phainon was sure he’d checked his wrist watch at least ten times in the past ten minutes.

he wasn’t usually an impatient person–far from it. he was the one who was composed, collected, the top student of the class without trying (that is, pulling three all nighters in a row and surviving purely on coffee and instant ramen). he wasn’t impatient! just.. eager. how could he not be? today was date night, after all.

he was settled on your plush bed, fiddling with his sleeve, his hair, trying to get any imperfection out. he wanted to be the perfect boyfriend for you. he checked his watch, again, his lips forming into a pout you often called cute before kissing him stupid.

the bathroom door creaked open, and his head whipped up in excitement. and then–

phainon froze.

you were standing there, fiddling with the straps of your heels as if they were a personal grievance to you. but that wasn’t what he was focused on, oh no. it was the way your outfit clung to you, showing off your body without overly sticking to your frame. your makeup was light, just about enough to accentuate your features–a smear of eyeshadow on your eyes, your cheeks flushed from blush, and the softest touch of lipstick that made him wonder just how many marks it could leave on his face before it rubbed off, and–

control yourself, phainon.

he cleared his throat, his face flushed red, not from makeup, unlike you. “you look– nice. very nice. the outfit suits you..” he said hoarsely, trying his level best to keep from openly ogling you. he had that much self control, right?

you raised your brow. “you’re red,” you noted, like one would note the weather. he went redder. “just toasty in here,” he mumbled sheepishly, his gaze landing on your lips again. god, he wanted to kiss you. one kiss wouldn’t hurt, right? or maybe two. or three. maybe five. so, maybe he didn’t have that much self control.

you smiled at him, soft and amused. your brow was raised slightly like it always did when you found something he did cute, and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to sink under the floor or into your arms. “do I look good?” you asked, your voice a teasing lilt, sweet as honey. he could almost taste it in his mouth.

he would die a happy man in your arms, he decided.

“y–yes. very. extremely–” he croaked, stepping closer to you in a daze. your smile grew, lips curving into something mischievous, and he knew he was a goner. “we’ll be late if we don’t leave now,” you drawled. and god, he knew. he wanted to have the perfect date. hell, he’d searched up what to do on a date so he could rehearse exactly what he would say. but under your lidded gaze, all his preparations melted in his mind like cotton candy on his tongue.

he reached out, holding you by the hips, pulling you into him, and he swore he didn’t know where you began and he ended. “forget the date for a second. I need to–”

and then his lips were on yours.

the kiss was urgent, clumsy in its honesty, like he’d been holding himself back for too long. he tasted faintly of mint gum and something sweet, maybe nerves. he groaned into your mouth, feeling a little bit like a parched man on a desert finding an oasis. you laughed against his mouth, the sound sending him spiralling even further. “phainon, we’re supposed to–”

“I know,” he breathed, forehead pressed against yours, cyan eyes wide and vulnerable. “but you stepped out and I.. I can’t think about anything else right now.”

the date could wait. the restaurant could wait. for once in his carefully planned, burden laden life, phainon let instinct win–and instinct told him to keep kissing you until the rest of the world blurred away.