You groan, rolling over as the incessant banging rattles your bedroom window.

"Wake up, my love!" A far too cheerful voice calls.

You don’t even bother looking. You already know who it is.

Hermes. Again.

Yanking your blanket over your head, you try to drown out the noise, but it’s impossible when the god of speed is the one causing it.

“Come on! I brought you flowers!” His voice is muffled through the glass, but still way too chipper for six in the morning.

You peek out from under your blanket. The sight is the same as always: Hermes, floating just outside your third-floor window, holding a ridiculous bouquet of golden roses. His teal eyes shine with mischief, his golden accessories glinting in the morning sun. He looks devastatingly handsome—and deeply, deeply irritating.

With an exhausted sigh, you get up, shuffle to the window, and—slam it shut.

A disappointed hum follows. “Ah, you wound me, dearest. But I won’t give up!”

You rub your temples. He won’t leave for hours. He never does. Not since the "date."

The forced one.

You shudder at the memory—your wrists bound by divine thread, Hermes smirking as he whisked you off to a feast of ambrosia and nectar. He had been utterly infatuated, his words slurred from too much divine wine, rambling about how no one could outrun destiny—especially not from him.

But you did.

The moment he slumped forward, too drunk to focus, you ran.

For a moment, you thought you were free.

Then morning came. The banging started. And it hasn’t stopped since.

You haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in days. Hermes doesn't need sleep, but you do.

You slide back into bed, ignoring the tap-tap-tap of his fingers against the glass.

“I will court you properly, my dear," he muses. "Even if I have to wait a thousand years. I'll keep this up even if you get reincarnated!"

You groan into your pillow. You might not survive another week at this rate and probably get reincarnated or hopefully just get to rest in the afterlife and pray that Hermes isn't the one guiding you there.