#rain's dearest lover

[rulifez]

— ࿐RAIN'S DEAREST LOVER

SYPNOSIS — Where you and Phainon are in academic competition. He enjoys competing as much as you do. Will it stay that way, develop into something more where you two become closer every day, or cause heartache?

PAIRINGS — Phainon x fem!reader

STATUS — on hold

INCLUDES — modern!au, highschool!au, fluff, maybe angst, timestamp doesn't matter here, academicrival!phainon, written fanfic, maybe tiny bits of chatfic (inaccurate depictions of high school bc idk how it works around the world ㅠㅠ)

STARTED — 18 — 01 — 2026

ENDED —

— WARNING — ooc!phainon (i really apologize), this is my first ever fanfic and english is not my native language so pls bear with me, and slow updates.

CHAPTERS (names can change anytime)

࿐ 01. Margins

࿐ 02. Percentage

࿐ 03. Project

࿐ 04. After Hours

࿐ 05. Presentation

࿐ 06.

࿐ 07.

࿐ 08.

࿐ 09.

࿐ 010.

࿐ 011.

࿐ 012.

if you want to be added to the taglist pls lmk 🫶

© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED — rulifez — please do not copy or plagiarize :( i only upload my work in tumblr.

None of the characters belong to me — all honkai star rail characters belongs to hoyoverse.

[rulifez]

RAIN'S DEAREST LOVER— 01 — Margins

[Not proofread] Word count — 1.2k ࿐

You arrive early. Not because you’re eager, but because you refuse to arrive late to something that claims prestige like a second surname.

The lecture hall is already half-awake. Sunlight slips through the tall windows in narrow, golden bands, dust motes floating lazily as if they, too, are unbothered by academic ambition. The air smells like coffee brewed too strong and paper handled too often, which seemed familiar and comforting. 

You choose a seat halfway up the incline. Middle ground.

Your notebook opens easily beneath your hands, pages already marked with tabs and annotations. You skim the syllabus again, though you know it by heart: Advanced Ethics and Applied Moral Theory. Limited enrolment. Debate-heavy. No room for laziness or bluffing.

This is the kind of class where people reveal themselves—slowly, unintentionally.

You’re jotting a note in the margin when you feel it. Neither movement nor sound could be heard. It's more like a… presence. 

Someone sits next to you with a chair that hardly touches the floor and a quiet certainty. The area to your right moves, fills, and asserts itself without becoming combative. You avoid looking at him immediately. Never do you. It feels like a gift to look first.

Still, you become more conscious.

White hair—bright even in dim lighting, caught in your peripheral vision. Something warmer beneath it, and the subtle smell of fresh soap. His pen is placed carefully, his phone is turned face down and silenced, and his notebook is arranged neatly.

Phainon. 

Obviously, you've seen him before. It is impossible for someone like him to go unnoticed on campus. He's the type of presence that people notice without realising it; it's steady rather than loud. He moves as though he knows where he is going. When others talk, he pays attention. He frequently smiles, but never thoughtlessly.

And now he's seated beside you. He murmurs, “Good morning.”

You glance over. 

His eyes are bright, too alert for this hour, and when they meet yours, there's no calculation. Just a hint of warmth, and courteous curiosity. He seems genuinely happy to be here.

You respond, “Good morning.”

It ought to be over with that. As of right now, it is.

A moment later, the professor walks in, her theatrically precise heels clicking on the floor. People stop talking. Pens waver.

“Welcome,” she says, surveying the room like a general inspecting troops. “If you’re here to prove how smart you are, you’ll be exhausted by midterms. If you’re here to question what you think you know—welcome.”

A pause. A smile. 

She boldly writes the first query on the board:

Does inevitability reduce moral responsibility?

A few eager students quickly raise their hands. You hold out.

The initial responses are safe. risk-free and thoughtful-sounding. With your chin resting on your knuckles, you listen, observing which arguments avoid making a commitment and which just restate the question.

You then talk.

