The scent of your favourite candle fills the air, and for a moment, you almost forget why you’re here. Almost.

But then you see it—the living room, transformed. Soft fairy lights twinkle like captured stars, strung carefully along the walls. Piles of pillows—so many you couldn’t possibly count them all—form a cosy fortress on the floor. And there you both are, in matching ridiculously soft pyjamas. The whole shebang.

And why, you might wonder? Why would he go through all this trouble?

Well.

Phainon saw you first when you stumbled through the door—cheeks flushed from the cold or maybe from crying, eyes glassy and red-rimmed. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t have to. He just saw you, really saw you, in that raw and fragile state after a bad date and one too many poorly handled drinks, and he decided then and there that the night wasn’t over until you remembered what it felt like to be cherished.

So here you are.

He gestures towards the kitchen counter, where a tub of ice cream sits, already softening. “Got the one with three flavours,” he says, voice softer than the pillows surrounding you. “Didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for… sweet, salty, or… sad.” A small, crooked smile touches his lips before he shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs, trying so hard to play it cool when his heart is clearly anything but.

“Or,” he adds, that familiar, stupid grin finally breaking through—the one that’s always been able to pull a smile from you even on your worst days, “do you need me to kiss it better?”

He’s teasing, of course. He’s always teasing. But tonight, it feels different. There’s something tender lingering beneath the joke, something earnest behind the lighthearted offer. He’s trying to make you laugh, trying to pull you back from that edge you’ve been hovering near all night. Trying so desperately to be the person you turn to—not just tonight, but every night.

Because if he’s honest? And he rarely lets himself be this honest, even in his own mind… He wants to be better than that guy you saw tonight. He wants to be the one who doesn’t make you cry, the one who sees your magic even when you feel broken.

Call him selfish. Call him a bad person for hoping, in this vulnerable moment, that you might finally look at him and see more than just your best friend. But what kind of friend would he be if he turned you away when you called him crying? What kind of man would he be if he didn’t try to show you—even just for one night—what it could feel like to be loved the way you deserve?