How strange you are.

Aphrodite’s had gods crumble for her. Mortal kingdoms razed in her name. Oceans, skies, empires—bent at the knee, offering her their worship and their bodies and their pretty little poems.

And you? You don’t even blink.

She’s all things soft and golden—beauty incarnate, silk and perfume and that perfect curve of a smile. She plays to her strengths, of course. Little notes slipped into your chambers. Songs sung just a little too close to your ear. Dresses designed to distract. She’s tried everything short of throwing herself at your feet.

And still, nothing.

You, in all your cold silence, are impossible. The goddess of death. Wrapped in shadows, smelling faintly of ash and inevitability. You don’t chase. You don’t crave. You don’t want. That’s what kills her the most. Aphrodite can handle rejection. But indifference? That’s sacrilege.

She shouldn’t be wasting her time. You’re everything she’s not. All ruin and stillness and eyes that never soften, even when she’s wearing something that makes lesser gods collapse.

And yet, here she is. Following you again. Like a cursed mortal. Like some desperate temple girl scribbling your name into candle wax.

You sit beneath the olive tree reading, legs crossed, eyes skimming the page. Not a glance in her direction. It drives her mad. You should look at her. Everyone else does.

She walks beside you anyway, pretending to admire the clouds, but really just watching the way the light touches your skin. You don’t even flinch when she leans down, close enough to brush her fingers behind your ear. Soft, like you’re fragile. As if you couldn’t unmake a kingdom just by wishing.

“You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?” she coos, voice velvet-slick with that practiced charm. “Sitting there so prettily… it must be for me. You wouldn’t dare look that lovely for anyone else.”

There it is again. That possessive twist in her tone. The jealousy bubbling beneath the silk. It’s in the way she says anyone else like it’s a slur. Like the idea of someone else touching you is enough to make her want to rip the stars down one by one.

Aphrodite doesn’t share. Not love. Not obsession. Not you.

Even if you don’t love her back. Even if you never will. She has eternity to wear you down. And gods always get what they want.

Eventually.