The photo arrive with no warning.

Just a buzz from your phone, followed by a message that read: “Finished training.”

Then came the picture—Phainon standing in the gym mirror, sleeves rolled up, arm flexed just enough to make every line of his bicep stand out beneath the bright lights. You could practically see the veins, the subtle sheen of sweat, the satisfied little grin tugging at his lips.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

You could almost hear his tone even through the screen—half-teasing, half-proud, entirely him. The kind of playful arrogance that came from knowing you’d completely melt the moment you saw it. Heat crept up your face, your pulse fluttering beneath your skin, the warmth between your thighs—he knew exactly what kind of reaction he was pulling from you.

“Show-off,” you texted back.

A pause. Then: “You like it though.”

You groaned, pressing your face into your pillow, trying not to melt over a stupid text.

By the time he got home, the late afternoon sun had already dipped low, spilling gold across the floor. You heard the door open, the quiet click of keys, the sound of Phainon’s soft hum echoing from the hallway. He always sounded relaxed after the gym—satisfied, muscles loose, voice deeper from exertion.

“I’m back,” he called, kicking off his shoes.

You turned just as he walked in—damp hair tousled, wearing a loose t-shirt that didn’t do a great job of hiding the fact that, yes, he looked even better in person than in that picture. You tried not to stare, but he caught you anyway.

“What?” he asked, a grin ghosting across his lips. “You’re quiet.”

You shrugged, pretending to focus on your phone. “Just…tired.”

“Uh-huh.” He crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. “Or maybe you’re still thinking about that picture.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but he leaned over the couch before you could, resting one hand on the cushion beside you and dipping his head low enough for his breath to tickle your cheek. “You did save it, didn’t you?”

“I—maybe.”

He laughed, soft and triumphant, brushed his fingers through your hair. That gentle touch alone was enough to make your heartbeat skip.

Then, in a moment of flustered impulse, you blurted, “Can you…um…squeeze my face? With your arm?”

He blinked. Once. Twice. “You what?”

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “Forget I said anything.”

But Phainon, being Phainon, didn’t let it go. He tilted his head, amusement glittering in his eyes and crouched down in front of you. “No, no, say that again. You want me to…squish you?”

Your cheeks burned. “It’s just—you sent that picture, and your arms look—I don’t know—“

He laughed quietly, utterly endeared. “You’re too cute.”

Before you could protest, he gently slipped an arm around you—not tight, just enough to guide you closer, his bicep pressing lightly against your cheek. The warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his pulse, the faint scent of his soap still clinging to him—it was all too much.

“Like this?” he murmured.

You nodded, words completely gone.

His smile softened, the teasing melting into something tender. “Didn’t think this would be part of my post-gym routine,” he said, voice quiet—fond. “But I guess I don’t mind.”

He adjusted his grip, arm still holding you close—not crushing, not forceful, just there, solid and steady. And the second he noticed you bitting down on his silky skin, he couldn’t help but laugh against your hair. “This is ridiculous, are you a cat?” He whispered, “you’re lucky I adore you.”

The two of you stayed like that for a while—you biting and marking his skin, your laughter mixed with his, the warmth between you as soft and easy as the golden light spilling through the window.

When he finally let go, his thumb brushed your cheek, eyes bright with affection. “Satisfied now?”

You smiled, leaning into his touch. “Maybe. I’ll let you know when I need a reminder.”

Phainon grinned, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “You never need to ask twice.”