You, snow-powdered with cold cheeks, slip in through the front door and shake off winter's biting grip. The shopping bags crackle together, their handles wedged between Phainon's bicep and forearm.
The house greets you with a wall of warmth, staving off the bitter edge of the cold. You kick off your heavy boots and Phainon hastens to the kitchen, eager to drop off the bags so he can return and help you out of your jacket.
"Be careful," you call out, lips curling into a fond smile as he fumbles to your side. "There's porcelain in there, don't forget."
"As if I could!" he huffs, amused. He sidles up behind you and finishes sliding your jacket down your arms, "You'd never forgive me if I broke professor Anaxa's present," You shiver at the layer shed, balling your hands into fists as if to flex the warmth back into them.
He gently rests your jacket over the back of the sofa and closes in, arms wrapping around your waist. He clings tight, attempting to crease you into one, combined being. He radiates resplendent warmth, a miniature sun, all broad muscle and soft chest.
"We should turn the heat up," you mumble, turning about in his arms, pressing your face into his cable-knit sweater.
"Oooor you could just hold onto me for the rest of the evening~?" he purrs. His fingers dip beneath the hem of your top, palm pressing up against the small of your back. You twitch. It's a comforting weight, a touch guilded in kindness. For Phainon, holding you is as breathing, a process natural and needed. Nose furrowed into the crook of your neck, he intakes the scent of you with a ravenous inhale. He's keen for every sense to be inundated, all you wrapped around him, as close as could possibly be.
Sometimes, he laments that you're forever fated to dwell in two, separate vessels. He's thought about voicing this aloud, before, but isn't sure how to do so in a way that makes sense. Or one that wouldn't understandably freak you out. You like him when he's sweet, and he likes himself most when you like him. So sweet he will remain. Soft, hungry kisses pressed to your skin, running a line up the column of your throat. Your head tilts to the side, obedient and obliging, gives him more skin to pillage.
"Phainon," you mumble, protesting softly. Your hands find his chest, but don't push him away. They simply perch there, fingers pressed tight into his sweater. It's one that you picked out for him. A soft, bluish-grey worn beneath a sleek, black peacoat. He lets you dress him, most of the time. Letting you do things for him—it makes him feel funny in a good, light-headed way. "We have to make dinner."
"Do we?" he whines, yet obliges anyway. He pulls back and looks at you like a scorned pup. You smile.
"Yes. You had a light lunch, today. You need to eat something hearty," you press a lingering kiss to the edge of his jaw, "You can have your treats after, okay?" The warm, gooey way tone you use goes straight to his cock, already throbbing hard and heavy between plush thighs.
"Yes ma'am," he breathes.
"Good. Now, tonight I was thinking we could have—"
Phainon listens to the sound of your voice, but quickly loses track of the words. After all, he knows you're picking dinner. Like you usually do. It's nice, sometimes, to not have to worry about these things. It lets him focus more on how your lips shape around the words.