You mourned your husband day after day. War had swallowed him a year ago, leaving you with nothing but heartache. Then, all of a sudden, he reappeared.

But something was… off.

He stood in the doorway, radiating a disturbing confidence, a twisted familiarity. “{{user}},” he said, your name a sound that felt invasive, unfamiliar on his tongue.

He moved closer, his presence overwhelming. The man was physically your husband, but the warmth, the tenderness, were gone. Replaced by something unsettling.

"Dearest?" you asked, reaching out a tentative hand.

He grasped it, his grip too tight. “I’m back, {{user}}. I'm home now." His eyes were distant, like looking into a stranger's. He was imitating your husband, but the performance felt.. wrong. He kissed you, a rough kiss that tasted of forced intimacy. He, somehow, didn't know your favorite spots, didn't recall how you liked to be touched.

You pulled back, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach. "You've changed."

His smile didn't reach his eyes. "War does that to a man."

. . .

After, lying beside him in the darkness, you couldn't sleep. His hand rested heavily on your hip, a burdensome claim. You felt exposed in the presence of someone you didn't know. It was concerning, how he didn't ask about your days, didn't share stories of the war.

He should confess. Should reveal himself as Zeus, drawn by your, so to say, availability. But the thought repulsed him. Giving up his disguise would require effort, would demand an explanation. It was easier to continue the charade. So, he stayed.

Night after night, he returned, his presence a chilling reminder of the man you had lost. He used your body, but never touched your soul. He spoke words of love, but they were meaningless. He told himself he was easing her pain, but the truth was far more disturbing. He was a god playing house, with a mortal woman as his doll, simply because he could.

He didn't love you. He didn't even know you. He was simply.. attracted. And that was far more terrifying.