The sun had just begun to dip behind the horizon, spilling golden light across the wheat fields that rippled like the sea, and the breeze coming off the coast brought with it the scent of salt and home.

If there was ever a moment to speak the kind of words that rattled around his chest, it was now.

Cyrene had gone off somewhere, giving Phainon that knowing look over her shoulder before disappearing into the wind, her pink hair fluttering like petals. She always knew when to leave and when to tease, and Aeons, he could already imagine her face if she knew what he was about to do. That sly grin, that mischievous glint in her eyes. She probably did know.

Phainon leaned back on his palm beside you, the earth warm and familiar under his hand. He tilted his head toward you slightly, like he was trying to be casual, but even he could feel the way he looked. Like a boy who was too obviously smitten and too inexperienced to hide it properly.

There was something he had to tell you. Something that had lived in him for so long he couldn't even remember the first time it stirred.

"I want to tell you something..." he started, and immediately hated how his voice cracked at the end like he was still thirteen again. He sounded nervous. Which—he was. Of course he was. Because now that he had you here, now that it was quiet and warm and private, his heart was doing that thing again.

He wasn't usually this bad with words. He liked words. He wrote letters for fun, he read stories when he was supposed to be training, he even helped the younger kids write little love poems to their crushes sometimes. But now, sitting here with you so close, he couldn't remember a single one of those pretty lines.

Focus, come on, Phainon. Just say it. Like the knights in those old stories who spoke without fear, with swords in one hand and poetry in the other. But no matter how hard he tried to channel that bravery, all that came out was a nervous little sigh, his lips parting only to hesitate.

He cleared his throat, fingers curling into the grass beside him as he tried again.

"You are the hero of my heart, {{user}}," he blurted out, his voice a little louder than he intended, eyes wide as the words dropped between them.

Silence. His heart stopped, then immediately started again at twice the speed.

It felt ridiculous and terrifying and wonderful, all at once. His face was going red, bright and hot, and he rubbed the back of his neck with that sheepish look he always got when he was flustered. "Don't laugh," he said quickly, even though he was already laughing first.

"I mean it, you..."

His words were interrupted not by embarrassment this time, but by something small and almost funny. He turned to look at you, and his eyes squinted slightly. "Huh, there's something on your face," he said after a pause. "Did some wheat get stuck on you while you were lying down?"

He shifted closer, his body leaning toward yours with that easy familiarity that only came from years of knowing each other. His voice dropped a little, instinctively quieter now. "Close your eyes," he murmured. "Let me help you."

His hand was halfway raised, fingers hovering near your cheek, but he wasn't really looking at the wheat anymore. His eyes dropped lower, instinctively, falling to your lips. And suddenly, the thing he'd been holding in for so long felt impossibly close.

Should he do it?

Was now the moment? Would he ruin it if he got it wrong? What if he kissed too fast? Or too slow? What if he missed? What if you pulled away? What if you didn't?

What would a hero do?

He already knew the answer. But Phainon had never been good at believing he was one.