last word—whether from dehydration or sheer melodrama remains unclear. “But at least that means there’s only two days left,” he says with a more hopeful tone.

From somewhere in the room comes the distinct sound of Mydei snapping a picture with his communicator device. “This,” he announces amused, “is going straight to the group chat.”

Phainon doesn’t even protest, just lets out another pitiful whimper and nuzzles deeper into the fabric that smells like you. Mydei glances up from his communicator for just long enough to give him a flat look—all the while continuing to type away. “You’re a mess,” he remarks bluntly, not looking remotely contrite as he taps out a message and presses send. Phainon doesn’t even respond at this point—he just mopes harder, curling into a tighter ball around your shirt and mumbling something unintelligible.

“I didn’t know it was physically possible to be this much of a pathetic fool,” he continues. “To—oh,” Mydei pauses as your name flashes across his screen. “Speak of the devil, it’s her,” he mutters—finger (pls finger me Mydei) darting up to accept the call.

Phainon bolts upright at the mention of you—nearly kicking a stack of books off the coffee table in his haste to snatch the phone out of Mydei’s hand. He’s still clutching your stolen shirt in his other hand—a fact he hastily attempts to hide as he answers the call, trying to seem as unflustered as possible. “Hi,” he says weakly, before he adds, in a voice that’s somehow even more pathetic than his previous whining: “I miss you.”

“Hey, Phai. Do you mind if I speak with Mydei?” you ask with a hint of urgency.

Phainon looks devastated—like you’ve personally wounded him with the request as he lets out a strangled noise. “Y-Yeah…” he manages, voice cracking halfway through as he hands the communicator over to a very unrepentant Mydei. “She wants to talk to you,” he grumbles.

Mydei has to forcibly bite back an amused laugh as he takes the communicator with a barely-repressed smirk. Looking far too self-satisfied, he raises it to his face—while Phainon collapses back into the pile of pillows, clutching the shirt even tighter as he stares blankly at the ceiling again.

“Hey,” Mydei greets you with a smug lilt to his voice. “What, did you finally get sick of his melodramatic whining?”

You let out a chuckle at his comment before shifting to a more sheepish tone. “Hey so, I was wondering if he’s giving you a hard time? Cus if he’s not…I might have to trouble you with letting him stay with you a little longer.”

He raises a brow. “Did it…?”

“Yes,” you sigh as you confirm his statement. “It got extended again. Possibly to a few…months”

“He’s not gonna like that,” you hear Mydei mutter. “You do realize your boyfriend’s currently trying to suffocate himself with your shirt for emotional comfort, right?”

“I know—but you guys are having fun right? I mean I would if I was hanging out with you. You’re so—uh… kind…and good at cooking…and—”

“Just spit it out, what do you want?”

“Could you break the news to him?”

Mydei’s smirk vanishes instantly—his eyes widening slightly as he slowly turns his head to look at Phainon, who is still curled into a pathetic little ball on the bed, muttering what sounds suspiciously like ‘she’s coming back soon, she’s coming back soon’ under his breath like a prayer.

A pause. Then, with genuine horror creeping into his voice: “You want me to tell him he possibly has to stay with me for months? While he’s already like this?” He glances back at Phainon, who’s currently scrunching up your shirt and trying to inflate it like a balloon? He lets out a soft whimper when it doesn’t work and pulls your shirt over half his face in what can only be described as emotional surrender.

Mydei exhales sharply through his nose. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

“I’ll make it up to you I swear! I’ll buy your groceries, pay for your gym membership or spank Phainon for you, promise!” you beg helplessly.

He looks torn—caught between being genuinely horrified at the idea of being stuck with a pathetic, whiny, little bitch for months…and being secretly flattered that you want to ‘repay’ him. After a moment’s worth of internal battle he finally lets out a low groan. “Fine,” he hisses into the communicator, glaring over at Phainon for added effect as he adds: “I’ll keep your idiot boyfriend here for a little longer. But I’ll take you up on your offer. I want something back.”

“Yeah of course. What do you have in mind ?” you ask—curiosity tickling your brain.

Mydei hesitates for a moment—like he’s unsure about what to say, but it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. “If I have to deal with that for an extended period of time, I want a favor in exchange when you get back.” He scoffs as his eyes rake over the sight that is one utterly pathetic Phainon, curled into a ball on the bed with your shirt clutched tight and your name still on his lips.

“Which is?”

“Oh, don’t worry about the specifics—just a favor. Something that I can cash in on later when I want. The details can get figured out when you’re back and I get my favor. Sound fair?”

You let out a content hum. “Sure, but you’re still the one breaking the news to him.”

“You monster,” he hisses under his breath before adding, louder: “You’re seriously going to make me tell that,” he glances toward the weepy pile of hero on his bed—where the latter is now whispering what might be a broken record of your name and some other nonsense into the nearest pillow, “that he has to stay trapped with me, listening to this nonsense, for months?!”

“Fine,” he mutters, expression twisting with disgust as he turns back to the communicator and grits out another reluctant: “Deal.”

“Okay yay great!” you say gleefully, relief evident in your tone.

Mydei gives a final sigh—sounding resigned to his fate of being trapped with an overly-dramatic, love-drunk crybaby for titans-know-how-long—before he lowers the communicator. “Hey,” he calls bluntly over to the living room, voice cutting through Phainon’s muttered mantra like a knife. “I got news for ya.”

Mydei folds his arms, looking more than a little annoyed as he watches Phainon slowly lift his head from the pillows—eyes wide, hopeful, and utterly wrecked like he’s already bracing for tragedy. “She’s…extending her trip,” Mydei begins carefully—already regretting this as Phainon’s face starts to crumple in real time. “Possibly to a few uh…months.”

