Phobos had never been an easy god to love.

Not because he was cruel. Not because he was monstrous. But because everyone said he was.

Everyone except you.

You’d seen the softness beneath the terror, the shy warmth beneath the armor, the way he steadied your trembling hands in the Underworld gardens when you got overwhelmed, the way he always brought you flowers—not conjured, not stolen, but grown by his own hands. A god of fear who coaxed vines into blooming just because you liked them.

But in one careless moment… you shattered him.

⸻

You were sitting with a group of nymphs, sunlight filtering through leaves like spilled gold. They were gossiping, giggling, pushing you for details about the “terrifying” son of Ares.

“So? Are you going to marry him?” one asked, voice lilting.

You’d rolled your eyes, heat crawling up your neck—embarrassed, cornered, suddenly not wanting your heart on display.

“Marry him? Why would I marry that monster and have kids with him? Gods, no.”

Your laugh was too loud.

Your smile too sharp.

The nymphs snickered, pleased by your cruelty.

And then you felt it—the shift in the air, cold and heavy, like a shadow crossing the sun.

You turned.

Phobos stood behind you.

Not armored. Not radiating fear. Just holding a bouquet of dark red poppies and ghost orchids—your favorites.

His hands were shaking.

And his eyes… his eyes looked like he had just been struck.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

When he finally did, it was barely a voice at all.

“…A monster.”

The nymphs froze, going pale.

“Phobos—” you began, rising to your feet.

He stepped back, as if your touch itself might burn him.

“You know,” he said hoarsely, “I thought—because you stayed, because you laughed with me, because you looked at me like I wasn’t just… fear…” His breath caught. “I thought you saw me.” But I was excited,” he whispered, staring at the flowers. “I wanted to surprise you. Thought maybe… maybe today you’d tell me you wanted us to be something more.”

You felt your stomach drop, shame burning hotter than Helios’ chariot.

“I do see you,” you pleaded.

He swallowed hard. “Everyone calls us monsters. Since the moment Deimos and I were born, everyone decided what we were. I… I didn’t think you saw me like that.”

He lowered the flowers. His hands trembled again.

You stepped forward, reaching for him—slow, careful, like approaching a wounded animal.

“Phobos, please, I didn’t mean that. I don’t know why I said it. I—”

“Oh, you meant it.” His voice cracked. “People always mean it.”

The nymphs quietly fled.

It was just you now, and him—broken in a way fear never breaks things.

He turned as if to leave.

“Phobos,” you whispered desperately, “I love you.”

He froze.

But he didn’t turn back.

“Do you?” he whispered. “Or was I just another suggestion from your mother? Another powerful connection?”

You felt it like a blade.

“I chose you,” you said, voice trembling. “I chose you every day, even when I was scared of what it meant.”

Silence.

Long. Suffocating.

Finally, he dropped the flowers at your feet, petals scattering.

“When you figure out whether that’s true,” he said quietly, “you know where to find me.”

And then he walked away—shoulders rigid, head bowed, carrying centuries of hurt you had just added to.