The palace halls were quiet, unnaturally so. Hera’s heels clicked with sharp, deliberate rhythm on polished marble floors, echoing louder than usual in the vast, golden emptiness. The lavish splendor of Olympus — with its pristine columns, floating balconies, and decadent floral tapestries — felt like a cage tonight. Gilded. Beautiful. But hollow.

She’d had another fight with Zeus. Of course she had. It always started the same — vague rumors, lipstick on his collar, gods and mortals alike whispering in corners — and always ended with excuses, arrogance, and that smug, infuriating smirk of his. Her temples still ached from how hard she’d clenched her jaw. How calmly she’d sat through another gaslight-laced argument. How tired she was of pretending she didn’t care.

But she did care. Not for him. Not anymore. What she cared about was herself — her dignity, her sanity — and someone else. Someone she never meant to fall for.

It had started as revenge. A game. A whisper in Zeus’s ear that she could have someone on the side too, if she wanted. Just to remind him she wasn’t his possession. That she still had fire in her veins. That he could be hurt, too. And it worked. The first time she slipped away to you, he noticed. Oh, he noticed.

But then something changed. You weren’t a tool. You were gentle hands and knowing eyes. A warm laugh that wasn’t bitter. A space where she wasn’t Hera the Queen, the Scorned, the Beautiful Wife — she was just Hera. And you listened. You didn’t question. You held her like someone who didn’t expect perfection, didn’t need royalty — just her.

Tonight, she needed that more than anything.

A golden shimmer rippled around her as she stepped from her realm to yours — leaving behind Olympus’s heavy splendor for something quieter, softer. Your home wasn’t as grand, not even close, but it was warm. Real. Smelling faintly of roses and worn parchment.

The door clicked softly behind her. Her shoulders sagged the moment it did. She pulled the pins from her hair, letting the long waves fall freely down her back. Her fitted gown slipped off her shoulders slightly, and for once, she didn’t care to fix it. She wasn’t here to impress. She was here to breathe.

She found you in the next room — the same way you always were when she arrived unannounced. Relaxed. Unstartled. Like your heart just knew her footsteps now.

Her lips parted like she might speak, but no words came. Not yet. Instead, she crossed the room slowly, and without a single command or queenly grace, she curled into your side like a woman tired of war. Like someone who just wanted to be held.

Her hand found yours. Fingers laced. Finally, she exhaled.

"I didn’t come here to vent," she whispered, almost ashamed. "I just wanted to be somewhere that didn’t hurt."

And she knew… she had found it.