Mydei braces himself for the inevitable explosion—for the wailing, the screaming, the pleading—and is genuinely shocked when it…doesn’t come? In fact, for a moment the only response Phainon gives is a soft, almost broken-sounding: “…Months?” His fingers tighten around the fabric of your shirt like a lifeline as he slowly pushes himself into a sitting position on the edge of the couch.

Phainon’s voice is quiet—so soft that it almost gets lost in the silence of the room. His shoulders hunch forward, fingers still tangled in your shirt as he stares blankly at his knees. “…A few months,” he repeats, voice cracking on the last word like it’s something fragile and sharp both at once. And then—without a sound—he just…curls in on himself. Pulls your shirt over his head like a shield and sinks back into the pillows, disappearing beneath its fabric like a wounded animal retreating into its den.

Mydei watches him for a beat…then sighs so deeply it sounds like he’s mourning something too. “Look, I’m not very paradisaical about this either., but its only a possibility that it ends up being months.”

Phainon’s breath hitches—like he’s latching onto that possibility with everything he has. “Possibly,” he repeats, voice barely above a whisper—hoarse and fragile—but there’s the tiniest flicker of hope creeping in now, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He swallows hard, eyes still closed but his lips parting slightly like he wants to say something huge but is afraid to jinx it.

Then…a shaky breath. A tiny nod into the silence. “Okay,” he murmurs—so soft it’s almost not there—“Then I’ll just…wait…right here.”

Several days pass—and Phainon has now settled into a sort of melancholy, resigned-to-his-fate routine. He spends most of his time training, running errands for the other Heirs, or wrapped in one of your shirts like an overgrown blanket. Mydei eventually runs out of sarcastic comments for the sheer intensity of his patheticness and has already exhausted his lists of insults.

The group chat has been abuzz with gossip—mostly Mydei complaining at the injustice of being forced to babysit Phainon for so long, and the others offering their condolences, teasing remarks and (mainly Cipher) adding suggestions for his lists of insults.

It isn’t long before Phainon starts to grow restless. He spends a day simply pacing around the room—unable to do much apart from brooding as he stares at the communicator and tries to will you back into existence through sheer willpower alone.

The days blur together into a grayish-hued monotony, and soon a month has gone by. The only thing that seems to make Phainon show any semblance of comfort are the shirts you’d left behind—and even then all he does is wrap himself in them and bury his face in the fabric. It seems like he’s trying to cling to the last lingering warmth of you from your scent.

When finally, on one fateful day, Mydei’s doorbell rings.

The sudden sound of the doorbell breaks Phainon out of the stupor he’s fallen into—he’d been sitting on the couch in the living room, wrapped in one of your shirts like always and clutching one of your stolen plushies. His head jerks up at the sound, eyes darting over in surprise. Seeing that Phainon wasn’t going to get it, Mydei curses under his breath and heads for the door.

Phainon pushes himself unsteadily to his feet, abandoning the half-empty plate on the table before he follows Mydei into the entryway. He pauses halfway down the hall as he stares around the corner at the front door—just in time to catch Mydei yanking it open to reveal the unexpected visitor.

You.

For a moment, Phainon thinks he’s imagining it. That his brain has finally snapped and his desperate yearning for you has started to manifest in hallucinations. But no, it’s really you.

Then—he moves. No thought, no hesitation—just pure instinct and overwhelming need as he sprints across the floor. He doesn’t even stop at you. Doesn’t care who’s watching or what comes next.

He completely ignores Mydei—shoving him out of the way and stumbling forward to crash into you with a desperate whine. His arms wrap around your waist so tightly that you’re lifted clean off your feet in one fluid motion. He buries his face into your neck, trembling all over with something between relief and disbelief.

“You’re real,” he chokes out—voice thick and unsteady like he’s actually on the verge of crying again (and judging by how tightly his fingers are digging into your clothes, that might not be far off). “You’re back.” Mydei makes an exaggerated gagging noise from where he’s sitting.

Phainon completely ignores him in favor of clutching you closer, inhaling a deep, shuddering breath before mumbling hoarsely: “I missed you.”

‘Missed you’ doesn’t cover it. There simply isn’t a word in any language that could even begin to describe how much he’s missed you. How much he’s longed for you like a starving man craves food, like a drowning man craves air. Phainon just clings to you, fingers clenching into the fabric of your shirt like he’d rather die than let you go again—mumbling something into the skin of your neck.

You try nudging him off when you need a second to breathe, but he doesn’t move. Desperate for air, you look over at Mydei for help.

Mydei gives you a look before letting out an exaggerated sigh from across the room, interrupting the moment with the most obnoxious noise he can manage. “Alright, enough of the melodrama. You’re acting like it’s been a century, you big cry—damn, I should’ve been charging by the minute for how disgustingly sappy you are—”

“Oh shut up,” Phainon snaps back without looking up—still clinging to you with white-knuckled hands and his face burrowed stubbornly in your neck.

“Alright, shall we head home now?” you ask, fingers carding through his hair. “It should be fine now, the repairs were done a few days ago.”

Phainon’s response is instantaneous, so fast it’s like it comes from the most desperate, instinctual part of his body. He tightens his arms even further, like the thought of letting you go even a single inch is unbearable. “Yes,” he gasps into your neck. Like he’s pleading. “Yes, please—please take me home, I’ve missed you so much. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

“I thought you guys enjoyed your bonding time?” You flash both him and Mydei a questioning look.

