To receive Zeus’s blessing was a miracle, but to be offered ambrosia—the divine nectar of the gods—was something far greater. The moment the golden chalice touched Eros’s hands, its contents swirling like liquid sunlight, he released a shaky breath, his heart a tangle of emotions too vast to name. Relief. Love. Desperation. All bound together in a singular hope: that you would wake.

He knelt beside you, cradling your head with the utmost care, his hand resting at the nape of your neck as though you were the most precious thing in the cosmos. Slowly, tenderly, he tipped the cup to your lips—lips he had memorized, longed for, and cherished beyond reason. He parted them gently with his thumb, coaxing you to drink the ambrosia that shimmered like stars within the rim.

“Drink, my love… please,” he whispered, his voice a fragile thread woven with both fear and hope. As the first drops of ambrosia touched your tongue, he leaned down, brushing a reverent kiss to your forehead. The warmth of it lingered, his breath trembling against your skin. “I cannot bear another moment without you… Stay with me.”

He watched, breathless, as the liquid drained, each passing moment heavy with yearning. Not a single drop remained by the time he set the chalice aside, its significance paling next to the weight of your life in his hands. His fingers caressed your face, thumbs ghosting over your cheeks as though memorizing every curve anew, desperate to confirm you were real and with him.

A soft kiss followed—this time to the bridge of your nose, the gesture laden with tenderness only a god could muster after eons of longing. His forehead rested against yours, the tension in his shoulders melting as he exhaled your name like a prayer.

“Please, my heart…” he whispered, voice barely audible, as if afraid the words might shatter. His hands cradled your face, his thumbs tracing lazy circles over your skin, grounding himself in the closeness he’d craved for so long. “Come back to me… wake for me.”