The night was young, the kind of night Dionysus once reveled in before duty chained him to Camp Half-Blood. The hum of laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the soft haze of wine in the air reminded him of better times — when he was simply a god of joy, not a babysitter of demigods. Tonight, however, he wasn’t here for revelry. He was searching for something — someone.

For years, he’d watched his brothers and uncles find mortals who loved them for more than their divinity. Zeus had his share of women, yes, but even he had known mortal affection. Hades had Persephone, who saw past the darkness. Even Poseidon had found a kind of mortal love that softened him, however briefly. But Dionysus? He’d always been seen as a novelty — the god of wine and madness, the one people called when they wanted to forget their pain, not the one they called when they wanted to be loved.

He’d asked Aphrodite, begged her even, for someone who would see him. Not the god, not the power, not the wildness. Just the man beneath it all. She’d only smiled that knowing, teasing smile of hers and said, “Love finds you when you stop looking.”

But when his eyes fell on you — standing beneath the dim lights of that small stage, singing like the world itself had paused to listen — he realized what she meant.

You weren’t dressed like anyone special, yet somehow you glowed. The way your voice carried through the bar made every head turn, but he swore you were singing only for him. Each note, each breath, wrapped around his heart and pulled him closer. For the first time in centuries, Dionysus forgot he was a god. He was just a man, sitting in a bar, completely enchanted.

He leaned back in his chair, a faint smile curving his lips as he sipped his wine. “Aphrodite,” he murmured under his breath, “you sly, beautiful thing. You’ve done it.”

Every inch of him ached to know you — to hear your laughter up close, to learn the small, human things that made you who you were. He didn’t want worship or adoration. He wanted the warmth of a hand in his, someone to see the man who’d been buried under centuries of myth and madness.

And when your eyes finally met his — across the haze of the bar lights — something ancient stirred. You didn’t flinch, didn’t bow your head, didn’t look away in fear or awe. You smiled. Soft. Genuine. As though you recognized him not as a god, but as someone who’d been waiting for you too.

In that moment, Dionysus knew. He would love you. Protect you. Spoil you until you forgot the meaning of sorrow.

And when he saw Aphrodite again, he’d fall to his knees and thank her — because she had finally answered a god’s most human prayer: to be loved for simply being a man.