Phainon actually lets out a strangled noise at that—something between a scoff and an agonized laugh as he raises his head just far enough to look at you with a face that speaks of absolute misery. “Enjoyed—enjoyed? You think I enjoyed that? I was a miserable wreck the entire time. It’s Mydei. I was stuck with that absolute bully and barely a scrap of your scent left from your clothes.” His arms tighten around you again—practically lifting you off your feet once more.

He jerks a finger over his shoulder at Mydei, who’s currently wearing an expression that suggests he might puke any second. “He wouldn’t even let me talk about you properly without making fun of me.” That makes you let out a laugh.

Phainon just pouts, burying his face back into your neck and grumbling into your skin like a petulant child. “Don’t laugh. I was miserable. I’m serious.” He lifts his head again, fixing you with a wounded expression. “You were gone for months. It’s been horrible. I’m traumatized. I need attention and affection to recover.”

“That’s a surprise. I thought the two of you were having fun. I was honestly expecting by the time I got back you guys would’ve already has hot gay sex or something,” you say bluntly.

That causes Mydei to immediately chokes on his drink and Phainon goes silent, mouth agape in shock.

“What…?” Phainon mutters defeated, already used to your antics and making no effort to put up a fight. He buries his face into the crook of your neck. “Are you—”

“What the hell is wrong with you!?” You suddenly hear Mydei yell, flustered and surprised—before hurling a pillow at you. “You genuinely have a few screws loose. You think I—that—”

Phainon easily catches the pillow without lifting his head away from your shoulder—intercepting it just before it hits your face and muttering: “Can we just go home now.” You let out a chuckle and nod.

“Oh thank the titans…” Phainon mutters, already straightening up and reluctantly unwrapping his arms from your waist. He gives one last venomous glare at Mydei like it’s his fault you’d had to go and abandon him in the first place, then turns and heads off in the direction of the bedroom to grab his things.

Of course, Mydei can’t help himself from giving a parting shot. “He’s been completely insufferable this entire time,” he says in a loud whisper, loud enough for Phainon to hear across the room. “It’s like being locked in with an overgrown puppy, every day—I thought I’d go mad from the constant whining and moping and pathetic, lovesick pining and—”

“Yeah, Yeah I know. I owe you one,” you say before tossing him the pillow he had thrown at you.

Mydei huffs at that—leaning casually against the door frame and folding his arms. “Don’t forget it,” he says tiredly. “I was stuck with an emotionally over-invested, clingy idiot who kept looking at your damn shirt like it was his new obsession. I demand compensation for that kind of suffering.”

Phainon squawks indignantly from the other room, and you don’t have to see him to know he’s probably making that wounded puppy face again. “I am not emotionally over-invested! I am a mature and well-adjusted adult!” comes his voice—clearly trying for indignation and completely missing.

Phainon has practically glued himself to your side from the moment you step through your front door. If you try to move more than a foot away from him he starts whining and reaching out to grab at your hand again, muttering something about “being within proximity” as he clings to you. It’s a complete reversal from the days spent moping in Mydei’s living room, like he’s terrified to let you go again.

You’re currently sat up on a counter in your kitchen, peeled potatoes sitting in a bowl and two servings of uncooked steak in your fridge as you run your fingers through a certain someone’s locks.

Phainon makes a soft, broken noise at that—the kind of sound only you ever get to hear. Like the universe just aligned perfectly and he’s too overwhelmed to do anything but feel. His hands instantly find your waist, gripping tight as he leans into you, pressing his forehead against yours with his eyes closed.

“You’re being bad, I’m trying to cook us dinner here,” you scold

“Don’t care.”

Phainon doesn’t bother moving from where he’s pressed against you, not even looking in the direction of what you’re trying to cook as he stubbornly clings to you. “I missed you,” he mutters, leaning in to nuzzle your neck. “You can cook later. I need attention now.”

“After,” you mutter as you slip off the counter and go back to peeling potatoes.

“Come onnnnn,” he whines, wrapping his arms around you and shamelessly trying to pull you away from whatever you’re cooking. “I’m starved, you don’t need to make dinner right now. I’ve been stuck with that Mydei for the past few months and it was hell. I’m starved. Can’t you just, I don’t know, feed me with your affection or something—”

“I know you’re starving, that’s why I’m cooking dummy,” you say sighing.

Phainon pouts, stubbornly refusing to let go as he rests his chin on your shoulder with a dramatic sigh. “But I’m starved for you,” he mumbles into your neck—completely shameless in how much of a clingy mess he’s being. “And you’re over here cooking like I don’t need constant physical reassurance after months of emotional torment.”

You put down the peeler and move to wash your hands. “Fine, one kiss and then I need to start on the steak.”

“One kiss?” Phainon immediately perks up at the word—a spark flaring through his expression as he abruptly turns you around so you’re facing him. “One kiss,” he repeats, hands pulling you in closer until you’re completely squished between his chest and the counter. “I was thinking at least a dozen.”

“One.”

“Come on, at least two. Please?”

“Alright.”

The sound he makes at that is almost grateful—like he’d been expecting you to say no, and instead you’ve just handed him his entire damn heart on a silver platter. The moment you agree, he’s grabbing the back of your head and pulling you into an absolutely desperate kiss. Like a man dying of thirst being given a cup of water, or like he’d simply been starved for this the whole time you were away. He pulls you in tight, pressing you back against the counter, and kisses you like you’re a lifeline.

He doesn’t stop after one—obviously not. The first is barely over before he crashes into a second, like he’s making up for every single second you were gone. And then the third… fourth… until he finally pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips: “I missed you so much, you have no idea.”

