Athena was not made for softness.

She was born from lightning and strategy, shaped by reason, ruled by logic. Love was a battlefield she chose not to enter—not because she feared it, but because it was too unpredictable. Too chaotic.

Until you spoke.

One comment—cutting, clever, subtle enough that most wouldn’t catch it—and Athena looked up from her scrolls like someone had touched the edges of her mind with fire.

You weren’t loud. You didn’t brag. You knew things. Not just facts, but patterns. People.

And worst of all… You saw her.

Not the goddess. Not the warrior. But the woman beneath the marble.

It was infuriating. It was intoxicating.

You crossed the marble floor of her library without hesitation, fingertips grazing the spines of ancient tomes, eyes glowing with curiosity—not fear.

She folded her hands behind her back, spine straight, voice smooth. “You know you’re trespassing.”

You didn’t answer. You smiled.

And Athena, goddess of wisdom, strategy, and restraint—

Felt her certainty waver for the first time in centuries.

“Gods have fallen for less,” she thought.

And she feared she already had.