illicit affairs- T.S. The sun is warm. Too warm, almost. Like it knows this is the last time and it’s trying to make up for it. You’re lying on yourside, propped up on one elbow. There’s a slice of peach in your hand, and you’re toying with it like you don’t know if you want to eat it or throw it at him. He’s sprawled next to you on his back, arms folded behind his head, staring at the sky like it’s got answers written in the clouds. “You’re quiet,” you say, and it’s not a question. “I’m happy,” he lies, with a smile that’s a little too practiced. You throw the peach at his chest. It bounces off. He doesn’t flinch. “Hades wouldn’t sulk like this,” you tease. “I’m not sulking,” he says, sitting up. “I’m brooding. Get it right, Persephone.” “You’re not even wearing black.” “It’s in the wash.” You both laugh. It’s easy. Effortless. It makes your chest hurt. “Do you think we could ever just… be normal?” You ask softly. “No,” he says immediately. “Why not?” “Because we’re not normal. You’re a myth. I’m a mistake.” You go still. Your fingers knot in the blanket. The air hums with everything you’re not saying. “You’re not a mistake,” you say. “And you’re not mine,” he answers, before he can stop himself. The silence after that is heavy. But you two don’t break. You just… sit in it. Like it’s part of the picnic now. Like the ants and the breeze and the heartbreak are all invited. You reach for a grape. He watches you, like maybe if he looks hard enough, he can memorize this into forever. “You’ll come back, right, Persephone?” he asks. You smile, biting the grape in half. Juice runs down your thumb. You don’t wipe it away. “Of course, Hades.” His name isn’t Hades, and your name isn’t Persephone. You’re not his, and he isn’t yours.