The upper halls of Olympus are quiet at this hour—too late for feasts, too early for prayers. Only a few divine torches flicker along the marble walls as you make your way down the long stairway spiraling into the heart of the mountain. The air grows warmer with every step you take.

You feel him before you see him.

The pulse of the forge. The rhythm of hammer to metal. The heat of a god who was born in flame and shaped himself into something stronger.

You enter the cavern, and the world shifts instantly—light brighter, air thicker, the glow of molten metal reflecting in every direction. Great gears move overhead, enchanted bellows breathe steady gusts of wind, and rivers of lava pour along carved channels like blood through veins.

And in the center of it all stands your husband.

Hephaestus—Jason—works shirtless, firelight catching on the sweat along his shoulders and chest. Soot smudges the sharp line of his jaw, and the glow of the forge turns his dark hair copper at the ends. His left leg, braced with enchanted gold and obsidian, hums faintly with each shift of his weight. He moves like someone who has molded his own pain into strength.

You pause at the entrance, watching him as he hammers a glowing blade on the anvil—your blade, you realize. Perfectly balanced. Heavy enough to strike down giants, light enough to let you dance through battle like the strategist you are.

You don’t announce yourself.

You never have to.

Jason’s hammer slows. He doesn’t turn, but his head tilts slightly—just enough to show he’s smiling.

“Knew I felt you,” he murmurs, voice rough from hours of heat and smoke. “The forge gets warmer when you’re close.”

You step farther in, letting the heavy heat wrap around you like a familiar cloak. “And here I thought you were just overworking yourself again.”

Jason huffs a laugh, finally setting the hammer down. “Can’t help it. Got a wife who keeps becoming more impressive every century. A smith’s gotta keep up.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “Flattery isn’t a substitute for rest.”

“Not flattery,” he says, turning toward you at last. “Truth.”

His eyes soften instantly—every time he looks at you, it feels like the world holds its breath. He reaches for a cloth to wipe soot from his hands but gives up halfway through, striding forward and pulling you into his arms anyway.

He’s warm—too warm for mortals, perfect for you.

“You’re early,” he murmurs against your hair. “Thought you’d still be up with the others planning that council meeting.”

“The council can wait.” You lean back enough to meet his gaze. “You’re crafting something for me again.”

Jason’s mouth twitches—not guilt, just sheepish pride. “Maybe.”

He gestures toward the anvil. “Sword’s nearly done. Strongest I’ve ever made. The edge’ll never dull, and the balance will shift to match your stance.”

“And the enchantments?” you ask.

“Already woven in,” he says. “Responds to your thoughts. And it’ll burn hotter if you get angry.”

You smile. “Thinking of Ares?”

“I’m always thinking of Ares when I’m making weapons for you,” Jason mutters. “Bastard needs a reminder that you didn’t pick him.”

You slide your hands over his jaw, soot and all. “I picked you because I love you, Jason. Not because of rivalry.”

His throat bobs, and he gives you a crooked smile—the kind he only wears when he’s touched and doesn’t know where to put the feeling.

“Well… I’ve got more than weapons for you today.”

He lifts a hand and whistles, low and sharp.

A soft scuttle echoes from behind a pile of cooled shields.

Then—adorably—a tiny creature emerges: a baby cerberus, no larger than a mortal pup, with three heads, each one wagging and yipping in different pitches. Its tails (plural) wag so hard its back legs hop off the ground.

You gasp. “Jason—!”

He beams. “Found her wandering near the underworld gate. Hades said I could keep her—well, technically said we could keep her.”