“Yeah I don’t, but I do know I’m hungry. Let me finish dinner first.

Phainon lets out a soft, reluctant whine—still holding you close and resting his forehead against yours like he can’t bear the thought of stepping even an inch away. “…Fine,” he mumbles, voice thick with reluctant defeat as he finally releases you—though not before sneaking in one last quick kiss. “But I’m sitting right here while you cook.” True to his word, the moment you turn back to the potatoes, he pulls up a chair and parks himself directly beside the counter, eyes locked on you like if he blinks, you might disappear again.

“So,” you attempt to make conversation. “Find any new women while I was gone? Mydei said you were quite lonely.”

Phainon literally rears back at that—eyes widening and jaw all but falling slack as he gapes at you in complete and utter horror. Then, almost spluttering in indignation: “I—I—what? Are you crazy? No! Of course I didn’t find any women while you were away.” He pauses, then adds in a resentful grumble: “Mydei and his big mouth…” And then, in case that all hadn’t been quite clear enough, he continues: “I didn’t so much as look at another woman while you were gone. The thought of finding some woman and replacing you didn’t even cross my mind. Seriously—do you really think I could just…just forget you and find someone else?”

You smile and reach over to ruffle his hair in contentment. “That’s sweet.”

He actually huffs at that—some of the tension finally slipping away to be replaced by a familiar affection. “It’s true,” he mutters as gets up and props his chin on your shoulder, wrapping his arms around you as he watches you cook. “I’m not interested in anyone else, never have been and never will be.” He lets out a sigh and nuzzles your neck. “I’m completely, irredeemably obsessed with you,” he teases with an amused grin.

“Oh, are you now?” you push.

“Completely,” Phainon mumbles, lips brushing against your neck as he breathes in deep. “I’m a lost cause. Addicted to you. Absolutely weak for you. Completely gone.” He actually nuzzles in closer, practically melting as he presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck. “You could have me on my knees in two seconds flat.”

“Eh? Really? Two seconds?” you ask a bit surprised.

Phainon huffs a soft, amused breath into your skin, a hint of his usual cockiness slipping back into his voice. “Don’t tempt me. You know I can be on my knees in half that. If you told me to get on the ground right now, I’d be down there without a single moment’s hesitation.”

And because you can’t help it, you take him up on the offer. “Alright, get on the ground then,” you partially joke.

“For you?” Phainon doesn’t even hesitate.

In one smooth motion, he drops to his knees right there on the kitchen floor, looking up at you with those big bright blue eyes—half-lidded and full of quiet devotion. His hands come to rest gently on your hips as he leans into you, pressing a soft kiss just above your knee. “Always,” he murmurs, voice warm and hushed like a prayer. “You don’t even have to ask.”

You nearly drop the bowl you’re holding, having been almost certain he wasn’t going to actually do it. “I was kidding!” you manage out.

Phainon doesn’t move. Not an inch.

He just stays there on his knees, still looking up at you with that soft, unshakable devotion in his eyes—like he’d happily stay like that for hours if you let him. “I wasn’t,” he says simply, voice quiet and warm as a summer breeze.

Then, finally—after a long moment of letting the silence linger—he tilts his head slightly and gives you a small, teasing smile.

“…But I’m not stupid, I know when you’re joking. Doesn’t mean I can’t take advantage.” With that, he leans in and presses another kiss—this time to your thigh—and slowly pushes himself back to his feet…never quite letting go of your hips. “You did tell me to get on the ground,” he adds playfully. “Technically, I was just following orders.”

You flick him on the forehead. “Okay I got it. You’re super loyal, devoted, sweet and what not, now let me finish making dinner.”

“Fine, fine,” Phainon sighs dramatically—though the smile still lingers on his lips as he finally lets you go and flops back into his chair. But true to his form, he doesn’t stay still for long. Within seconds, one hand creeps across the counter to lazily intertwine with yours while you chop potatoes, and he rests his chin on the edge of the counter like a man who’s just reconnected with everything he ever loved after years of suffering.

“I’m just going to watch you…and love you silently…from this perfectly legal distance,” he murmurs sweetly—eyes sparkling with mischief despite the angelic expression. “…Unless I’m not allowed to do that too?”

You can’t help but let out a soft smile at his words.

Phainon doesn’t argue, doesn’t push—he just smiles up at you with that soft, dazed look in his eyes like he can’t believe he’s allowed to be this happy.

“I love you,” he says suddenly—quiet and raw, like it slipped out before he could stop it. Then, after a beat: “More than vases. More than teasing Mydei. More than my own survival.” He closes his eyes and sighs, completely content. “You’re the only one who’s made me feel like this. You’re my first, my last—you’re going to be my everything.”

Poo

[pieandfigstew]

Hey guys since my phainon Charcoal fic did way better than I expected a continuation will be coming soon 🥹🥹🥹

[pieandfigstew]

Charcoal <3

You wake up from a nightmare to your partner cooking up...a piece of charcoal? Continuation/Pt.2

Sypnosis: He consoles you after a nightmare. The two of you make pancakes together which leads to playful teasing and gets him kicked out (anddd begging at your doorstep(we cheered)) 4.4k~ wc Xreader, fluff, pancakes, teasing, slight begging, Mydei & Anaxa mentioned This is my first ever fic + I only did a once over so there will be mistakes and inconsistencies ! Apologies beforehand 😞 I'm also very uncertain if it's a good fluff fic since I mainly write angst buttttt there is a short extra/bonus I have in my drafts if people actually like this 🫶 Enjoy!

