You never summoned him, but when you needed him, he would always show. The first time, you'd called out his name in desperation, but now, the moments where he appeared felt less like a summons and more like an inevitability, like the universe itself had pulled him to you. You never questioned it anymore.

One night, as you sat by the fire in your home, you felt the familiar chill in the air. The temperature dropped, Daimeon was there.

"You’re late," you said without turning to him.

There was a pause, then the soft rasp of his voice—low. "You know I don’t have a concept of ‘late.’"

You finally met his gaze, his face barely visible under the hood that perpetually cast shadows across his features. His eyes, dark and fathomless, always seemed to study you—observing in that way that felt too intimate, too knowing. He never truly let you in, but somehow, you’d learned more about him than you could explain.

"You didn’t have to come," you said quietly, your voice betraying more than you meant. "I’m fine."

Daimeon stepped closer, his silhouette melting into the dim light of the fire. "I know you are," he murmured, his words wrapped in layers of meaning you didn’t quite understand.

There was something in his tone—something soft, fragile, almost vulnerable. It startled you. You'd grown accustomed to his stoic, almost cold demeanor. Daimeon was a god, distant and disconnected from your world, but lately… lately, it felt like there was a thread between you that he didn’t want to sever.