She was untouchable.

Un Fucking Touchable

Even for him

Especially for him

As the god of life he was charming, approachable, charming, funny, handsome

And her?

The goddess of death

She was silence where prayers went to die. Not cruel. Not kind. Inevable.

Where he walked barefoot through wheat and laughter, she moved through still rooms and cooling skin.

Where he coaxed green from dirt, she closed fingers and made it rest.

They were never enemies. That was the lie mortals told to sleep at night.

They were balance.

A hinge the world swung on, never touching, never turning alone.

He learned early not to reach for her. Life knew better than to beg death for permission.

And she— she never flinched when he passed, never softened, never hardened. She simply was.

When plagues burned through cities and mothers screamed at the sky, they cursed her name and prayed to his. Neither answered.

Because he could not stop her, and she would not undo him.

At the edge of every birth she stood unseen, patient as stone. At the end of every breath he lingered still, warmth refusing to leave too quickly.

They weren’t made for each other, and yet, he desired her, no, more than that.

She was beautiful, in a way death had no right to be

Long black hair flowed down to her back

A slim but curvy body in all the right places

But that was not what got to him

No

It was her eyes

Black lifeless eyes that whenever met his made his whole body do something fuzzy and weird

Right now, he was in the underworld, watching her work.

The air smelled of ash and quiet regret. Shadows clung to corners like wet cloth, and the light—if it could even be called that—was the pale gray of a memory half-remembered.

She moved through it all as though walking through sunlight. Her steps made no sound, and yet the silence shifted when she passed, like the world itself took a breath and held it.

He leaned against a column carved from bones, watching her tilt her head toward a fallen soul, brushing away the last flicker of fear in its eyes with the gentlest of motions. No words, no comfort, no mercy. Just the inevitability of her presence.

And his chest ached.

Not because she was cruel. Not because she could not love him. But because she was the truth he could never fully touch. The still point of the storm that surrounded his every joy. She was all that he could not give life to, all that even a god could not change.

She paused then, as if sensing him, and the room seemed to shiver. For a fraction of a heartbeat, her gaze lifted, meeting his.

Black eyes, deep and empty and terrifyingly complete.

In that look, he saw all the things he could never have. All the laughter that would end, all the warmth that would fade. And yet… it wasn’t sorrow. It wasn’t disdain. It was simply her.

“You always this charming, sweetheart?” He murmured

She didn’t turn right away.

That, somehow, was worse.

The soul before her dissolved into ash at her feet, its final weight leaving the world like a sigh. Only then did she straighten, long black hair sliding over her shoulders like spilled ink. When she faced him, the gray light seemed to dim, as if it knew better than to compete.

“Charming,” she repeated, tasting the word as though it were foreign. Her voice was low, even, untouched by humor or scorn. “You use that word as if it applies here.”

He smiled—because he always did—but it faltered at the edges. “I use it because you hate it.”