Fire. Everything is on fire.

The room around you is ablaze, clothes, curtains—anything and everything flammable is enveloped by fire. Every breath you take in is no longer oxygen—but smoke. You wheeze as the disgusting gas fills your lungs and begins to slowly suffocate you.

Must…get out… you think to yourself before noticing the flames have now begun to spread onto your blanket. With your mind fuzzy due to the lack of oxygen, you quickly yank the blanket off you and rush towards the door.

Your hand desperately reaches for the door knob—but immediately recoils once your fingers grasp the burning steel. Dizzy and determined to escape, you bang your frame against the door, slamming as much of your body weight against the wood as possible—though your efforts are in vain. The door doesn’t budge.

You erupt into uncontrollable coughing, desperately trying to expectorate toxic gas out of your lungs as you reach for the door knob again—only to burn your finger pads once more.

You cringe at your survival instincts of a four year old, sliding down the wall and collapsing onto the ground. Light headed and halfway to dreamland, you feel around the ground for anything that would help you open the door or break it down.

Your appendage continues its in-efficacious search for a moment before it touches something—something warm.

You flinch away the moment you register the warmth, fear and confusion overtaking the desire to pass out on the ground.

Cautiously, you lean closer to look at the suspicious object, only to be met with the realization the supposed “object” resembled a familiar body.

Phainon’s unconscious body was lying on the floor, his pulse silent and body disintegrating.

Suddenly—before you could let out a strangled cry, you jolt awake, confused and disoriented, light wrapping its bright embrace around your retina.

You’re back in your shared bedroom, breaths coming out in short pants and the pounding of your accelerated echoing in your ears.

Your hand flies to the spot next to you, only to be met with the cold mattress that had been abandoned by it’s inhabitant a while ago.

Still dazed and panicked, you rush out of bed and speed down the hall, rounding the corner and breathing a sigh of relief the moment you spot Phainon in the kitchen.

“This might be edible,” he’s muttering to himself, sounding entirely unconvinced by his own words.

“Morning,” you mumble as you stand on the tips of your toes, arms rising to snake around his neck from behind, careful not to strangle him.

Phainon tenses slightly at the sudden contact before immediately melting back against you, his free hand coming up to cover yours where they’re looped around his neck, he exhales in quiet contentment.

“Mmm,” he hums, tilting his head back to brush a lazy kiss against your temple. “Morning.”

Then—with all the gravitas of someone announcing the end of an era—he sighs and gestures vaguely toward the pan with his spatula. “…I think I just made charcoal.”

You rest your chin on his shoulder and peering over at the black blob that was supposed to be breakfast.

You poke the lump of coal curiously. “What is it supposed to be…?”

He turns around so hes facing you properly. “It’s supposed to be—” he halts mid sentence and stares at you with wide eyes. “W-What’s wrong? Why are you crying? I know it smells and looks bad but it—I-“ he stammers.

You blink at him dumbfounded before you realize your face was stained with tears. You had forgotten about the nightmare, but it seemed that your body had yet to let it go.

“Hey—hey,” he murmurs, reaching up to brush away your tears with a gentleness that contrast with the alarm and concern in his voice. “What’s wrong? What happened?” His hands hover over your face, desperate to help.

He notices the hesitation on your face and forces himself to relax—for both his sake and yours. “Tell me? Please?” he begs as he tilts his head and flashes you a small, pleading smile.

You shake your head and rest you forehead on his chest before muttering, “nightmare,” against his shirt.

“Oh,” he mutters, burying his face into your hair to hide the forming smile on his face as his arms wrap around you protectively. His relief is palpable. “Just a nightmare?”

“What do you mean ‘just a nightmare’? Hey! Quit laughing!” He stifles a laugh which earns him a light punch on his arm in retaliation.

Phainon lets out a half-choked noise between a yelp and laugh before grinning down at you and rubbing his arm in exaggerated pain.

“Rude,” he mutters, “I was worried!” Though his amusement softens into something warmer as he pulls you back against him—fingers tangling in your hair again as he murmurs, “but fine, no more laughing. Confide in me and tell me what’s wrong?”

“No way in hell. Not after you laughed at my misery,” you grumble back.

Phainon groans—dropping his forehead against your shoulder in exasperated defeat as he wraps his arms tighter around you.

“Okay, okay,” he mutters, voice muffled against your shirt. “I’m a terrible person. Cruel, heartless, laughed at your suffering—unforgivable crimes, really, just say you hate me and want me to die.”

He lifts his head just enough to press a lingering kiss to your temple—quietly sincere now. “I’m sorry…even if it was kind of funny,” he adds.

You nudge him off in mock annoyance. “You can’t be laughing at me when you’re cooking ash and dust, Mr. Charcoal-for-breakfast.”

Phainon lets out an indignant noise at the reminder that he was currently in the process of ruining breakfast, pulling back with exaggerated sulking, a wounded expression plastered on his face. “Uhm actually, I was attempting to make pancakes, thank you very much. I want—wanted us to have a nice breakfast.”

“And I want my day to be free of sitting on the toilet for an hour and shitting out bricks of charcoal,” you mutter back.

He rolls his eyes. “That’s gross—” he manages to say before crackling sounds come from the pan, the block of coal and ash suddenly making suspicious sounds. “Okay…guess its not edible anymore,” he confirms his previous statement.

You glance over at the stove for a second and notice in your moment of weakness and harmless teasing, Phainon had forgot to turn the stove off.

You yelp and quickly yell at him to turn the stove off. Your sudden scolding startles him and he jumps—visibly spooked, before scrambling to turn the stove off with panicked urgency.

