Chapter Text
Before he is Phainon, he was Khaslana.
Khaslana was forged in light. A soldier, a guardian, sharpened into obedience by God’s own hand. He was not meant to question, nor to wander, nor to want. He was meant to protect, to watch, to keep safe of what was his to keep.
And that human is you.
You were eighteen the first time he met you—though “met” might be the wrong word because you haven’t met him then. You didn’t even know he was there. He existed like a shadow stitched to your back: quiet and invisible. He watched you stumble through late adolescence with your clumsy joys and stubborn griefs, watched you laugh with friends until you wheezed, watched you cry alone when you thought no one was looking. He learned every rhythm of your life from the margins.
But that was Khaslana. That was the name stitched into him when he was nothing more than a blade in God’s armory. Phainon came later, when he found the world too heavy, when he needed something softer—something that belonged less to heaven and more to you.
And he was good at it—being your guard. But then the watching became knowing, and knowing became something else entirely. He learned the way your fingers tapped when you were restless, the way you muttered to yourself when you thought no one was listening, the small fragile rituals that made you human. He learned you—and in learning you, he fell.
Angels are not meant to fall in love. It is law. To love a human is not only forbidden, it is also impossible. Or it should have been. But Khaslana thought of nothing else. And when heaven stripped him of his title, tore “guardian” away from his name, he didn’t drift away as they had intended. Instead, he clung harder.
That was how Khaslana became Phainon. A name softer on your tongue, easier for your breath. Khaslana was heaven’s soldier, but Phainon is yours.
But heaven did not forgive. Other guardians were sent to you—assigned you as their human—so he destroyed them, one by one, until the halls above deemed him fallen. And still, he lingered. Still, he claimed. Still, he circled you like the most faithful orbit a star could command.
He tells you he can’t touch you—skin against skin—because it would hurt him. What he doesn’t admit is that it already hurts. To be near you, to see you, to hear you—it tears at the seams of him, but he cannot leave. If he touched you, felt you, he fears he’d unravel completely.
So he keeps the rule. He keeps the distance that isn’t distance at all. And he keeps you, even if heaven calls it a sin.
STEP 1: DO NOT LET THEM OUT OF YOUR SIGHT
Phainon is never more than three feet away from you. Everywhere you go, he follows: always a step behind, or an arm’s length beside you. He makes certain you’re near—which is precisely why he despises the minutes when you’re inside the bathroom; the hours when you need to be at work, leaving him behind with Castorice at her cafe.
It isn’t that he dislikes her company. She’s kind, patient in a way most mortals aren’t, and her presence somewhat keeps his restlessness at bay, but it isn’t the same as being with you.
He likes you. He prefers you. That’s the whole point of his existence, isn’t it? To be yours. To live and breathe and orbit because of you. He was made for that—made for you, born for you, carved into the shape of something that only makes sense when you’re near. So when you leave, when your back is turned and the space between you is stretched too far, it feels like something’s been carved out of him.
But you keep insisting work is important. And he knows it is because he’s seen the effort you pour into it, the joy you take in it when you accomplish something, the way your hands and your body move with purpose, the bonds you’ve created with the others. He knows how much love you give in everything that you do—that doesn’t mean he has to like it, though.
Because when you’re gone, he can’t watch over you properly. While he could teleport to your side the instant you’re in danger, that isn’t the same. He can’t see your every step, can’t hear the rhythm of your breath, can’t know in each second who you’re interacting with. And for someone made to guard, there is nothing more unbearable than that.
That’s why Phainon is quite grateful for your co-worker, Cipher. She comes often during lunch, slipping into the cafe to chat with Castorice.
(It reminds him of when you used to come too—when your breaks belonged here with him, before you decided he should spend his hours away tucked quietly in the coffee shop.
Sometimes he wonders if he should cause trouble again like he had before. Would that bring you back to him? Would you come see him during your breaks again? Would you come then, if he caused enough of a scene?)
He has made it a ritual to ask her about you: if you’ve been eating properly (“Yep.”), if anyone at the office has been bothering you (“Just Karen blabbering about her dogs as usual.”), if your smile was a little tired today (“They’re always tired.”), and if that senior of yours stood too close (Cipher always laughs at him when he asks, dismisses his concern with a wave, and never cares to elaborate).
Aside from the other angels, your senior remains one of his biggest worries.
Phainon loathes him. He knows the man is drawn to you and it sickens him. He remembers the proof of it too well: that night when you’d returned to the cafe with a box of muffins in your arms. And though no one will ever love you more than he does, the man has what Phainon can’t bring himself to offer—home-cooked meals, warm pastries, the easy intimacy of touch. All the gentle, human gestures Phainon is barred from.
