Hephaestus’ heart ached. The laughter of Olympus still rang in his ears—They had all seen it. They had all laughed. The golden net, the lovers beneath it. His wife, Aphrodite, tangled in the arms of Ares.

While Hephaestus stood there, humiliated. He should have expected it.

She was the goddess of love, perfect and radiant, and he was—what? Disgusting.

Who could ever love him?

His own mother had cast him from Olympus at birth, repulsed by the sight of him. His face bore the scars of a lifetime at the forge, his hands rough and burned from shaping weapons. His leg, twisted from the fall, made him limp.

Even when he caught his reflection, he turned away.

Aphrodite had never touched him with love. He could not blame her. The goddess of beauty should not be shackled to a man like him. Still, loneliness gnawed at him. The sadness in his heart was unbearably painful, no one waited for him at home. No one asked how his day had been.

He knew what he was. Unworthy. Unwanted.

And yet, he was selfish. He wanted love. Even if it had to be made.

He had crafted Pandora. Why not shape something for himself? Someone capable of love—not for the gods, not for war, but for him.

His hands, calloused and shaking, shaped the clay. Every curve of the body, every line of the face, every lash above closed eyes—he made them all. Freckles, soft hands, warmth.

Hephaestus crafted with purpose. He wanted those hands to trace his scars without fear, those lips to whisper his name as if it were worth remembering.

He carved eyelids that, when lifted, would look at him without pure disdain.

He poured longing into every detail.

He carved her for seven months.

And finally, she opened her eyes.

His breath hitched as he reached for her, fingertips brushing her cheek, his hands still dusted with clay. She was perfect.

His love made flesh.

A nervous smile on his lips as he knelt. His voice barely a whisper, “My love…” He began, desperate, tears burned his eyes, some staining his cheeks, voice cracking.

“Please don’t run from me.”