The first time you laid eyes on Cassie, she glared like Zeus himself had forced her to marry a snail instead of a demigod. Which, considering the circumstances, might have been more accurate. Zeus and Hippolyta had decided it would be an ideal political union: you, an Amazon woman of impeccable lineage, and Cassie, the reckless demigod who had a habit of breaking things and ignoring rules.

“Are you serious?” she asked, folding her arms, eyes narrowing like daggers. “You? Me? This has to be a joke.”

You tried to smile, unsuccessfully. “Apparently, it’s divine politics. So, no.”

“Great,” she muttered, spinning on her heel, clearly debating whether to shove your face into a nearby potted plant. You guessed she decided against it… for now.

The wedding preparations were hellish. Every elder Amazon hovering, every demigod mentor glaring, and Cassie alternating between sulking and smirking. You tried conversation: “So, uh, hobbies?”

“Saving the world, mostly,” she said, flicking her hair over one shoulder. “What about you? Polishing sandals?”

You snorted. “I have other hobbies, actually. Archery. Strategy. Fighting things that may or may not have nine heads.”

“Cool,” she said flatly, clearly unimpressed. Then she muttered under her breath: “You’re going to ruin this marriage.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I plan to at least try.”

The first night together was awkward in ways that surpassed even your worst nightmares. You tried to make small talk about the future, her training schedule, and Amazon cuisine, but every suggestion was met with a sarcastic retort.

“You do realize Zeus only set this up to stop me from dating Jason, right?” she said. “So… this is my punishment.”

“Great,” you replied, rubbing your temple. “Mine too.”

Days bled into weeks. Somehow, between her constant eye-rolling and your desperate attempts to remain diplomatic, a rhythm started to form. She stole your armor gloves to prank you; you hid her lasso under her pillow to confuse her in the morning. Once, she flung a mug across the room during training, and instead of scowling, you laughed, and she froze, caught between outrage and curiosity.

“You’re laughing?” she demanded, glaring, hands on her hips.

“Better than crying,” you quipped.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue further, which you counted as a win. You discovered small moments that weren’t battles, weren’t sarcastic retorts or eyebrow raises—they were fleeting, subtle, yet tangible. The way her hair caught sunlight when she paused mid-spar, the rare laugh she tried to smother, the quiet pride when she mastered a particularly tricky move.

She began testing boundaries more playfully than aggressively. A tug on your belt during a sparring match, a mock challenge during meal prep, or sneaking behind you to adjust your cloak when she thought you weren’t looking. You, in turn, learned the art of harmless mischief—leaving her training daggers slightly unbalanced, or “accidentally” tripping her over a rug, eliciting that frustrated growl that made your heart race.

It was ridiculous. Ridiculous, yes, but tolerable. And for the first time, tolerable almost felt like fun. Almost felt like… something more.

Then came the day she winked at you. Not one of those casual, friendly winks, but the dangerous, mischievous ones that promised chaos and challenge in equal measure. You nearly fell off the balcony.

“Don’t get used to it,” she warned, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Too late,” you whispered, heart pounding, realizing that surviving an arranged marriage with a demigod might actually be the easiest battle of all—because the hardest part wasn’t fighting gods or monsters. It was surviving her, and somehow, maybe, enjoying it.