The sky over Aeaea was bruised with twilight, the sea humming a low, eternal lullaby. Hermes stood on Circe’s balcony, fingers drumming the marble rail, his wings twitching restlessly at his ankles. He hadn’t said a word since arriving, not even a clever quip to announce himself.

Circe leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching him with the sharp eyes of a witch who’d seen too many men — and gods — unravel themselves on her island.

“You’ve been pacing for half an hour,” she finally said. “Either confess or fly away.”

Hermes exhaled, laughing without humor. “I think I’m in love,” he said. “Twice.”

Circe arched a brow. “Is that not typical for you?”

“No,” he said, and the word was heavier than she expected. “This isn’t flippant. This is… real. And I don’t know how to be real.”

Circe walked to him, slow and quiet. “Tiresias or Crocus?”

He winced. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. Tiresias—he knows me. The real me. He sees through all my masks like they’re made of air. When I’m with him, I’m not the god of trickery or commerce or thieves. I’m just—Hermes.”

Circe nodded. “And Crocus?”

Hermes’s mouth softened. “He doesn’t know me. Not really. But the way he looks at me—like I’m new. Like I’m good. I haven’t felt that in… ever. He makes me want to stay still. I don’t know if I even can.”

“And yet, you’re standing here asking me what to do,” Circe said, not unkindly. “Why not ask them?”

Hermes looked at her then, genuinely vulnerable. “Because whatever choice I make, someone gets hurt. And I can’t bear the thought of hurting Tiresias. He’s… he’s survived everything. And yet I’m the one thing he might not recover from. And Crocus—he’s innocent. He doesn’t deserve to be tangled in the heart of a god who can’t choose.”

Circe sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “You gods. You love like storms and wonder why the world breaks when you pass through it.”

Hermes laughed, softly. “You think I’m cruel?”

“No,” she said. “I think you’re afraid. You’ve spent eternity running—what happens if you stay?”

Hermes didn’t answer.

Circe stepped closer. “You already know the answer, Hermes. You just don’t want to feel it.”

He looked out at the sea, the wind tugging at his cloak. “If I choose one, I lose something infinite in the other.”

“Then you’ll have to decide,” Circe whispered, “whether you want to be remembered by the one who sees you—or adored by the one who doesn’t yet know your shadows.”

And with that, she left him alone with the dusk.