𝔖𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔰 𝔉𝔩𝔶 | 𝔚𝔞𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔐𝔬𝔳𝔦𝔢𝔰

𝕋ℍ𝕀ℝ𝕋𝕐-𝕋𝕎𝕆

Anthea wakes slowly, as though rising from a dream she isn't entirely sure she left.

Warmth surrounds her – not just the blankets, not just the soft golden light spilling through the curtains, but something deeper. Something steady. Something alive.

It takes her a moment to realise that she's not in her dormitory. That the past two days haven't just been a sick dream.

She breathes in, the scent unmistakable – rich, dark, ancient with the faintest hint of smoke. Hades.

She blinks her eyes open slowly.

Hades is lying on his side beside her.

His head rests on one arm, dark hair falling messily across his forehead. He's been awake for a while – she can tell from the stillness in his body, the quiet focus in his gaze. He looks down at her with a kind of quiet awe, like he's not sure he's allowed to look but can't bring himself to look away.

Anthea's breath catches, not from fear, but from the strange tenderness in his expression.

"ἡ ἀγάπη μου," Anthea whispers, her voice hoarse, like she hasn't used it in a week.

He doesn't startle. His lips curve, the smallest, warmth ghost of a smile.

"Good morning," he murmurs.

The way he says it makes her chest tighten. She instinctively curls closer, drawn by his warmth, his steadiness, everything she never expected to find in the god of the Underworld. His hand moves before he can stop it, brushing her hair back from her forehead with a slow, deliberate tenderness.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he says quietly, though the softness in his voice suggests he doesn't mind that she did.

"How long were you watching me?"

He hesitates – not out of guilt.

"A while."

She blushes, her cheeks warming. "Why?"

His eyes darken – not with danger, but with emotion so deep it steals her breath.

"Because," he whispers, "I wanted to remember what you look like when you're at peace."

Her heart flutters.

She shifts again, unconsciously leaning into his touch. His thumb traces the line of her cheekbone before he seems to catch himself, pulling his hand back slightly.

"You can touch me," she whispers. "Last night should have proven that."

Hades exhales shakily – a sound so quiet she almost misses it. Almost.

He reaches out again, this time letting his fingers rest against her cheek. His hand is warm, steady, careful in a way that makes her melt into the pillow. "You're too trusting," he murmurs.

"No," she whispers back, "I trust the right person."

His breath stutters.

"Did you sleep at all?"