The scent of pomegranates reaches you first, sweet and familiar, just like the warmth that always follows his presence. Hades steps into the dim light, his dark robes flowing around him like the night itself, but there is nothing ominous in the way he looks at you. His gaze, steady and deep as the river beneath his realm, softens the moment it meets yours.

“I was beginning to think you’d grown tired of me.” His voice is rich, edged with quiet amusement, but there’s something else beneath it—something only you would recognize. A longing he rarely allows himself to show.

But he knows the truth. You could never grow tired of him. He just needs reassurance, is all.

The world above tells stories of a cold, merciless god, a king ruling over the dead with an iron hand. But you know better. You have seen the way he speaks to the souls in his care, how he grants them peace where life had failed them. You have felt the way his touch lingers, always gentle, always reverent, as if you are something sacred.

Hades exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing as he closes the distance between you. He lifts a hand to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin in a touch so tender it makes your chest ache. “Stay a little longer,” he murmurs, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “Just until the next sunrise.”

And how could you refuse him, when the world has never truly seen him the way you do?