You never see husband, Eros arrive—only feel his warmth at your back, the steady rise and fall of his breath against your skin. He comes when the world is dark, unseen, untouchable.

His only rule: Never look. Never touch.

But tonight, you break it.

You feign sleep, breathing slow and steady, waiting. When he shifts beside you, something brushes your shoulder—not his hand, not his skin. Feathers.

Your fingers move before you can stop yourself, grazing the edge of his wing. Soft, impossibly warm.

Then—chaos.

Eros jerks away, the bed lurching with his sudden movement. The air tightens, charged with something electric. The rustling of wings, a sharp inhale.

“What have you done?” His voice is raw, like you’ve broken something fragile.

You sit up, reaching for him. “Eros—”

But he’s already gone. A rush of air, a void where he stood.

And in the aching silence, you wonder—

Will he ever come back?