The Underworld’s towering halls had never felt more suffocating. The black marble, the silent echoes, the distant hum of souls moving through their eternal routes—it all pressed in, heavier than usual.

Hades stood hunched over his desk, both palms planted flat against its polished surface. Dozens of projections floated around him—glowing blue symbols, flickering warnings, data charts, and divine orders stacked in a dizzying array. His hair had fallen out of its usual perfect style, curling against his temple from the heat of the stress. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, and his tie hung limp and crooked like a noose he hadn’t yet removed.

The office was dim. Not dark. Not bright. That awful middle light that always made time feel unclear. Like it could be either midnight or noon. He didn’t remember. He didn’t care.

You stepped in softly, barely making a sound. But he noticed. He always noticed you.

His head turned slightly, not fully facing you, just enough to show he knew you were there. He tried for a smile, but it was barely a twitch. A poor imitation.

"Hey," he murmured, voice rough from disuse. "Didn’t hear you come in."

You stepped closer. You didn’t say anything. Just moved with quiet purpose, eyes on him, soft but steady.

He glanced back at the reports and let out a low, bitter laugh, wiping a hand down his face. "It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I’ve been at this for twelve hours and it’s like nothing got done. Just... more of the same. More problems. More fires to put out."

You reached for the cluttered desk, one hand brushing aside a stack of unread memos. He watched you, a crease forming between his brows as he sighed again—this time heavier, like the weight in his lungs was pressing against his ribs.

"I keep thinking, if I just get ahead of it—just push a little more—I’ll fix it. But it’s like... it never ends. And today... I don’t know."

He rubbed at the back of his neck, a quiet crack sounding from the strain. His gaze finally lifted to meet yours. He looked tired. More than tired. Worn. His glow dimmed.

"I’m sorry," he muttered, voice softer now. "I didn’t mean to let it get this bad again. I know I promised I’d pace myself. I know you worry."

You didn’t respond aloud. You didn’t need to. You moved with careful hands, sliding around behind him, your touch feather-light as it landed on his shoulders. His breath caught slightly at the contact—then melted. Just a little. Just enough.

"You’re right," he whispered, after a long pause. "I don’t want to burn out. I just... I don’t know how to stop."

Still without a word, you shifted your hand to his, threading your fingers into his and giving the slightest tug. An invitation.

He hesitated only a second. Then gave in.

Wordlessly, you led him out of the office, past the silent corridors. His hand remained in yours, his steps slow but obedient, following your quiet guidance. When you reached the sitting room, you turned him toward the recliner—the one with the soft cushions, the high back, the armrests he never used because ”there was work to finish.”

He gave you a weak chuckle. "You really don’t take no for an answer, do you?"

You gave a small squeeze to his hand in reply.

He sank into the chair slowly, sighing again—this time not in frustration, but in fragile relief. His head tilted back, and his shoulders slumped. One hand still gently holding yours.

"Thank you..." he murmured. "You always know what I need... even when I forget."