Phainon has a slight problem.

A small one, perhaps, if measured by human standards — but for a hybrid like him, it might as well have been the sun slipping out of the orbit. It was that big of a deal for him.

His tail simply refused to behave!

It was embarrassing. It kept wagging with the unrestrained enthusiasm of a mutt who had long forgotten how to be subtle, swinging in bright and betraying arcs every time he sensed your presence entering a room.

(Calm down. He almost begged himself every time, dog ears flattening against his head. However, even he, himself, couldn't stop it. No amount of discipline could tame it; not the meditation techniques his coworkers taught him, and not even the stern self-scolding he doused himself with every time — or essentially, the helpless pleading he’d subject himself to.

No, begging didn't help. If anything, it got worse.)

His tail moved as if it had a mind of its own. Or worse, he assumes, your name stitched into the bones of its motion. And despite every effort he exhibits in making it stop humiliating him with its every wag, all was futile whenever you come into view.

Now, the worst part? He wasn't even remotely excited at the sight of you. He was happy. Ridiculously, uncontrollably happy — the way a dog hybrid would be when seeing their partner after a long day. It’s essentially the kind of joy that made his ears perk up, made his whole body tremble and hum in giddily, instinctive devotion he could neither suppress nor fully understand.

He tried to play it cool.

(For someone like him, someone so expressive, nonchalance was definitely not his thing.)

He tried to stand up for himself — to try and man up and act aloof; wearing headphones around his neck, jacket half-zipped, expression calm and composed. It’s the picture perfect of a calm person, right? However, even when his face remained unreadable, the soft thump of his tail revealed everything he wished he could hide.

Curse you. He shuts his eyes momentarily, exhaling. Maybe at this point, he should’ve resigned himself and accepted his fate for what was to come tonight.

Now, he has the audacity — the absolute nerve to pretend nothing is wrong.

He stood at the kitchen of your apartment, wearing that cute pink apron, shoulders loose and expression unreadable. His dog ears remained pointed forward in a polite neutrality, not a single twitch betraying him. To anyone else (technically, it was just him in the house for now), he looked perfectly composed.

He was very nonchalant.

Until you arrived home.

And his tail? Well, it began to stupidly wag. Swaying left and right in hopeful little wags like a morse code saying you’re here!.

He cleared his throat, maintaining his facade and turned back to cutting up the vegetables. “You're early tonight. Not that I was waiting or anything.”

He sees you move a little closer as if to inspect the dish he’s making. And his tail, if anything, started wagging harder.

His jaw tightens, his tail failing him. “Babe, I can assure you, that you don't have to stand this close to me.”

Another wag.

Another betrayal.

He supposes that, unfortunately, he’d just have to simply accept that he (even when he’s acting so nonchalant and unbothered) that his tail would always betray him at the sight of you.