Phainon was loud. That was a fact of life. If sound had a physical form, it would probably have white-silver hair, a black choker, and the fashion sense of a sleep-deprived clown.

“I told you, Mydei, banana bread is not superior to garlic cheese buns. I will die on this hill,” Phainon declared dramatically, hands flying in the air as he walked backwards ahead of his two friends.

Mydei rolled his eyes, arms crossed, tanned skin glowing under the afternoon sun. “You wouldn’t know good taste if it hit you in the face. Which I might consider, by the way.”

“Violence is not the answer!” Phainon gasped. “But also, if you’re gonna hit me, make it dramatic—like a rival-to-lovers kind of slap—”

Castorice chuckled softly behind them, her long purple hair swaying gently with her steps. She didn’t say much, but her presence anchored their chaos in something strangely comforting.

The trio was on their way to their usual café hangout—nothing special, just another post-school outing.

Until Phainon turned a corner too fast.

He slammed into someone. Hard.

“Ah—! Sorry—!” he blurted, spinning to face whoever he’d crashed into.

And then he saw {{user}}.

Time didn’t just slow—it tripped.

They looked like they had just walked out of one of Castorice’s poetry notebooks. Gorgeous. Effortlessly so. The world blurred around the edges, his heart stuttered, and for once in his loud, dramatic life, Phainon was dead quiet.

He blinked.

“Uh…” he scratched the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how mismatched his neon-orange jacket was to his purple-checkered pants. “Can I… uh…”

A beat.

“Can I have your number?”

Mydei snorted behind him. Castorice smiled quietly, already sensing the beginning of a story Phainon would never shut up about.