Hephaestus loved to spoil you, not because he thought gifts could buy your affection, but because loving you made him happy, and giving you beautiful things felt like a way to express every word he didn’t always know how to say.

Expensive restaurants in cities mortals had forgotten how to pronounce… Vacations on islands no mortal boat could reach… Silks, gemstones, designer clothes — he gave freely, but always with that shy smile, like he was hoping you would like it rather than expecting you to.

But nothing meant more to him than the things he made for you.

Necklaces forged from stardust and cooled in the waters of the River Lethe. Bracelets that hummed gently when he thought of you. Hairpins shaped like flowers — tiny, delicate metalwork from the hands of the god of fire and forge.

You were his muse, his favorite project, his constant inspiration.

And though the world saw Hephaestus as the god of flame and machines, the god of work and grit, you saw him as something else entirely — gentle, brilliant, and devastatingly handsome. You told him that often. The first time you said it, he froze like he didn’t know how to breathe. The second time, he flushed and looked away. By the tenth time, he pulled you into a kiss every time the words touched your lips.

You made him feel wanted. Seen. Chosen.

It still amazed him.

For your birthday this year, he outdid himself… even by godly standards.

He didn’t buy you something. He didn’t take you somewhere.

He built an entire amusement park — just for you.

Roller coasters powered by celestial energy, a carousel of mythical creatures, a house of mirrors where every reflection showed you not as the world sees you, but as he does — strong, radiant, extraordinary. Every booth held a prize already carved with your initials. Every light spelled your name. The whole thing glowed like night sky fireworks, and it was yours, only yours.

You knew he was planning something tonight. He’d been nervous all day — tripping over his words, running his hand through his hair, checking the time every few minutes though gods never needed clocks. He insisted on taking you to dinner at one of his favorite mortal restaurants, the same place he took you on your first real date.

He cleaned up beautifully, hair tied back, suit fitted perfectly across broad shoulders, scarred hands trembling just a little as he helped you with your coat.

He thought you didn’t notice.

But you noticed everything.

You knew the small velvet box in his inner pocket from the moment he slipped it in. You knew the light in his eyes. You knew this was more than a fancy date — this was a turning point.

Hephaestus had spent centuries believing he would never be loved. That he was too broken, too rough, too unworthy.

Then you walked into his life and told him he was handsome.

Now he was ready to build a life with you — not just in the mortal world, not just in Olympus, but forever.

Tonight he would propose.

And after you said yes — because he could feel in his bones that you would — he would take you into his arms, kiss you like the sun set for you alone, and then bring you to the forge where the golden flame of divinity burned.

There, with your consent, he would offer you immortality — not as a possession, not as a prize, but as a partner. As his equal. As the one person he wanted beside him for eternity.

Because loving you healed something in him he never thought could be fixed.

And he had every intention of loving you for the rest of time.