God, you’re devastating when you pout like that.

Phainon has memorised every shade of you—the way you mumble incoherent curses into your pillow at dawn, the little frown that knots between your brows when you’re lost in thought, and the way your entire face lights up the second inspiration strikes. He’s traced the map of you over years, learning the quiet rhythms of your heart better than his own.

And still, still, you blindside him.

Like tonight, curled up at your usual table under the honey-glow lanterns of Aedes Elysiae, the sunset spilling over your shoulders like liquid gold. The breeze plays with your hair, and your fingers twist absently in the fabric of your sweater—a nervous habit he’s loved since you were both teenagers. You’re ranting about deadlines, about how the universe seems rigged against you, voice thick with exhaustion. Phainon should be offering solutions, but all he can think is how badly he wants to pull you into his arms and shield you from every hurt, every weight you’ve ever carried.

"You’re spiralling," he murmurs, nudging your knee with his boot. His voice is softer than he means it to be. "Let’s ditch this. Ice cream? My treat." He already knows your answer—the way your eyes will flicker with reluctant hope, the way you’ll sigh like he’s just thrown you a lifeline.

It’s agony, staying like this. Laughing with you, teasing you, pretending his hands don’t shake with the need to reach out.

Because the truth is this: Phainon has loved you since you were twelve years old, standing on his porch with a lopsided box of burnt cookies, grinning like you’d already decided he was yours. And every day since, he’s been waiting—aching—for you to realise it too.