He also remembers the men who cornered you that same night. The way their hands reached for you, sullied and unworthy. He remembers the wild rush of his fist breaking against one of their jaws, and how much more he had wanted to do. He would have torn them apart—every bone, every tendon, every breath—if they hadn’t ran off. If not for you.
(And later, in the sanctuary of your apartment, he remembers your hands on him. Not tender in the way that lovers touch, but in the way you touch—clumsy, careful, and unbearably human.
He remembers the crease of your brow as you dabbed at his split lip, the flutter of your lashes as you tried to focus, and the tremor in your fingers, brushing so close—close enough that if he just leaned in, took your hand in his, and broke his own rule, he could have felt your skin.
He didn’t. He couldn’t. Because if he really touched you, he feared he would fall apart entirely.
So instead, he waited—at least until you slept. He slipped into the bathroom and took himself in his hand. He touched himself with the thought of you, until his body wrung dry and his hand ached and his cock throbbed raw. It’s the only way he allows himself to reach you—the only way he convinces himself he can endure the distance he created.
Until then, he worships you in silence.
Until then, his only salvation is his ruin.)
That’s why Phainon has grown even more anxious. Because if danger can find you even when you’re with him—under his watch, within reach of his hand—then what would happen if you were alone? If you were beyond his sight, beyond his grasp? The thought gnaws at him like teeth on bone.
So now, he doesn’t even risk the space between bus stops, or the careless shuffle of strangers brushing too close. He teleports you everywhere—home, work, anywhere in between. It’s the one precaution he knows he can control. No more streets, no more double fares that you love to complain about. No more what ifs.
You sigh at the habit, of course—you always do. You call him dramatic, paranoid, impossible. But Phainon only shakes his head, calm but unyielding, and says that it’s best this way.
And in his mind, it is.
Because every moment he doesn’t lose sight of you feels like another victory, another crisis averted before it can exist.
By the time you finish work and step into the café, Phainon is already on his feet. The book he’d been pretending to read is abandoned mid-page, his chair shoved back so quickly it almost topples. His eyes are on you the entire time, sharp and searching, like he needs to confirm you made it here in one piece.
“Relax,” you say, shrugging off your bag as you cross the room. “I survived another day at the office.”
He doesn’t smile. He just studies you for one more heartbeat before some of the tension in his shoulders finally unwinds and he nods. Castorice waves you a cheerful goodbye from behind the counter—and you wave back—but Phainon hardly glances her way. He’s already tugging you toward the door.
The evening air bites a little, cooler than you expected. Phainon hovers close, and it makes you huff. “So,” you mutter as the two of you fall into step together, “are we taking the bus this time or are you teleporting us back again?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze sweeps the street, scanning every shadow, every passerby, as though the wrong kind of look might be enough to justify whisking you away.
Finally, his eyes return to you. “Whichever keeps you safest.”
You groan. “That’s not an answer. It’s like living with a very tall, very stubborn coin flip.”
His mouth twitches—something just shy of a smile. “Then you may choose.”
“Really?” You beam at him, eyes bright. “Because I will choose the bus.”
Phainon nods, and this time it’s not just a polite curve of his lips but a genuine smile. “Then let’s take the bus this time.”
A delighted squeal escapes you before you can stop it. You even bounce on your toes, a quick little hop of joy that makes Phainon blink in surprise. “Great! I’ve actually been missing public transport lately.”
The words sound absurd out loud—who misses crowded buses, sticky railings, and engines that smell faintly of gasoline? But you do, in a way.
“You miss it?” Phainon asks.
“Yeah.” You hug your bag tighter, a little sheepish. “I miss looking out the window. Watching the streets roll by, people hurrying home, lights flicking on one by one… it makes me feel like I’m really there, you know? Like I’m part of the world instead of just skipping through it.”
For a moment, he just stares at you, head tilted, clearly trying to understand why you’d choose rattling seats and diesel fumes over the elegance of teleportation. But then, his gaze softens.
“If that’s what you want,” he says quietly, “then we’ll take the bus as often as you like.”
You glance up at him, startled by the sincerity. “Really? So if I wanted to take the bus every single day, you’d say yes?”
His mouth twitches. “Maybe… let’s do it once a week instead.”
You pout immediately. “Once? That’s barely anything. At least twice a week would be nice!”
“Once,” he repeats firmly.
