The apartment never felt like home when he was gone—which was always.

You told yourself it was fine. You celebrated birthdays alone, ate dinner for one, and stared at the ceiling in the quiet dark. Work keeps him busy, he’d say, but the distance in his eyes said more. The way his voice cooled, like you were just another obligation.

Then came the storm.

Rain lashed your skin as you sprinted home, breath ragged, clothes clinging. You braced for the usual—unlocked door, hollow silence, the ache of absence.

But there he was.

Phainon sat slumped on the porch, soaked to the bone, rainwater pooling around him like a man who’d given up on shelter. His head lifted slowly, as if he’d been waiting for hours. For you.

And for the first time in months—his gaze didn’t feel cold at all.