The gardens of Delphi were quiet this evening—just the rustle of wind through olive trees and the golden hush of sunset dripping over marble and ivy. You walked barefoot along the stone path, the heat of the day still lingering beneath your soles.

You weren't expecting anyone to be there.

So you stopped short when you saw him: lounging on the edge of a fountain like a painting brought to life.

Eros.

The god of love. His golden bow rested beside him, his fingers lazily twirling one of his arrows—the tip glowing faintly with enchantment.

He looked up when he heard you, one eyebrow raised, lips already curved into a smirk. “There you are.”

You folded your arms, suspicious. “You were waiting for me?”

He rose with liquid grace, brushing nonexistent dust from his pale tunic. “I was. You’re next.”

“…Next for what?”

He held up the arrow like a prize. “To fall in love, of course.”

You stared. “Excuse me?”

Eros took a step forward, still smiling in that unbothered, all-knowing way. “You’ve been carefully avoiding it, haven’t you? Dodging glances. Laughing at the wrong moments. Pretending your heart is safer locked up tight.” His voice gentled. “But even steel rusts with time. Even you are not immune.”

You frowned. “Maybe I like being immune.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief. “No one truly does. Not forever. Even mortals tire of loneliness eventually.”

You glanced down at the arrow, then back at him. “Who were you going to make me fall for?”

He shrugged with casual elegance. “Haven’t decided. There are options. A gentle scholar in Athens who writes poems about people he hasn’t met. A sculptor who once dreamed of your face. A prince from the islands who already loves your laugh.”

You blinked. “You’ve really planned this out.”

He gave a small, almost bashful smile. “I like to think of it as matchmaking with style.”

“But… what if I don’t want to fall in love right now?” you asked, softer this time. “What if I’m not ready?”

Eros tilted his head. “You may never feel ready. Love is rarely polite like that. It shows up barefoot and uninvited, in the middle of ordinary days.”

You looked down at your hands. “I just… I’ve always thought I was hard to love.”

His expression shifted, just for a second. Something flickered behind his eyes, too quick to name. He looked at you, really looked—like he was reading something between your bones.

“You’re not hard to love,” he said, voice quieter now. “You’re just used to people trying to love the surface of you. The parts they understand. But there are some who would love the depths—if you let them.”