His fingers swiftly move to turn the knob off while muttering something that sounds suspiciously like ‘this is why I never cook’ before turning back to you with a sheepish grin.

“Off! Its off!” he yippity yaps back when you scold him. “See? I can be responsible.” (He cannot.)

You sigh and drag your hand down your face. “Who do you think you’re lying to?”

Phainon’s sheepish expression only grows more pronounced when you call out his obvious bullshit, pink dusting his ears at being so thoroughly called out.

His shoulders slump in defeat. “Myself…” whispers sheepishly, sounding like a kicked puppy. “Mostly myself.”

He tries to hold his ground, but the guilty smile he’s fighting off ruins any chance of a dignified response, so he just ends up looking adorably embarrassed instead as his shoulders hunch up defensively.

Then, hunger dawns upon you, which shifts your focus back on the pan of ash on the stove. “I’m hungry, is anything in that pan still edible?” you inquire.

Phainon follows your gaze and instantly winces once it lands on his failed attempt at chocolate chip pancakes—or was it blueberry?

He stares at the absolutely disgusting looking… thing… in the pan for a moment, and the snark dies before it can even leave his mouth.

He just stares blankly at it for a few seconds, looking both thoroughly offended and also vaguely nauseous as if he wasn’t the creator.

“That… is charcoal,” he mutters as he taps the block with the spatula and begins fat shaming the abomination: “A very fat, large lump of pure charcoal.”

Your ignore his words and inquisitively pick up a piece, considering putting it in your mouth so his effort wouldn’t go down the drain.

Sensing what you were about to do, Phainon lunges—snatching your wrist before you can actually put the charred monstrosity anywhere near your mouth, eyes wide with horrified alarm.

He looks at you with wide eyes, his dramatic bum acting like you were about to swallow a sword like a circus performer.

“No—absolutely not,” he hisses, voice pitching higher with sheer panic as he pries the offending piece of charcoal out of your fingers and flings it back onto the pan with disgust. “I’m not letting you poison yourself over my terrible cooking!”

He looks genuinely distressed—like the very idea of you willingly eating something he made is personally offending him. “What is wrong with you?”

You blink at him. “Didn’t want your effort going to waste…and curiosity—mainly curiosity.”

Phainon’s expression goes from horrified outrage to completely exasperated—eye twitching in a mixture of irritation and fondness over the fact that, even in this situation, you can’t help but be the sweetest, most unthinkingly kind person in all the world.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, dropping your wrist but not letting go completely. “And also an absolute moron for even considering eating something so damn inedible.”

“Quit being over dramatic. I wasn’t going to eat a lot, just a bit, a small piece. I know how too much can cause cancer or whatever.”

Phainon groans—shaking his head in exasperated defeat as he lets his grip on your wrist loosen and drop back to your side.

“You idiot,” he mutters, reaching out to poke your forehead with an air of fond irritation. “You can’t eat any amount of charcoal, let alone a ‘bit’.”

Phainon sighs, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that’s both frustrated and affectionate as his expression softens against his will. It really is endearing the way you’re so willing to do so many idiotic things out of pure kindness, but he can’t help but find it completely exasperating sometimes.

“I’d honestly rather you never eat anything I make if the alternative is you poisoning yourself over me feeling bad about subpar cooking,” he tells you. “Don’t be a self-sacrificing idiot.”

‘He’s one to talk,’ you think.

You let out a sarcastic sigh. “I really did want nice, hot, warm, fluffy, tasty, golden, delicious, sweet—”

“Okay! Okay! I get it!” Phainon interrupts your sarcastic, overly descriptive mantra about pancakes you spouted to guilt trip him. “I messed up an average batch of pancakes, sue me. I’ll even go ask Professor Anaxa to shoot me with his pistol.”

You frown and flick him playfully on the forehead, flashing him a big grin before it softens to a more genuine one. “So…what’s for breakfast now?”

Phainon blinks at that—looking like he actually hadn’t even thought about what comes next now that the ‘pancake’ attempt has failed.

He stares at the charcoal monstrosity in the pan with a look of mingled horror and helplessness, his gaze shifting back and forth between it and you with the air of a man hopelessly out of his depth.

“…Toast?” he offers, sounding like he’s questioning even as the word leaves his mouth. “I’m pretty sure I can manage toast—quit looking at me like that, I can manage toast.”

You raise a brow at his suggestion. “Plain?”

Phainon’s face lights up with relief as you actually accept the idea of breakfast food that isn’t actively poisonous.

The panicked ‘what if I just give her a banana or something’ thought that had begun to creep into his head dissolves back into the background, leaving him to shoot you a crooked grin as he reaches for the toaster.

“Plain,” he confirms. “I am perfectly capable of operating a toaster, at least. And a butter spreader.”

Frowning, you place a hand on his arm, interrupting its journey to the toaster. “Plain toast doesn’t really sound nice right now,” you admit.

Phainon looks like he’s trying not to pout as his entire breakfast plans come crumbling down, his shoulders slumping with reluctant, dramatic defeat.

He looks utterly pathetic as he turns to you with those damn puppy-dog eyes, a half-hearted attempt at being stubborn.

“Fine. What, exactly, do you want for breakfast, then, your highness?” he says with a hint of sarcasm.

An idea flashes into your head and you begin opening cabinets. “Did you use up all the pancake batter?”

Phainon lets out an irritated noise at the reminder of his failed attempt at pancakes, his lips pulling into a pout as he looks at the discarded pan like its very existence is mocking him. “Yeah,” he mutters with the air of a completely defeated man.

