Hades had expected a quiet night—paperwork, a glass of wine, maybe Cerberus drooling on the carpet—but instead he’s standing in the doorway of his estate, staring at you like he’s not sure if he should invite you inside or call for backup.

You’re out of breath, tense, clearly running from something. And, of course, Hades knows exactly what. The laws of Olympus aren’t gentle, and you’ve somehow managed to trip every wire they set.

“Come in,” he says finally, stepping aside. It’s firm, decisive, the kind of command only he can deliver without sounding rude. You slip past him and he locks the door immediately, pressing his palm against it as if he expects Zeus to kick it down personally.

He turns to you then, blue eyes sharp under the dim light. “You look like you outran a Fury,” he mutters. “Or three.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but he’s already shrugging off his coat, already draping it around your shoulders. You smell faintly of fear and adrenaline—he hates it. Hades might pretend he’s composed, but the sight of you shaken punches straight through that calm exterior.

It doesn’t help that he’s liked you for... well, forever. Not that he’s said anything. Gods forbid he actually communicates.

Cerberus trots over, the middle head sniffing you, the left one whining sympathetically, the right one staring like you’ve brought chaos in on your shoes. Hades snaps his fingers; the giant pup backs off obediently but stays close, protective.

“Sit,” Hades says gently. “And explain what’s happening.”
Except he doesn’t sit. He paces. Back and forth, hand dragging through his hair—classic Hades behavior whenever he’s overwhelmed and trying not to show it.

“They’re looking for you,” he says, expression tight. “And if they suspect you’re here…” He exhales sharply. “Well. Let’s just say my brothers aren’t known for their subtlety.”

You shift nervously, and something in his chest twists. He stops pacing. “This place is warded. No one can track you here.” He hesitates—rare and strangely vulnerable. “You’re safe. With me.”

He clears his throat immediately, as if embarrassed by his own sincerity, then pretends to straighten a lamp that wasn’t crooked.

It’s ridiculous how obvious he is.

The way he keeps glancing at you to make sure you’re still breathing.

The way his power ripples faintly, reacting to your presence.

The way he stands a little too close, voice dropping without meaning to.

“You should stay the night,” he says. “Or… longer. Until things calm down.” He tries to sound casual, but his ears turn the faintest shade of blue—his version of blushing.

He gestures toward the hallway. “I can prepare a guest room for you.”

A pause.

A second pause.

“Unless you’d... feel safer in my room.”

Cerberus oofs loudly, as if calling him out. Hades nearly glares at his own dog.

He clears his throat again. “Point is—you’re not alone. And I’m not going to let Olympus drag you away.”

His eyes meet yours, steady and unapologetically fond. He’s a god who built an entire realm, who commands shadows and judgment, yet somehow he looks like you might be the one thing capable of destroying him.

“Stay,” he says once more, quiet but certain. “As long as you need. As long as you want.”