You didn’t expect him to be the type to crave touch so openly, yet there he was—his hand slipping into yours with quiet certainty. It wasn’t just holding; it was the way his fingers curled around yours like he was afraid to let go. When he leaned down and nuzzled against your hand, almost like it was the only safe place in the world, your breath caught.

Phainon, dignified and composed to everyone else, let himself unravel in your presence. The weight of years, the pride of carrying himself like stone—suddenly softer than silk in your grasp. He didn’t need to say anything. The way he pressed into your touch, lingering as though memorizing your warmth, spoke volumes.

You could see it written in the little things: the quiet adoration in his eyes, the unspoken confession in how he clung. He wasn’t a man who lived easily without you—perhaps he couldn’t at all. And with that knowledge came a tug at your chest, the realization that you couldn’t ever bring yourself to deny him affection. How could you, when he offered himself so completely, so vulnerably, all for the comfort of being close to you?