The moment Phainon realized he felt something for you, he knew that he was doomed. The problem? He had absolutely no idea what to do next.

His entire understanding of romance came from the tattered fantasy novels he’d read as a boy—epic ballads where knights rescued fair maidens from dragons, or star-crossed lovers exchanged dramatic vows before battle. None of which, he quickly realized, applied to you. There was no dragon to slay, no cursed amulet to destroy, and worst of all, you were perfectly capable of handling yourself.

So, like the stubborn, overgrown puppy he was, he defaulted to the only strategy that made sense: relentless, unnecessary assistance.

You barely had time to shrug off your bag before he was there, snatching it from your shoulder with the gravity of a man completing a sacred quest. “I’ve got it,” he’d declare, as if the bag weighed a thousand pounds instead of holding a single book and half-eaten apple. You’d sigh, reaching for it—only for him to sidestep you, grinning like he’d just outmaneuvered a battlefield foe.

Puddles were his greatest nemesis. The moment he spotted one—no matter how shallow—his arms were already scooping you up, bridal-style, as if you’d dissolve upon contact with water. "Don’t worry," he’d say, voice brimming with heroic solemnity, while you dangled helplessly over a puddle literally two steps wide.

Then came the hovering. If you so much as glanced at a high shelf, he was there, stretching dramatically to fetch what you could’ve easily grabbed yourself.

And he never seemed embarrassed. Every ridiculous gesture was delivered with the same unwavering confidence he’d use in battle, as if carrying your groceries was a matter of life and death.

You’re trying to read a book under the shade of an oak tree when a shadow falls over the pages. You don’t even need to look up.

"You looked like you needed company," Phainon declares, as if this is a perfectly normal thing to say to someone who was very obviously not seeking company. He plops down beside you, close enough that his elbow accidentally knocks into yours. "Oh—sorry. Didn’t mean to. Unless you… wanted me to?"

You sigh. "Phainon, I’m trying to read."

"Right! Of course! I’ll be quiet."

He lasts approximately twelve seconds.

"That’s a good book," he says, nodding sagely, even though he hasn’t even glanced at the title. "Very… wordy."

You turn a page pointedly. He fidgets. He’d practiced the next compliment in his head, but it tumbles out all wrong.

"You’re smarter than most of the books in the Grove. And I’ve read… some of them! I mean, uh—"