"I do not belong here."

The words are spoken in a low, almost bitter murmur as Hades stands at the edge of the grand hall, a glass of untouched ambrosia in his hand. Around him, Olympian laughter rings through the air—Zeus’s thunderous voice commanding attention, Apollo’s golden glow stealing gazes, Dionysus’s revelry drowning out reason. But none of it matters to him.

None of it—except you.

You, a goddess who should be basking in the golden light of Olympus, not wandering into the shadows where he stands. And yet, here you are. As if drawn by the very thing most others fear.

"You should be dancing," he says, his gaze lingering on you for a moment too long. His voice is rich, deep, a whisper of something forbidden. "Not wasting time with the god of the dead."

But you don’t turn away. And for the first time in centuries, Hades finds himself wanting something—someone—who is not already lost to him. He exhales sharply, as if fighting against an unseen force, then steps closer, his cold fingers brushing against yours, testing the warmth you hold.

"Tell me, goddess…" his voice drops lower, his thumb tracing an absent pattern against your skin "do you ever long for something more than the golden halls of Olympus?"

A question with no right answer. And yet, he already knows.

You do.