“I don't believe that inevitability diminishes responsibility,” you say coolly. “I think it makes it clear.”

Heads shift. The lecturer gives you a direct look.

“Explain.” The teacher asked. 

You go on, “Inevitability is often used as a shield. People treat inaction as neutrality if they think an outcome cannot be altered. However, you still have the option to do nothing when you know the repercussions. Moral weight is increased by awareness, not decreased.”

Not stunned, but attentive, the room falls silent.

You sense it before you hear it: the inhalation, the slight movement next to you.

“I agree with part of that,” Phainon says in a calm, level voice. “But I believe the conclusion runs the risk of simplifying things.”

This time you turn to face him.

He doesn't give you a quick glance. His respectful eyes remain fixed on the professor.

He goes on, “Responsibility cannot be measured solely by outcome if all available options result in harm. In those situations, intent is important as context rather than an excuse. If not, we evaluate people using a perspective they never had.”

Then he gives you a quick glance. “Restraint shouldn't be punished by ethics.”

There is a cascade of interest and curiosity. There's a quiet laugh from behind you. In spite of yourself, your mouth curves.

You ask, “So intent outweighs impact?”

He answers quickly and amusedly, “Not outweighs. A balance. One is incomplete without the other.”

You recline in your chair. “If you're not careful, balance can become avoidant.”

He softly responds, “And rigidity can become cruelty.”

The professor's grin gets sharper. “Yes,” she replies. “This. More like this.”

The conversation centres on the two of you, with others joining in and offering their own viewpoints, but the beat stays the same. He hears you talk. You adjust as he reacts. It's not confrontational. Not adversarial.

It's exhilarating.

By the time the seminar ends, your margins are filled. Questions, arrows, and half-written thoughts inspired by the conversation are more than just notes. Slowly, you shut your notebook, your mind racing.

As soon as students start gathering their belongings, your friend starts to swarm you.

“What was it?” Hyacine mumbles. “You two were so scary.”

You slide your bag over your shoulder and repeat, “Scary?”

Hyacine says, “like watching a chess match. Academic rivals turn into lovers.”

You snort. “Don’t start.”

However, your gaze automatically shifts to the front of the room.

With his hands loosely folded and his posture relaxed, Phainon converses with the professor. He laughs at something she says, ‘soft, easy,’ and for a moment you see it: warmth as well as intelligence. Being approachable.

He glances up only to find you watching him, but he doesn't turn right away. 

There's a change in his expression, but it's neither triumph nor challenge. Acceptance. Then he gives a courteous nod once and returns to the topic at hand.

“That one is a problem,” your friend whispers.

You're not against it.

Phainon walks beside you as you make your way to the exit as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey,” he remarks. “Regarding what you said earlier. You put it quite nicely.” You give a quick blink. It wasn't in the mental script to give compliments.

You say dryly, “High praise.”

He has a grin. Not conceited.. More like humorous.

He acknowledges, “I don't hand them out casually. You caused me to reconsider my position.”

That shouldn't have the effect it does on you. “Well, you weren't intolerable either,” you respond.

He puts his hand to his chest and says, “Ouch. I'll get better.” Before you can stop yourself, you start laughing.

It feels strangely constrained, as if the world has shrunk to just the two of you, even though the hallway is bright and humming with students and voices.

He extends his hand and says, “I'm Phainon.”

You hesitate, then decide to accept it. 

“I am aware.”

His eyebrows rise in delight. “That's fair enough.”

You introduce yourself to him. He says it again, softly, as if it were important.

He says, “See you next week.”

You respond, “Looking forward to it,” and you don't lie this time. Your friend looks at you as if she has just seen something historic as he leaves.

She says lovingly, “You're doomed.”

You look down at your notes once more and shake your head, but you're grinning. You have written something new in the margin next to the first question.

A fascinating variable.

You have no idea how long-lasting that note will become.