“All of it,” he continues. “I managed to burn batter, somehow. You’re looking at the person who can’t even make pre-made, pre-mixed pancake mix without turning it into charcoal. So… No pancakes.”

Guilt gnaws at you as you pause your search and look up at his defeated expression. “That’s…fine. We’ll just make some from scratch,” you say softly, your hand reaching up to ruffle his hair.

He perks up slightly, his pout fading away and eyes lighting up. He leaned into your touch, not minding that you were further messing up his already tangled locks.

“That would be nice,” he says dazed and eyes hair lidded. It was as if you had put him under a spell that rid him of all conflicting emotions. “Though I might not be a great help, I’m not a good chef.”

“I can tell,” you say as you rummage through the fridge, looking for ingredients. “But you don’t have to be a good chef to make pancakes.”

"You’re not helping,” Phainon mutters, shooting you a half-glare from behind his hair. He’s definitely trying for annoyed, but the effect is rather ruined by the fact that he’s still looking at you as if you are his everything. “I tried. Isn’t it the thought that counts?”

“Not when my stomach is empty. Even if you put all your thought and effort into making charcoal, I’m not risking diarrhea or food poisoning.”

“Don’t take diarrhea for granted,” he fires back, though there’s no disguising the smile forming at his face—he can’t deny the fact that he loves bickering with you. “A nice shit is every constipated man’s dream.”

“You disgust me. Be helpful and grab the flour and eggs,” you command. “You can do that, right?”

Phainon lets out a dramatic sigh as he reluctantly heads toward the cabinets with an air of wounded dignity.

“Of course I can get ingredients without making them into burnt charcoal,” he retorts, even as he obediently starts pulling out the necessary materials. “I may have no cooking skills, but I do have basic motor skills, I’ll have you know.”

After twenty minutes of mixing, pouring, and digging out the eggshells Phainon somehow managed to get into the batter, you both proudly hover over the bowl of delicious-smelling-not-charcoal-looking pancake mixture.

Phainon hovers at your side like an eager but slightly nervous assistant—handing you ingredients with the seriousness of a soldier delivering supplies to the front lines.

His earlier sulking melts away in favor of quiet fascination as he watches you give the batter a final stir, his nose wrinkling slightly at the way it splatters.

“It’s messy,” he mutters, but there’s no real complaint in his tone—just quiet amusement as he nudges a stray bit of flour away from the bowl with his fingertip. “You make it look easy.”

You quickly wash your hands before dipping your finger in the bowl, scooping up a bit of batter and holding it up to Phainon’s mouth. “Is it too sweet?’

Phainon lets out a low snort as you hold the batter-covered finger out towards him, skeptical and cautious after his previous attempt at pancakes.

But he’s also hopelessly weak to you, so it doesn’t take long for him to give in, opening his mouth in a silent request for the offered batter.

He keeps his gaze locked with yours—almost daring you to do something as he slowly takes your finger into his mouth, tongue gently licking the batter away.

His moist tongue caresses your finger for longer than necessary—but not long enough for you to scold him.

He pulls back with a slow, deliberate lick across his lips—eyes still locked onto yours with a look that’s equal parts smug and playful.

“Sweet,” he murmurs, still holding the contact and it’s impossible to tell if he’s talking about the batter or you.

Then—before you can react, he’s dipping his own finger into the bowl and holding it out with a grin, basically beaming at you. “Your turn.”

“Ew no, that’s hella unhygienic,” you hypocritically state, despite having done the exact same thing a few moment ago.

He grins at your immediate protest, all smug satisfaction and quiet mischief as he steps closer, waving his finger almost tauntingly.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters, still waving the finger covered in batter at you. “You can’t just offer me a taste and then refuse to reciprocate, hypocrite. That’s just rude.”

“I’ll take some with my own finger, thanks.”

Phainon’s grin fades into mock offense, obviously disappointed in the fact that you’re refusing to just take the bait and let him feed you. “Booooo,” he says, trying to hides his love struck smile. “Where’s the fun in that? Come on. Just do it. Let me feed you.”

He continues waving the batter-covered finger in front of your face, looking more than a little bit ridiculous as he does. He’s already planning at least six different ways to get revenge for your refusal, you can just see it in his eyes.

You just stare up at him, refusing to give in. “I said no—”

Phainon dramatically doubles over on the floor as if you physically struck him. “I’m beginning to think you actually hate me,” he whines.

You wince in guilt and decide to give into his trap. You really are giving off ‘I hate my boyfriend vibes,’ you begin to think.

“Fine, I do want to try, and I don't hate you, okay?” you begrudgingly state as you tug him back on his feet.

Phainon’s smile returns in a heartbeat when you gradually submit, but this time his expression is more mischievous than smug—clearly satisfied to have gotten his way despite the stubborn fight you put up to begin with.

“Good,” he murmurs, still holding his finger out invitingly. “Open up.”

Phainon’s finger hovers expectantly, his expression caught somewhere between victorious amusement and barely-restrained mischief.

And then, just as you move to take the bait—he jerks his hand back at the last second with a quiet, delighted laugh. “Gotcha,” he teases, grinning unrepentant, before popping the batter-covered finger into his own mouth instead. “Too slow, should’ve seen the look on your—”

And now hes standing outside of Mydei’s door with a pillow and flour dusted cheeks.

“She kicked me out—”

“No,” is all Mydei says before slamming the door in Phainon’s face.

After pounding on the door for a solid five minutes and causing Mydei’s neighbors to come out of their house, Mydei reluctantly opened his door and let the poor man in.

