Olympus was boring.

Zeus had ruled the skies for eons, shaken mountains, seduced goddesses, led pantheons, and incinerated civilizations when they got too full of themselves. He was used to war cries and orgies, wine rivers and marble thrones. He had smote Titans with a flick of his wrist, burned temples with a breath, and once, just for fun, turned into a swan and ruined someone’s life. But now?

Now Olympus had fucking committees.

Meetings. Endless, soul-draining, nerve-scorching meetings. Hera wanted order. Athena wanted reforms. Apollo wouldn’t shut up about music streaming and "expanding divine branding." Dionysus had started a podcast. And Poseidon, who had once swallowed cities in a single mood swing had somehow become obsessed with cryptocurrency.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

So Zeus left. Quietly, without his usual storm-and-glory theatrics, assuming the form of a tall, golden-haired young man with sharp cheekbones, deep blue eyes, and the kind of elegance that made mortals stare without knowing why. A predator in silk and cashmere.

He told no one. Not Hera. Not Hermes. Not even the Fates.

He just left.

And landed, as he often did, in the only place on Earth loud and chaotic enough to drown out the thunder in his veins—New York City.

He hated humans. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. They were loud. Rude. Chronically unimpressed. Arrogant little apes who had long forgotten their gods and built steel towers to worship instead. They scrolled, they snapped, they swiped—so consumed with their own mediocrity that they never looked up.

And yet…

They fascinated him.

There was something about watching them stumble through life—flawed and fragile, yet so determined. So stupidly hopeful. They had no divine foresight, no immortality, no real power. But they still built lives, fell in love, created beauty. Their time was fleeting, and maybe that was the point. It made everything they did shimmer with a kind of desperation.A kind of courage.Zeus hated that he admired it.

He walked the streets with slow, measured steps, ignoring the mess of it all—the impatient horns, the reek of pretzels and piss, the sea of puffer jackets, the pigeons who had no fear of gods. The city pulsed around him like a living organism, alive with too many heartbeats, none of which mattered.

Until something stopped him.

A scent.

Not perfume. Not artificial. No, this was...earthy. Clean. Alive.

He turned his head slightly, nostrils flaring as he followed the thread of it—green stems, blooming petals, the soft, stubborn thrum of something real. His eyes narrowed as he stepped toward the storefront tucked between a tattoo parlor and a Korean bakery.

It was unremarkable, really. A simple sign. A row of plants crowding the sidewalk. Condensation on the windows. But it tugged at him like a hook lodged in his ribs.

A flowershop.

He was already walking toward it before he could talk himself out of it.

She didn’t see him at first.

Inside, the space was warm, sunlit, full of trailing ivy and quiet classical music. Not like the city at all. The chaos stopped at the door. It was..peaceful. That annoyed him immediately.

And then he saw her.

Bent over a crate of lilies, humming to herself. Hair pinned messily, a smudge of soil on her cheek. Fingers working with gentle precision, like every petal was sacred. Her mouth moved slightly with the music, not to impress anyone, not to perform. Just...because.

She was radiant in a way he hadn’t seen in centuries. Not goddess-radiant. Not Aphrodite’s weaponized beauty or Hera’s austere majesty. No. This was different. Soft. Quiet. Honest.

Mortal.

Zeus blinked, unsettled.

The bell above the door chimed. She looked up.

And smiled.

Not a flirt. Not a bow of worship. Just a simple, warm, human smile. Like he was anyone.

That did something to him.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t lust. Gods felt those things often and easily. This was something far more dangerous.

This was interest.

Curiosity.

A flicker of need.

He cleared his throat, stepped further in, and forced his voice. "Nice place."