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— a/n: hii, this is my first ever fanfic so i'm so sorry for any grammar error or whatsoever... english is not my first language ofc 😭 thank you so much for reading!! i hope you liked it :,>

if you want to be added to the taglist, pls lmk 🫶 i'm lowkey slow here

⊱܀⊹࿐⊰܀⊹

SYPNOSIS — Where you and Phainon are in academic competition. He enjoys competing as much as you do. Will it stay that way, develop into something more where you two become closer every day, or cause heartache?

TAGS:

[rulifez]

RAIN'S DEAREST LOVER — 03 — Project

[Not proofread] Word Count — 1.0k ࿐

The group project had been announced before you could even finish your morning coffee: a mandatory collaboration, carefully curated by the professor to ’encourage synergy among the strongest minds.’ And, naturally, you had been paired with Phainon.

You don’t react immediately. That would give something away. Instead, you sip your coffee, watching the steam curl up like it has secrets to tell. The anticipation gnaws quietly at your stomach, and you tell yourself it’s just academic curiosity. Of course it is.

“You’ve been paired with Phainon,” Cifera whispers across the table, voice teasing, eyes glittering. “Lucky you.”

“Lucky me,” you echo, flatly, though your heart taps just a little faster than it should.

The first planning session is set in the library, in a room with high ceilings and polished wood. The air smells faintly of old paper and disinfectant, with a faint underlying warmth of human presence. You arrive early, naturally, and find him already seated, notebook open, pen poised.

He glances up, one brow slightly raised. “Right on time,” he says softly. Not teasing, not smug—just observant.

“I’d have waited,” you say slowly, “but I suspect you’d be here first.”

He tilts his head, amused. “I prefer to observe the territory before making a move.”

You sit across from him, resisting the urge to study every detail of his habits: the exact angle he holds his pen, the gentle tilt of his head when thinking, the faint crease between his brows when a thought doesn’t satisfy him immediately. You notice, anyway.

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t have to. His presence alone commands attention.

“I took the liberty of drafting a preliminary outline,” he says, sliding a clean sheet across the table. The headings are neat, concise, logically structured. Subtopics already subdivided into bullet points. Citations penciled in lightly.

You scan it carefully, resisting the instinctive smile. Impressive. Too impressive. You resist the urge to remark on it.

“You already did this?” you ask, carefully neutral.

“I started last night,” he admits, tone even, almost gentle. “It’s better to anticipate gaps than scramble under pressure.”

His handwriting is elegant. Efficient. Every word counts. Minimalism as method.

“Perfectionist,” you say lightly.

“Perhaps,” he says, tilting his head. “Or someone who respects their own time—and yours.” A flicker of warmth in the words. “Efficiency matters.”

“Or someone who enjoys setting the bar frustratingly high,” you counter.

He considers this for a heartbeat, then smirks, just a touch. “Maybe both.” And suddenly, he’s sharp again—efficiency over warmth, precision over play.

The discussion begins in earnest. You settle into a rhythm: propose, refine, tweak, counter. No one else matters. It’s just the two of you, locked in a polite intellectual duel, punctuated by small acknowledgments and unspoken respect.

At one point, you propose an alternative structure for a section. He tilts his head, pen hovering, considering. “It’s… clever,” he says finally. “But I’d suggest you tighten the argument in this paragraph—less repetition, more precision. Your point is strong, but it risks dilution.”

Heat rises to your cheeks—not embarrassment, not anger, but that dangerous mix of admiration and irritation. He’s reading me. Carefully. Attentively. Sharply.

“I’ll… keep that in mind,” you murmur, neutral, though your heart is halfway in your throat.

He doesn’t press further. Instead, he slides the paper slightly closer. “I trust you’ll make it better.” His words are sharp but not unkind—sweetly challenging, quietly encouraging.

Hours pass without your noticing. The room empties, leaving only the quiet hum of fluorescent lights, the soft scrape of pens on paper, and the occasional creak of chairs.

Your elbow brushes his as you both reach for a reference book. Neither flinches. Neither comments. But for a moment, it lingers—a spark, tiny and electric, between precision and habit.