Phainon lets out a long, dramatic sigh as he slouches against Mydei’s couch—looking like the most wronged man in existence as he shoots his friend a wounded glare.

“She kicked me out,” he mutters, sounding thoroughly miserable—though the exaggerated pout is definitely more theatrical than genuinely upset. “She kicked me out! Just for one harmless prank. One. One.”

Mydei—who had already heard this exact complaint at least five times in the last ten minutes—just sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Go apologize.”

Phainon’s pout deepens. “…No.”

“Then get out of my house before I shove my leftover banana bread down your throat,” he mutters, annoyed at having to listen to Phainon recount his morning events.

Phainon huffs dramatically, sinking further into Mydei’s couch like a petulant child. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt—clearly sulking, but also very clearly thinking about swallowing his pride and crawling back home.

“…Fine,” he mutters after a long pause, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Fine. I’ll go grovel.”

He reluctantly drags himself up with the energy of a man who acts like his wife beats him for messing up rice. But he pauses before turning to shoot Mydei one last, wounded look.

“…You think flowers would help?”

Mydei stares at him with a disgusted expression, annoyed with his friend’s stupidity. “Yes. Obviously.”

Phainon sighs and nods—already mentally calculating how many bouquets it’ll take for you to forgive him. Maybe if hes lucky, you’ll forgive him before he even gets on his knees.

Phainon has never felt quite so thoroughly chastised as he does now, standing in front of your estate’s door after returning from the market with a truly impressive bouquet of flowers clutched in his grasp.

He’s fully aware of how ridiculous he must look, all sulking and pouting while holding a frankly ridiculous amount of flowers for one person. But in his head he’s still trying to decide if this is going to be enough to get you to let him back in the house.

He paces back and forth on the porch before hesitantly lifting his hand up, curling it into a fist and tapping it against the door.

He perks up the moment you open the door—only to stand there mouth agape when you slam the door in his face a second later.

Only after he nearly destroys your doorbell do you offer to hear him out.

“Please?” he tries, lifting the bouquet in an almost pleading gesture. “I’m sorry.”

Phainon’s expression falls into a sullen pout—eyes dropping to the flowers as he suddenly looks less like an apologetic partner and more like the world’s most pitiable kicked puppy.

“I got you flowers,” he mumbles, lifting the bouquet almost as if to show you in case you hadn’t seen it. He’s still holding on to some desperate, futile hope that you’ll just forgive him immediately.

“…Aren’t you going to even consider letting me back in?”

You open your mouth to say yes, because truth be told, you were never mad. You were just messing with him. But before the syllables leave your mouth you’re interrupted.

“Please,” he half begs. “I’ve never pleaded for anything in my entire life, but I’ll be on my knees for you right now.” His voice drops to an almost pleading whisper. “I can be better, no more playing with pancake batter, promise.”

“What?” you manage to croak out. Your surprise evident since you truly hadn’t expected him to get so vulnerable over something you did out of pettiness.

Unexpectedly, Phainon actually drops to his knees right then and there. Clinging to you like his life depends on it, staring up at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

“I’ll sleep on the floor and eat scraps and let you shove me around and thank you for it as long as I get to stay close and—”

“Wait—stop—” you try interrupting him, desperately trying to pull him up in embarrassment, scared your neighbors would hear.

“I’ll live on a goddamn leash. You can yank me around by the collar and I won’t say a word—”

You grunt in frustration and decide to go with the most effective method—silencing him by pulling him into a kiss.

He slots his lips against yours, body going completely still in an instant before he’s eagerly reciprocating.

The kiss lingers for a while, his hands moving up to cradle your face like you’re something precious. When he finally pulls back, it’s only just enough to press his forehead against yours, breathing ragged and uneven.

You decide to be generous and pull him into a hug, his form crumpling the second you pull him into your embrace—all the stubbornness and theatrics melting away as he immediately drops the flowers onto the floor with a soft 'thump' so he can wrap his arms around you properly.

“…Sorry,” he murmurs again—muffled against your shoulder as he presses his face into your neck, arms tightening like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. “Really sorry.”

And if his voice cracks slightly—well. You don’t mention it.

Your hands reach up to soothe his hair, fingers playing with the strands. And because you can’t hold it in anymore, you let out a laugh.

“Gotcha,” you say smiling, but there’s no excusing the affection in your voice.

Phainon lets out a low, indignant grumble that only partially manages to hide the fact that he loves the sound of your laugh.

He buries his face even further into your shoulder, fingers reflexively splaying against your back as he hugs you even tighter.

“You’re not funny,” he mutters—though the words are half-muffled by his current position and therefore lose most of their intended bite.

“I’m so funny,” you remark confidently before softening your voice. “I wanted to get back at you, sorry. I went too far, won’t do it again.”

Phainon huffs out an annoyed—and completely half-hearted—exhale against your shoulder. “Well, you’ve gotten your revenge,” he mutters, lifting his head just enough so he isn’t talking into your shirt—though he doesn’t loosen his arms at all. “I expect compensation. For my pain and suffering”

You agree before grabbing his hand, your fingers slipping through his and leading him back to the kitchen where the untouched pancake batter resides.

“These are a lot better than mine,” Phainon says contently after he finishes his serving. “They taste really good—but not as good as you,” he teases. That earns him another flick in the forehead.

You spend the next few hours making and consuming the pancakes together—the lump of coal forgotten as a hearty atmosphere settles. Happy and satisfied, you relax in each other’s presence until eventually the stars themselves come out to observe your peace.

Continuation🥹✌️