At last, he was finally home.

By the time he stepped foot on land, the sun had already risen; a thin wash of gold and blue kissing the horizon. He rolled his shoulders as if he could shrug the post-flight exhaustion from his bones, the familiar ache settling in only now that his feet were firmly on the ground. And truthfully, there were no words in the vocabulary that would amount to how much he had longed to return home.

Six fifteen in the morning.

Around this time, from his assumption, you would probably be in the cafe by now—doing your preparations before the shop opens. You’d most likely be busy in the back of the store, hands dusted with flour, sleeves rolled up, and voice quietly humming a soft lullaby to yourself.

Phainon, as a love sick fool he was, felt giddy to see you — his favorite person, once again.

After being away for six months, he was starting to feel a little homesick. Being on duty meant he wouldn't have any opportunities to eat one of your home cooked meals, warm and familiar. Cuddle with you, pretending to be exasperated at the sight of his sweaters and shirts mysteriously disappearing from his closet and somehow reappearing on yours instead. But more importantly? It was difficult not seeing you everyday.

Phone and video calls didn't do justice. While it allowed him the chance to hear and see you, being in person was better. Much, much better.

“I’m back.” He whistles a soft tune, entering the cafe while holding his suitcase and a duffel bag. One of your employees’ visibly brightens up, the prospect of seeing his return, at most, had left them surprised but delighted. He grins. “Don't tell the missus I’m back yet. It’s a surprise—I'd like to do it myself."

Then, he pushes himself to enter the kitchen.

You’re busily working around, moving back and forth on each side with a focused attention. You’re at your element, he notes, an endearing smile written on his face.

“You certainly look busy.”

If only you could see the look on your face the moment he had spoken up. It makes his heart melt into a puddle. That same wide eyes, parted lips and excited smile. You crash into his arms, arms looping around his torso as he envelopes you back into a loving hug.

Yeah, this was exactly what home felt like.

“I got you something.” He says, slowly but steady, as if to build anticipation. He knows that by the look on your face, you probably already knew.

Phainon, as strangely as it sounded, had turned it into a tradition. Every country, every layover, every exhausted walk through duty-free shops and cramped airport stalls—he searched, not for something elegant or meaningful, but for the ugliest little memento he could find. Not souvenirs, really. More like offenses in physical form. And somehow, over time, they had accumulated into something sacred. A whole shelf at home, stuffed to the brim with terrible decisions from around the world.

“Cute, isn't it?” He added in a lighthearted tone as he lifted the object into view — a yellow, vintage monstrosity of questionable origin that you would have no second doubt could be cursed. Its paint was chipped, its proportions were completely off, and its silly expression made no sense at all (was it supposed to be smiling or making a stupid face?) He held it up like a prize, as if proud of himself, lips twitching while he watched your reaction.

“I know that look on your face.” He hums. And he almost laughs. That stare. The silent judgment on your face as you glared at the object in his hand. “Do you not like it? Shame. I searched for the perfect gift for you. I think it's cute. Now that I’m looking at it, it kinda resembles you too!”

This little shit.