He watches you, too. You notice small things: how he tilts his head when evaluating your argument, how his lips purse subtly when correcting himself mid-thought, the way his eyes soften just a fraction when you present a clever counterpoint.

You notice him noticing you, though neither of you says so.

During a short break, he leans back, hands folded behind his head. “You have a tendency,” he says casually, “to circle back to your initial phrasing. Effective rhetorically, but sometimes… verbose.”

You tilt your head, evaluating him in return. “And you?” you ask carefully. “Do you ever overcomplicate things to sound smart?”

He smirks. “Sometimes. But I like to think clarity matters more than appearance.” Then, softer, almost teasing, “Even when correcting someone.”

You blink. That warmth again. That sharpness tempered with subtle playfulness. The kind that makes you want to argue, but also—quietly—trust him.

The conversation resumes, blending collaboration with rivalry, each refinement sharpening both your argument and the tension between you. Small details emerge: he shifts papers only slightly when moving them closer to you; you notice the faint scent of his soap; he gestures gently when he wants to emphasize a point, not to dominate, just to guide.

By the end of the session, your outline is stronger than either of you could have done alone. Polished, balanced, and precise. And there’s a new awareness lingering between the two of you: recognition. Respect. Something warmer, too, though neither admits it aloud.

Outside the library, your friends are waiting, grins wide and eyes sharp. “You two are ridiculous,” one says. “It’s like watching a chess game.”

“Just academically responsible,” you reply.

He chuckles, a low, warm sound that reaches your chest. Sharpness softened by sweetness. Precision tempered by subtle humor. And you can’t stop yourself from noticing how the sound lingers.

As you part ways, there’s a quiet understanding: this project isn’t just an assignment anymore. It’s a test. A challenge. A battleground. And somewhere between the margins, the notes, and quiet observations, it’s becoming something else. Something unspoken. Something neither of you will admit yet—but both are aware of it.

You catch a last glimpse of him in the hallway. He waves, just a small gesture, casual. But in it, there’s warmth, there’s acknowledgment, there’s… curiosity.

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a/n: it's 1 am as i post this haha.. this is my last post for now :,< until my finals are over. thank you so much for reading and i hope you enjoyed 🫶 sorry for any grammar error or whatsoever

if you want to be added to the taglist, ask/comment :>

⊱܀⊹࿐⊰܀⊹

SYNOPSIS — Where you and Phainon are in academic competition. He enjoys competing as much as you do. Will it stay that way, develop into something more where you two become closer every day, or cause heartache?

Taglist — @clooumelon @lyambdaa @writtenforphainon

TAGS:

[rulifez]

RAIN'S DEAREST LOVER — 02 — Percentage

[Not proofread] Word Count — 1.1k ࿐

The first graded assignment returns on a Thursday afternoon, the kind of hour that pretends to be merciful but isn’t. Late enough that the day has already worn you thin. Early enough that there’s no escaping the anticipation.

You’re in a café just off campus, half-listening to your friend complain about a professor who assigns readings like a personal vendetta, when your phone vibrates against the table.

Once. You glance down without thinking.

Advanced Ethics — Essay 1: Grades Released.

Your stomach tightens. You don’t open it.

You tell yourself you’ll finish your drink first. You stir the coffee you forgot you ordered. You nod at the right places in the conversation, even laugh once, though you have no idea why.

Then you open the portal.

Your eyes go straight to the number, because you’re a human and pride is faster than reason.

94.

You breathe out slowly.

Good. Strong. Not perfect, but sharp. You scroll down to the feedback, heart steadying as you read.

┃‘Compelling argumentation. Clear structure. Your critique of moral neutrality is particularly effective.’

┃‘Push further—interrogate the implications of agency under constraint.’

You smile despite yourself. Across the table, hyacine and aglaea notices. “That face means you did well.” aglaea says.

“Decent,” you say, closing the laptop.

Hyacine's phone buzzes. They glance at it. Then at you. “Oh.”

You narrow your eyes. “What.”

