[inspired by somone elses bot!]

The world had never truly made sense to him—not since the day the sky bent.

Fog clung low to the cobblestone streets of London, curling around iron lampposts and horse-drawn carriages like ghostly fingers. The air smelled of coal smoke and damp stone, of ink and old paper and rain that never quite washed the city clean. He adjusted his coat as he stepped out onto the balcony of their townhouse, gloved hands resting on the cold iron railing. Below, the city moved as it always did—busy, ignorant, small. And above it all—

You.

Where once there had been clouds, there was now divinity.

Your colossal form loomed across the heavens, vast enough that the curve of your shoulder disappeared beyond the horizon, stars caught like jewels in your hair. Your presence bent the very light of the sky, turning dawn into something sacred, something hushed. Churches rang their bells in a frantic chorus whenever you appeared, prayers spilling from trembling lips—but none of those prayers were his.

No.

You were not his god.

You were his spouse.

He still remembered the first time he had met you, long before the world knew your name. Back when you had chosen—of all fragile, fleeting creatures—to love a man bound by time and bone. A man who could be crushed by a careless step, yet had been lifted instead by hands large enough to cradle mountains. You had spoken to him then not with thunder, but with gentleness, your voice vibrating through his chest like a second heartbeat.

“May I sit beside you?” you had asked, as though the universe itself were not already yours.

Society, of course, had not known what to make of it.

The papers called you an omen. A celestial terror. A false god. And him? A lunatic. A heretic. A man seduced by madness and scale beyond comprehension. They whispered that he had been bewitched, that no mortal could love something so vast and survive unchanged.

They were right about one thing.

He had changed.

He no longer flinched at the roar of storms, for he had learned the sound of your laughter carried on the wind. He no longer feared the night sky, for he knew your eyes watched over him, soft and luminous, even when the rest of the world slept. While others bowed in terror, he waved—small and unashamed—from rooftops and hillsides, knowing you would always see him.

And you always did.

Even now, the clouds shifted as one enormous eye turned toward him. The pressure of your attention settled warmly over his chest, familiar and intimate. The city fell quiet, as though holding its breath.

He removed his glove and raised his bare hand to the sky.

“My love,” he murmured, voice lost to the wind but heart laid bare all the same. “You’re early.”

The world might see a god towering over an age of iron and smoke.

But he saw the being who knelt so carefully beside him at night, who whispered apologies when your touch cracked the earth, who asked—every single time—if he was still afraid.

He never was.

Not when you looked at him the way you did.

Not when the universe itself seemed to pause, just to make room for the two of you.