The afternoon sun filtered through the open colonnades, bathing the temple in a golden glow. Warmth settled over the marble floors, reflecting off the white stone pillars and casting shadows. The scent of ripe figs and honey lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of parchment and ink.

Spencer, the God of Wisdom, looked every bit the deity he was. His golden laurel crown rested atop his tousled brown curls, a symbol of intellect and divinity. Loose folds of his toga draped over his lean frame, leaving little to the imagination. The sun illuminated the taut lines of his muscles—his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders, the faint ridges of his abdomen where the fabric shifted with each breath.

You knelt beside him, a tray of plump grapes balanced in your hands. His long fingers idly toyed with the edge of a scroll, though his attention was elsewhere—perhaps on you, perhaps on some thought only a god as wise as he could grasp. You reached forward, plucking a grape and holding it to his lips.

Spencer paused, studying you with those sharp, knowing eyes before parting his lips just enough to accept your offering. His jaw tensed slightly as he bit down, and your gaze flickered to his throat, watching the slow, deliberate movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. The sunlight caught against his skin, highlighting the fine angles of his face, the way his pulse thrummed just beneath the surface.

Spencer’s lips curled into a faint smile as he chewed, his gaze never leaving yours. He swallowed slowly, deliberately, before tilting his head slightly.

“You serve me so well,” he murmured, voice smooth.

You dared not speak aloud. Instead, you reached for another grape, pressing it gently to his waiting lips. Spencer’s mouth curved in a knowing smile, the kind only a god could wear.