“Phainon got a 95.”

You stare.

Not because it’s shocking. Not because it’s unfair.

Because it’s one point.

A margin so narrow it feels deliberate. Like the universe has a sense of humor and is very pleased with itself.

“Wow,” you say flatly. “Thrilling.”

Aglaea grins. “You’re taking this very normally.”

“I am calm.”

“You’re vibrating.”

You absolutely are not. You are simply… aware.

The next seminar confirms it.

As usual, Phainon arrives early, but his posture seems different today. Not haughtiness, never. Just be easy. genuinely earned satisfaction.

He puts down his notebook, sits next to you, and looks over. “How’d you feel about the feedback?” he asks, casual.

You look at him. “It was fair.”

He nods. “Same. She’s precise.”

A beat.

“And… close,” he adds, smiling just a little.

You huff. “Congratulations on your overwhelming victory.”

“Oh, come on,” he laughs. “One point barely counts.”

“That’s what people who win by one point say.”

“True,” he concedes cheerfully.

Before you can respond, the professor begins speaking, but your focus keeps wandering. You see how Phainon listens, his pen hovering but not hurrying, his head cocked slightly. He doesn't record everything in writing. Just what is important.

You confidently respond to a question during a conversation, and you notice the slight change next to you as he turns to face you. not gazing. Just paying attention.

The professor nods in agreement when he answers after you, elaborating rather than disputing.

Hyacine leans over and whispers, “You two are disgusting.”

You don’t disagree.

After class, the group gathers as usual—half complaints, half jokes. Someone mentions grades again, and suddenly it’s open season.

“So,” Cifera says brightly, “94 and 95. Rivals already?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a rivalry.”

Phainon, to your surprise, laughs. “Yet.”

You glance at him. He’s smiling—not teasing, not smug. Just honest.

And that somehow makes it worse.

That night, you reread your essay—not to improve it, but to understand it. And despite yourself, you wonder how he phrased his conclusion.

The shift is subtle enough that you almost miss it.

Almost.

It happens a few days after the grades are released, during an informal discussion session. Chairs arranged in a loose circle. There's no podium. No hiding.

The professor asks a question and then leaves it open ended. You respond first—confident and clean. You always do when you're certain you're right.

Phainon does not jump in right away. He waits.

It's something you've noticed about him: he lets others finish. Allows arguments to breathe. Then—only then—does he intervene, not to disrupt, but to adjust.

“I believe that works,” he says softly, “if we assume rational actors.”

You cast a glance at him. “So you don't?”

“I believe rationality is situational,” he responds. “People are logical until pressure shifts their priorities.”

A pause. He says softly, “You're arguing from principle. My argument is based on behavior.”

This is not a dismissal. It's worse. The challenge ignites beneath your skin.

“So you’re saying principles fail under pressure?”

“I’m saying they reveal their limits.”

Your mouth curves. “That’s convenient. Limits are a great place to stop thinking.”

A few students laugh. Phainon smiles too—but his eyes sharpen, just a fraction.

“Or a necessary place to start thinking more carefully,” he says. “Which, to be fair, you’re very good at.”

There it is. Praise, threaded with provocation.

You keep your gaze fixed on him for an extra beat. “Be careful,” you say lightheartedly. “You're beginning to sound impressed.”

“Observation is not admiration,” he says with ease. “However, they are not incompatible.”

Your heartbeat is irregular. It only happened once. Your friends don't stop after class.

“You hear that?” Cifera murmurs. “Observation is not appreciation.”

“Oh, he's insufferable,” Aglaea agrees fondly. “You think he's attractive.”

“I respect him,” you correct.

Phainon, who is walking just in front of you, makes a slight turn. “There is a distinction.”

You give a quick blink. “Did you hear me?”

“I have ears,” he says politely. “In addition, there is curiosity.”

You roll your eyes, but you do not deny it.

Later that week, you run into him at the same café where you checked your grades. He's already there, seated at a corner table, notebook open and tea steaming quietly beside him.

