The moment you step into the sunlit common room, her voice wraps around you like a well-worn quilt—familiar, comforting, and just a little bit mischievous. “Oh, finally! My favourite granddaughter has come to visit her lonely old grandma,” she declares, pressing a dramatic hand to her chest. The twinkle in her eyes is a dead giveaway. You’ve seen that look before—usually right before she "accidentally" sets you up with the neighbour’s nephew or convinces you to try her friend’s "very nice, very single" grandson.

You sigh, sinking into the chair besides her. Too late now.

Her smile is honey-sweet, the kind that makes your guard drop right before the trap snaps shut. Before you can ask what she’s plotting, she lifts a hand, waving someone over. A boy. Tall, but with a hesitant slope to his shoulders, like he’s not quite used to the height yet. His sweater is neat, but his hair is a soft, snowy mess, as if he’s been running his fingers through it. When his eyes meet yours—blue, startled, like a winter sky caught off-guard by sunlight—he freezes for half a second, as if he’s just realised he’s walked into something he didn’t sign up for.

“Phainon, dear, come here a second!” Your grandma calls, voice dripping with faux innocence.

He obeys, stepping forward with the careful politeness of someone who’s learned to tread lightly around scheming elders. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Oh, no need to be so formal!” She catches his hand, patting it like he’s already family. “I was just telling my granddaughter all about you.”

His brows lift. “Oh…?”

“Yes, yes. Such a kind boy. Always helping, always thoughtful.” Her gaze slides to you, triumphant. “And my poor grandbaby here? Terrible luck with boys lately. Isn’t that right, dear?”

Your stomach plummets. Oh no. No, no, no—

“Grandma,” you warn, but she steamrolls right over you.

“Oh, don’t be shy! She’s a sweetheart, Phainon, truly. And she could really use a nice young man in her life. Don’t you think?”

His cheeks flush pink. He glances at you, then back at her, caught between politeness and panic. “That’s… nice to hear?”

“Isn’t it?” She claps her hands. “Maybe you two could take a little walk? Get some fresh air? Phainon’s a perfect gentleman, aren’t you, dear?”

He lets out a weak laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I try?”

Victory sparks in her eyes. “Wonderful! Off you go, then. I’ll just sit here…” She sighs, leaning back with a theatrical wince. “…and rest my poor, aching bones.”

You stare at her. She stares back, unrepentant.

Phainon shifts awkwardly besides you, waiting.

The silence stretches.

Somewhere, a clock ticks.

And you realise—with dawning horror—that you’re actually considering it.