You narrow your eyes at him, then summon your deadliest weapon: wide, pleading eyes, the kind that shine like you’ve just been abandoned in the rain. You tilt your head, lip caught between your teeth, and look at him with every ounce of cuteness you can muster.
“Please,” you plead, dragging the word out.
It nearly undoes him.
His jaw tightens, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides, because every instinct screams at him to close the distance, to kiss that pout away, to ruin that sweetness until it’s flushed and panting under his touch. Unholy thoughts crowd his mind, thoughts that have no place on a quiet evening street, and it takes everything in him not to give in.
“Alright,” he finally relents, voice low and rougher than before. “Twice a week.”
Your face lights up instantly. You throw your hands up in a tiny cheer, bouncing on your toes. “Yes! Victory!”
Phainon only shakes his head, half exasperated, half charmed. But the truth is, he would have given you anything if you asked him with eyes like that.
The two of you make your way down the block until the bus stop comes into view—a faded sign, a cracked bench, and a few other commuters scattered around, shuffling bags and checking phones. You plop down on the bench with a satisfied sigh, swinging your legs slightly like a kid.
“See? This already feels better,” you say, tipping your head back to look up at him.
Phainon stands beside you, posture taut, scanning the sidewalk as though a full battalion might spring from the shadows at any moment. “Is it? I don’t really see the appeal,” he says, uninterested.
“Yes.” You point at the empty stretch of road where headlights will appear any minute now. “Waiting for the bus. Watching people pass by. I think there’s something beautiful about it.”
He doesn’t answer, but his gaze flicks back to you, softening despite himself. Then headlights cut through the dusk, the low growl of an engine following close behind. The bus slows to a stop, doors hissing open.
You tug on his sleeve. “Come on, it’s here!”
Moments later, the two of you are squeezed into a seat at the back, the window pressed against your shoulder and Phainon pressed against your other side. It’s crowded, the kind of crowd where personal space is wishful thinking at best, and the narrow seat leaves no choice but for your arms to touch.
It isn’t skin-to-skin—your jacket brushing against his sleeve, the fabric a thin barrier between you—but for Phainon, it might as well be. He sits unnaturally still, as though afraid a single shift will draw attention to how much he’s savoring this tiny, illicit closeness.
You lean toward the glass, chin propped on your hand as you watch the city roll by in streaks of color and light. “I missed this.”
He turns his head slightly, not to the window, not to the streets, but to you. To the slope of your cheek reflected faintly in the glass, to the quiet contentment in your face. And though he’ll never admit it aloud, he understands now why you wanted this.
Because here, in this cramped little seat, he’s allowed to be closer than he ever dares otherwise. And if the bus is what brings him this—your warmth against him, steady and real—then maybe he can learn to love public transport, too.
By the time you both finally get home, you’re already peeling yourself out of your workday. You toss your bag onto the couch, kick off your shoes, and head straight for the bathroom.
“I’ll just take a quick shower,” you say over your shoulder.
Phainon nods, already moving to stand sentinel outside the door like always. By the time you step out again, damp-haired and wrapped in pajamas, he’s still there—right where you left him.
You shake your head, padding barefoot into the kitchen. The fridge hums softly as you pull out the container of leftovers from last night’s dinner, reheating it in the microwave. The smell soon fills the room—warm, comforting—and sure enough, Phainon is right behind you.
“Want some too?” you ask, glancing at him as you set the steaming plate on the counter.
He shakes his head. “No. You should finish it.”
You raise a brow. “You sure? It’s enough for two.”
“You need it more than I do,” he replies simply, smiling, like it’s not even up for debate.
So you sit down and eat under his watchful gaze, the kind of silence that’s become too familiar, too routine. When you’re done, you rinse your mouth, brush your teeth, and shuffle toward bed with a long yawn stretching your jaw.
As you climb beneath the sheets, Phainon’s voice rumbles low from the kitchen. “I’ll wash the dishes this time.”
You blink at him over your shoulder. “You sure?”
He gives a small smile. “Yes. Rest. I’ll take care of it.”
You don’t argue. You just let yourself sink into the mattress, drifting off as the sound of running water and clinking dishes follows you into sleep.
Even though it hasn’t even been that long since you crawled under the sheets, you’re already gone—out like a light, breathing soft and steady. The day has caught up to you, and exhaustion drapes over you heavier than the blanket itself.
Phainon lingers in the kitchen until the last dish is rinsed and set to dry. Then he wipes his hands, quiet as a shadow, and returns to his usual post: the couch, angled perfectly so he can see you from where you sleep.
It’s a ritual now. He sits there for a long time, still as stone, gaze fixed only on you. Watching your chest rise and fall. Counting each inhale, each exhale, as though the sound of your breathing is the only clock he needs to measure the night.
An hour passes. The silence stretches. Then—rustling. The faint shift of sheets. The restless slide of your body turning beneath the blanket.
Phainon perks up instantly. He’s on his feet before he even thinks about it, moving toward you like a tide pulled by gravity. At the foot of your bed, he stops, watching. You stir again, caught somewhere between dream and wakefulness, your movements small but uneasy. The blankets twist around your legs, your brow furrows faintly, and a soft murmur escapes your lips.
Phainon stands there, eyes tracing every twitch of your fingers, every flicker of discomfort in your face. It should be routine by now, but tonight—just like any other night spent with you—his chest tightens as his eyes catch on small, dangerous details.
Your shirt has ridden up in sleep, fabric bunched just above your midriff, baring the soft slope of skin. Every slow rise and fall of your stomach draws his gaze, no matter how hard he tells himself to look away. And then there are the sounds. Little puffs of breath, uneven and delicate, slipping past your parted lips. Sometimes they catch in your throat, sometimes they come out almost like a whimper, and every one of them digs under his skin.
It coils inside him—the ache, the pull, the sharp edge of want he has no right to feel. He clenches his fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms, grounding himself with the sting. He reminds himself that you’re sleeping, innocent of the storm he’s holding back.
Still, the thoughts flood in unbidden. The idea of smoothing that shirt back into place, of brushing his fingers along the line of your waist, your lips, your legs, and maybe even beneath those shorts of yours. The shameful imagining of leaning down, pressing his mouth where your breath hitches soft and shallow, at the curve of your throat, then lower to the swell of your chest—anywhere his lips might draw a gasp.
Eventually, he can’t bear it anymore.
He tears himself away from the foot of your bed and slips into the bathroom. The lock clicks shut. He braces both hands on the sink, head bowed, trying to steady the ragged edge of his breathing. When he looks at the mirror, his reflection is almost feral, eyes dark and jaw tense.
This is routine too—the only way to survive nights like these, when being near you strips him raw. He drags a hand over his face and his hair, before lowering and pulling his cock out.
He starts slow, fingers curling around his shaft in a languid stroke, almost taunting himself with the pace. His thoughts flicker back—not just to the way your shirt rode up, baring a sliver of skin he ached to touch—but to the look you gave him before the bus ride. The pout, those wide eyes, the pleading invitation that nearly shattered his control then and there on the street.
The memory is enough to make his grip tighten, strokes growing quicker, rougher, greedier. In his mind, it’s your hand sliding over his cock right now—your touch, your warmth, the way your thumb might circle him just right, or how your breath would ghost over his skin when you leaned close. He imagines your lips parting, whispering his name, whispering obscene words right in his ears, your body pressing against his as you guide him with a rhythm meant to undo him. He pumps faster, breath catching, hips twitching up to meet the imagined rhythm of you giving him what he craves.
The image sears through him now, hotter and more damning than anything his imagination could ever conjure. He sees the lift of your lashes, the tilt of your head, the warmth in your eyes that begged him for more than he should ever give. It loops in his mind, relentless, until the tension coiled inside him feels unbearable.
And then he hears your voice—breathy and insistent, whispering his name as if you were right here in the bathroom with him, and it snaps the last of his restraint. His body jerks, muscles locking tight as heat floods through him. Release rips out of him in heavy, desperate waves; and when it’s over, he slumps back against the wall, chest heaving.
And when morning comes, the sunlight seeps through the curtains, pale and unassuming.
Phainon has been awake for hours, though he never truly slept. He sits on the couch, hands folded, eyes fixed quietly on the shape of you tangled in the sheets. He listens to the rhythm of your breathing, steady now, no longer restless. Then you stir. The covers shift, your lashes flutter, and slowly, you push yourself upright. The sight draws him to his feet instantly, like instinct made flesh.
“Good morning,” he greets, voice warm and even, carrying none of the ruin from the night before.
You yawn, rubbing at your eyes, hair mussed from sleep. “Morning…”
The simplicity of it eases something in his chest. To you, it’s just another day. Nothing has changed. You don’t know how close he came to breaking last night, how your pouts and sleepy breaths still smolder in his veins like a sin he can’t confess.
And so he stands there, masking the storm with the same patient warmth you’ve come to expect. Because if there’s one thing Phainon knows how to do, it’s endure.