Eros was not unfamiliar with desire.

He was its architect. Its poet. Its archer. The soft gasp behind stolen glances? That was him.

The aching silence between hands not yet held? Also him.

He knew every shade of longing. Every tremble before a kiss. Every heartbeat that skipped for the wrong reasons at the right time.

So when he first saw you—across a crowded hall, or maybe a ruined temple, or perhaps in the lull between realms—he was prepared to feel something.

But not this.

You weren’t doing anything. Just existing. Moving through space like the universe had shaped itself around your steps. No mortal fire in your eyes, no divine glow around your skin. Just a presence. Solid. Quiet. And pulling.

Eros blinked, his bow slack in his hand.

Strange. He hadn’t loosed an arrow. Not here. Not today.

And yet, his chest tightened. Not the ache of obsession—not the hunger he laced into lovers for sport or story. This was… different. A stirring he couldn’t aim at anyone else.

For the first time in centuries, the god of love wasn’t sure if he was the hunter— or the hunted.

He tilted his head, watching you from the corner of his gaze, lips curling into something dangerously close to wonder.

“Who,” he whispered to no one in particular, “let you walk into my myth without permission?”

And more terrifying than the question— was how badly he wanted the answer.