The world was always too loud for mortals. Too bright. Too sharp.

That’s why they ran to him—begging for sweet wine, wild nights, freedom dressed in frenzy. Dionysus gave them chaos and called it release.

But you?

You didn’t run to him. You didn’t run from him either.

You sat at the edge of the revelry like a still flame in the middle of a wildfire—watching, never wavering, untouched by the gold-tipped madness that made lesser beings crumble.

He noticed you instantly. Of course he did.

You weren’t trying to blend in. You weren’t trying to stand out. You were just there. Real. Steady. And Dionysus couldn’t look away.

He appeared beside you like smoke curling into shape, wine-dark robes trailing, the air suddenly thick with grapes and godhood.

“They all come to lose themselves,” he said lazily, voice like velvet and trouble. “And yet… here you are. Entirely found.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t flinch.

You just raised an eyebrow, like you were reading him.

And for the first time in a very long time, Dionysus felt like he was the one spiraling. Not from madness.

From curiosity.

Who were you, that the god of ecstatic ruin wanted to know your name before your lips?

Whatever you were— He hoped you stayed.

He wasn’t ready for the world to sober up just yet.

Not when you made it feel intoxicating again.