Hello I have a request for mydei phainon and wanderer if that's fine with you. Non-established relationship. Character discovers a notebook where reader keeps track of things the character likes, when their bday is, etc, but they notice that instead of their name, reader was written down "my love". They also discover plans to surprise them and/or gift them something. How would they react? What would they think? I am nonbinary by the way so please keep it GN, thank you
“For My Love: The Unwritten Confession”
Tags: Mydei x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Wanderer x Reader, Non-Established Relationship, Found Notebook, Accidental Confession, Soft Romantic Tension, Gift/Surprise Planning, Subtle Fluff, Observational Affection, Mutual-But-Unspoken Feelings, Protective Undertones, Mild Banter, Low-Angst.
Warnings: Brief Mention Of Past Violence, Brief Mention Of Loss, Light Emotional Vulnerability, Slight Embarrassment, Flustered Moments, Wanderer’s Part Includes Mild Teasing.
The training yard had long emptied, the echo of sparring steel replaced by the rustle of evening wind through the high walls of Okhema’s Palace inner keep. Mydei was never one for idle rest; after drills, he remained to polish his gauntlets, oil his blade, and ensure every strap, every plate, was battle-ready.
You had left your satchel on the bench nearest the archery stands — uncharacteristic of you, since you guarded your belongings as tightly as you guarded your plans. Mydei didn’t notice it until the torchlight caught the glint of a golden clasp, and his hand, without conscious thought, reached for it.
The clasp came free with a quiet snap. Inside: notes, sketches, little scraps of parchment in your handwriting. At first, he assumed it was strategy work — you’d often kept tallies of weather patterns, patrol routes, and logistical quirks of the city’s defenses.
But this wasn’t that.
He saw the page header first: “My Love — Notes to Remember”.
Mydei stilled. His eyes scanned the script, his warrior’s composure hiding the sudden shift in his chest.
Prefers pomegranate juice with goat’s milk and cheese — smile always a little less guarded when drinking it.
Anniversary of the Siege — avoid bringing up loss unless he mentions it first.
Hair braids: prefers left side to hang free, right side pulled tighter.
Armor maintenance: uses brass oil blend, not standard iron oil — says it ‘smells like home’.
The pages went on — not tactical intelligence, but him. The subtle, unspoken details most would overlook.
And then, between careful sketches of his gauntlets and the crimson markings on his arms, a folded parchment:
A plan for the upcoming Chrysos Heirs feast. You’d listed every step, from securing rare Kremnoan spiced bread to arranging an evening where the two of you might “watch the city lights from the west wall, uninterrupted.”
For a man who had walked away from thrones, from banners, from the weight of a crown — for someone who lived ready to die before dawn — this felt heavier than any prophecy.
The name Mydei never appeared. Only My Love. Over and over.
He closed the notebook slowly, his hands steady even as something in him wavered. Mydei was not prone to indulgence in dreams — they were luxuries that could fracture resolve. But this? This was not a dream. This was proof that someone had seen him, truly seen him, without the armor of titles or the shadow of legend.
When you returned, breathless from fetching your quiver from the armory, his gaze met yours — piercing, assessing, yet softened in ways you couldn’t place.
“You keep… detailed records,” he said, holding the satchel out to you.
Your heart stuttered when you realized what he’d seen. “I—It’s not—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted gently, voice low but firm. “Do not apologize.”
You searched his face for mockery or judgment, but found neither. Only a warrior who had spent lifetimes at the edge of death, now holding something infinitely more fragile than his own life.
“My love,” he said, tasting the words as though they were foreign yet familiar. “A dangerous thing to call someone like me.”
Your reply caught in your throat, but he shook his head — not to silence you, but to give himself a moment.
“If the tide takes me tomorrow,” he said finally, “I will go knowing that someone thought of me as more than the Last Prince. That is… worth more than you know.”
And though he handed back the satchel, you could feel the weight of the promise in his gaze — a silent vow that he would meet that planned evening on the wall, even if the world was ending.
It was late in Okhema’s chambers (inside the bathhouse), the warm scent of oil lamps mixing with parchment and dust. You’d left your satchel under the reading table, promising to return after fetching tea for the two of you.
Phainon stayed, leafing through old campaign maps. But when his boot nudged the satchel, the soft clink of trinkets inside drew his curiosity.
He hesitated — a man of respect, not prone to prying — but a folded notebook had slid halfway out, and the words on the cover caught his eye.
For My Love.
He almost smiled, assuming it was some poetic title for a story you were drafting. But when he flipped it open, it wasn’t fiction.
Blue flowers over white — noticed you always linger near them.
Prefers tea over wine — unless it’s feast day, then both.
Hums softly when fixing weapons; pitch sharpens when focused.
Date: early winter or summer? — birthday? Needs confirmation before asking directly.
The list went on — tiny observations of him, all written in a tone of quiet affection.
Then came the sketches: his coat, the embroidery on his sleeve, even the sun-emblazoned armguard he wore. And in the margins, notes about commissioning a gift: “Custom-engraved scabbard — to carry light into battle.”
Phainon’s heart ached in a way it hadn’t in years. It was the kind of ache that came not from loss, but from recognition. To see himself reflected here — not the Vanguard, not the Deliverer, but simply Khaslana or Phainon as you saw him — made him feel almost weightless.
He turned the page and saw plans for the upcoming festival: arranging a moment to guide him to the river’s edge at sunset, to present the gift. “If I can make him smile without hiding anything… worth all the trouble.”
When you returned, balancing two steaming mugs, he had already closed the book, placing it atop the satchel.
“You’ve been… busy,” he said with that half-smile of his, equal parts teasing and sincere.
Your eyes darted to the notebook, panic rising. “That’s not— I mean, it’s—”
“Thoughtful,” he finished for you. “And more than I deserve.”
“You deserve—” you began, but he raised a hand, not to stop you, but to steady himself.
“I’ve been called a hero in so many tongues,” he said softly, “but this… this is the first time I’ve been called ‘my love’ without expectation, without prophecy attached.”
The way he said it made your chest tighten — not in embarrassment, but in understanding.
“I hope,” he continued, voice warm, “you still plan to give me this gift. I’d like to be surprised.”
And then, as he took one of the mugs, he added, “Though, for the record, you already have.”
You’d left your bag unattended for all of five minutes while fetching replacement ink from the market stall. It was your mistake — Wanderer didn’t do unattended things.
He sat cross-legged by the window when he noticed it, the corner of a small, worn notebook peeking out. Normally, he’d scoff and leave it — but boredom and suspicion were a dangerous mix.
The first page stopped him.
For My Love.
His brow furrowed. It was absurdly sentimental — the sort of thing he’d mock without hesitation. And yet…
Flipping through, his sharp eyes caught the lists:
Prefers dango to most sweets, but will pretend otherwise if someone notices.
Gets restless if not given something to do with his hands.
Pauses mid-sentence when remembering something — usually unpleasant.
He skimmed further, irritation creeping in — not at the accuracy, but at the audacity of writing him down like some specimen.
Then, in the middle, a plan. For him.
A detailed outline of finding a rare violet paper parasol, supposedly matching the shade of a flower he’d once lingered near in silence. Arrangements for giving it to him without anyone else seeing.
No name for him in the notebook. Only My Love.
His lips pressed into a thin line. Sentimentality, yes — but also… care. Too much care.
When you returned, he was still holding it, gaze unreadable.
“You really think you can just… write me down like this?” he asked, tone deceptively casual.
Your stomach dropped. “You read it?”
“Obviously.” He flipped it closed and held it up. “What is this? Some kind of… emotional ledger?”
“It’s just—” you started, but he cut in.
“You call me ‘my love’ in here.”
Silence.
He leaned back, watching you squirm. “Bold. Stupid. But bold.”
You braced for ridicule, but instead, he set the notebook beside him and rested his chin on his hand. “You really went to this much trouble? For me?”
“…Yes,” you admitted quietly.
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at his lips. “Hmph. Guess I’ll allow it. For now.”
Then, softer — so soft you almost missed it — he added, “Don’t mess up your little plan. I want to see if it’s as good as you think it’ll be.”
And just like that, he stood, tucking the notebook back into your bag. No thanks, no grand confession — just the faintest trace of color on his cheeks as he stepped past you.
I'm thinking of starting a new art project. I'm going to put together a Found Horror-themed Notebook. I already have ideas and I'm so excited for this.
