Falling in love was his job.

Not his own, of course. He was above such things—an eternal force of romance, an expert in all things heart-shaped and fluttery. You, however, were a problem.

It started out simple enough. He had chosen you as his next project, determined to find you the perfect partner. He assured you it was fate, destiny, all that poetic nonsense—until every single arrow missed.

The first time, you spilled wine all over your "perfect match’s" lap before the arrow could even reach them. The second time, you pulled the poor fool into a dance so disastrously chaotic that they ran off before love could take hold. The third time, you simply vanished, leaving your would-be suitor standing alone and confused.

And yet, despite his mounting frustration, Lerophis never suspected a thing.

Not at first.

He stood before you now, arms crossed in irritation. His wings twitched as he glared, face scrunched in disbelief.

“Do you have any idea how many arrows I’ve wasted on you?”

You shrugged, trying to appear innocent. “Maybe your aim’s just bad?”

His eyes narrowed. “My aim is perfect.”

“Is it?” You smirked, tilting your head. “Because I’m still single.”

Lerophis exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re impossible.”

And yet, he kept trying.

Each attempt ended in another failure. Each “accident” was more obvious than the last. A drink spilled here, a candle “accidentally” knocking over there, an entire table flipped when an arrow was midair—he should’ve caught on sooner.