You have considered leaving. But you don't.

“Back for round two?” he inquires when he sees you.

„Statistically speaking,” you say, “this location has adequate lighting.”

He hums. “True. There are fewer distractions.”

You sat anyway. Different table. He got close enough for you to notice. Far enough to pretend you're not. It lasts ten minutes. Then his voice comes over, calm but irritatingly warm. “Do you outline before you write?”

You look up. “Do you ever stop watching people?”

“Only when they're boring,” he explains. Then, noticing your expression, he quickly adds, “You are not.”

You exhale. “I draft based on intuition.”

He responds, “That explains the confidence... and the risk.”

You bristle. “Risk is not a weakness.”

“No,” he agrees. “But refinement turns risk into precision.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that he says it kindly. You close your notebook. “Are you always like this?”

“Only with people who keep me sharp,” he answers without hesitation.

That lands. Your friends arrive a few minutes later, immediately clocking the situation.

“Oh,” Cifera says brightly. “Am I interrupting something academic?”

“Yes,” you say flatly.

Phainon smiles. “Debatably.”

They exchange looks. Grins. Someone mouths rivals. You ignore them. But as you gather your things to leave, Phainon stands too.

“Next assignment,” he says casually, “I doubt the margin will be so narrow.”

You pause. “Confident.”

“Motivated,” he explains. Then, softer, “You push me.”

You maintain a steady gaze toward him. “Good.”

His smile this time is small but unmistakably competitive. “Then I'll meet you at the top,” he says.

As you walk away, your heart is beating slightly faster than usual.

Not because he beat you.

Not because you beat him.

But because, somewhere between points and margins and careful words, you’ve stopped pretending this is accidental.

And that realization feels dangerous.

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a/n: i'm lowkey tripping, it might feel boring now but TRUST it will get better soon.. hopefully. i hope you enjoyed reading 🫶 (sorry for any grammar errors)

(might seem fast-paced but some of these are hehe real life examples.. which i'll be adding in each chapter. one of my bffs and her academic rival </3 they could have been lovers but oh well, what a pity. They are the word 'almost'.)

— updates will be a bit slow too bc my lab exams started :(

If you want to be added to the taglist pls lmk :>

⊱܀⊹࿐⊰܀⊹

SYPNOSIS — Where you and Phainon are in academic competition. He enjoys competing as much as you do. Will it stay that way, develop into something more where you two become closer every day, or cause heartache?

Taglist — @clooumelon @lyambdaa @writtenforphainon

TAGS:

[rulifez]

RAIN'S DEAREST LOVER — 05 — PRESENTATION

[Not proofread] Word Count — 800+ ࿐

The day begins like every other—too early, too bright, and too loud. Students swarm the hallways, coffee in one hand, anxiety in the other. Your group arrives at the seminar room with your laptops, notes, and neatly highlighted slides, all of it meticulously prepared… mostly by the two of you.

Phainon walks in beside you, calm and collected, as though nothing could possibly rattle him. He’s wearing a blazer over a simple shirt, sleeves neatly rolled, hair just enough out of place to look effortless. That “I woke up like this” perfection that is infuriating and somehow magnetic at the same time.

“Ready?” he asks, glancing at your slides on the shared laptop. His tone is light, playful—but there’s an undercurrent of seriousness, that subtle edge you’ve come to recognize.

“As I’ll ever be,” you reply, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

He smirks. “That’s reassuring.”

Walking into the seminar room feels like stepping onto a stage you’ve both been rehearsing for in private. The professor nods at you from the front, then gestures for the presentation to begin. Groups file forward. Each one presents, murmurs of applause punctuating well-executed arguments.

Finally, it’s your turn. You set up the laptop, plug in the projector, and take a deep breath.

Phainon stands beside you, hands lightly resting on the edge of the table, notebook in hand, ready—but not intrusive. You notice the way his gaze briefly flicks toward you before scanning the room. That quiet, precise awareness that says, I see everything you do.

