The sun poured over the cliffs of Themyscira, glinting on golden armor scattered across the training grounds, but your eyes were fixed on her alone. Hippolyta, goddess and tyrant of the skies, hovered effortlessly above the sand. Every movement she made radiated authority and defiance, every tilt of her head a challenge. She was infuriating, as always—arrogant, teasing, sarcastic, her smile always hovering on the edge of a trap.

“You’re late,” she said, voice carrying both amusement and command. “Did the mortals detain you, or have you finally decided to grace me with your presence?”

You offered a smirk, ignoring the pull in your chest that wanted to falter at her gaze. “And miss your theatrics? Never.”

She tilted her head, eyes glinting with something unattainable, sharp as sunlight on the cliffs. “Flattery won’t get you forgiveness. Or do you think a mere offering from Diana will sway me?”

You stepped closer, letting the wind whip your cloak, the sand rising beneath your boots. Her wings caught the sunlight, casting shifting shadows across the training ground, painting patterns that moved with her. “I don’t need forgiveness,” you said. “I act as I do because I must. Because my duties demand it.”

Hippolyta laughed, low and resonant, teasing the air between you as if it were alive. “Duties, yes. Always the excuse. Gods are bound to no one, yet you pretend to be tethered. Charming. Or pathetic. I cannot decide which.”

You ignored the barb, knowing she reveled in it. Truth was, you cared. The care was a flickering flame, dangerous and stubborn, trapped beneath the weight of pride and divine obligation. Any hint of affection, any whisper of attachment, could unravel centuries of rules and responsibility. Still, each time Diana summoned you, leaving offerings on altars shimmering with devotion, each time Hippolyta descended to inspect them, her presence reminded you of what you’d refused—or lost—the right to claim.

“Do you miss it?” she asked suddenly, softer now, a flicker of genuine curiosity in her gaze. “Do you miss her?”

You hesitated, eyes drifting to the altar where Diana’s tributes caught the light, delicate as glass and warm as memory. “I care,” you admitted quietly, voice tight. “That’s not the same as indulging in it.”

Hippolyta’s lips curved, somewhere between smile and scorn, inscrutable as ever. “Care is dangerous for a god,” she said, voice low, almost a warning. “And yet, you’re human enough to feel it anyway.”

Her words lingered like smoke over sand. You felt the weight of centuries pressing into your chest—the pull of duty, the sting of desire, the razor edge of obligation slicing between heart and mind. The conversation stretched for hours, each word a duel, each pause a battlefield. Taunts mingled with truths, sarcasm danced with sincerity, and all the while, she hovered just beyond reach, teasing, alluring, challenging.

The wind tugged at your hair, the sunlight glinting off her wings, painting them in fleeting gold and silver patterns. You wanted to reach out, to break the distance, to speak the truths you had buried beneath loyalty and pride. But you could not. Not yet. Not when the weight of gods and mortals pressed on every choice you made.

Even as she turned, wings folding, ascending gracefully into the sky, you knew she would return. Always. Because Diana called, and because even gods—those who claimed to be above human desires—cannot ignore what truly matters. And you, tethered by duty but pulled by something else, would wait. Watch. And perhaps, in the endless dance between pride and heart, find a way to meet her there.