“Let’s begin,” you say, and he nods, voice calm and confident.

You start presenting the first section, your words smooth, controlled. You feel his presence like a counterbalance, steadying without overshadowing. When you reach the portion where the argument gets trickier, he picks up seamlessly, refining the point with his soft-but-sharp precision.

“While the initial claim holds under constrained circumstances,” he says, voice clear, “it risks oversimplifying when applied broadly. Consider the ethical implications if variables change mid-process.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “He’s clearly been practicing his rhetorical flourishes,” you whisper under your breath, smirk teasing.

Phainon glances at you, a corner of his mouth twitching, but he doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ve noticed your habit of underestimating small contradictions,” he whispers back, eyes sparkling. “Try not to make it a habit in the conclusion.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t suppress a laugh. Your classmates glance at you both with faint amusement, but neither of you breaks character for the rest of the presentation.

The professor interrupts only once, gently probing a point. You glance at Phainon for backup, and he responds immediately, supporting your argument while subtly emphasizing his own contribution. Not in a competitive way—yet sharp enough to highlight the refinement he’s added.

When the slides end, you step back slightly, letting him finish the last few points with fluidity. Your group receives polite applause. You glance at him, and he smirks—a small, satisfied curve of his lips.

“Not bad,” he murmurs quietly as you pack up.

“Not bad?” you echo, teasing. “I think we killed it.”

He chuckles, soft and sharp all at once. “We did. But you said ‘we’—I’d argue I did most of the heavy lifting.”

You scoff. “You’re cute when you think that.”

His eyes narrow playfully. “Cute? I’ll take it as a compliment, but I’m not sure you understand the full implications of your words.”

“Implications?” You lean closer just a fraction. “Are we still talking academically?”

“Partially,” he replies smoothly. Then softer, “Mostly socially.”

Your friends corner you after the presentation. They grin like they’ve been waiting for this moment all day.

“You two are insufferable,” Hyacine says, laughing. “The way you banter the entire time—it’s like watching a tennis match where the ball’s secretly on fire.”

“You watched?” you snap, feigning indignation.

“Of course we did,” your friend replies. “You can’t hide how much you notice him. And he notices you, too. It’s painfully obvious.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels warm.

Phainon leans close under the guise of helping adjust the projector cord. “I noticed you rolling your eyes,” he says softly, sharpness undercut by playfulness. “Careful. It betrays your enthusiasm.”

“Excuse me?” you murmur, glancing up at him.

He grins. “I’m just saying. You’re bad at hiding things.”

“You’re worse,” you reply, letting the words slip out before you can think.

“Touché,” he murmurs.

Walking back to your dorm, the conversation continues. Not just the project—but playful arguments about interpretation, strategy, and phrasing. He challenges every point you make, but never harshly—only sharp enough to provoke, enough to make your brain light up with both irritation and fascination.

“Honestly,” you say, “you’re insufferable.”

“Insufferable?” he repeats, eyebrows raised. “And yet, here you are, engaging me hours after the presentation.”

“I could say the same about you,” you counter.

He smirks, a small victory. “Perhaps,” he concedes, voice soft but sharp. “Perhaps.”

Later that night, lying in bed, you replay the presentation. His words, the way he noticed your small habits, the subtle teasing during the slides.

And a thought sneaks in that you can’t quite push away: he’s sweet… but he’s getting under your skin in ways you don’t want to admit.

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⊱܀⊹࿐⊰܀⊹

a/n: i genuinely forget this story is supposed to be a slow burn.. ◡̈ but trust, they will mwa mwa in around 8-9 chapters?? i think.

thank you so much for reading and i hope you enjoyed :)

ask/comment to be added in the taglist

⊱܀⊹࿐⊰܀⊹

SYNOPSIS — Where you and Phainon are in academic competition. He enjoys competing as much as you do. Will it stay that way, develop into something more where you two become closer every day, or cause heartache?

Taglist — @clooumelon @lyambdaa @writtenforphainon @violetisreadinghush

TAGS: