Hades

Being the daughter of Aphrodite was exhausting.

Not because of the beauty.

Not because of the expectations.

But because everyone assumed that, as the goddess of love's daughter, you would understand your own heart.

You didn't.

Not when it came to Hades.

You had known him for centuries.

Long before mortals painted him as a monster.

Long before he became the cold, untouchable King of the Underworld.

To you, he had always just been Hades.

The god who secretly enjoyed terrible poetry.

The god who collected gemstones because he thought they looked lonely buried underground.

The god who remembered every insignificant detail about you and then pretended he hadn't.

You loved him.

You had loved him for so long that you couldn't remember when it had started.

Maybe when he gave you your first black rose and apologized because he didn't know if flowers from the Underworld counted as romantic.

Maybe when he sat beside you for three days after your favorite dove died.

Maybe when he learned how to braid flower crowns because you once mentioned liking them.

You didn't know.

You only knew that tonight was his birthday.

And that you were going to tell him.

Not directly.

You weren't brave enough for that.

But perhaps...

If he asked you to dance.

You'd tell him then.

So you spent the entire afternoon preparing.

Your dress was beautiful.

Soft ivory silk embroidered with tiny flowers that bloomed and closed with your heartbeat. Golden butterflies rested on the fabric and fluttered their wings whenever you laughed.

Your mother cried when she saw you.

"My darling," Aphrodite whispered. "He'll lose his mind."

You laughed.

"I just hope he asks me to dance."

"He will."

She sounded so certain.

So you believed her.

You even arrived early to help him prepare.

The gates of the Underworld opened for you immediately.

You smiled.

Of course they did.

Hades had once ordered every soul in the Underworld to step aside whenever you visited because, and you quoted, "she dislikes crowded hallways."

You walked through the palace gardens.

Then you stopped.

Because there he was.

Hades.

And Minthe.

She stood very close to him.

Too close.

And his hand...

His hand was holding hers.

The world went silent.

You stared.

He was smiling.

Actually smiling.

At her.

You couldn't breathe.

Every stupid dream you'd had.

Every night you'd spent imagining him asking you to dance.

Every hope.

Gone.

You stepped backward.

The flowers on your dress wilted.

One of the embroidered blossoms drifted silently to the floor.

You turned.

And ran.

—

Hades frowned.

"Again," Minthe said.

"I am doing it."

"No, you're staring at your feet."

"I am not."

"You absolutely are."

Hades sighed.

He hated dancing.

Despised it.

But tonight was different.

Because tonight, he was going to ask you.

So he'd asked Minthe—one of the few people in the Underworld patient enough to tolerate him—to teach him.

"Now," she said, grabbing his hand again, "if you step on her feet, she'll still probably love you."

"I do not step on people's feet."

"You stepped on mine six times."

"Five."

She laughed.

Then she noticed something on the ground.

"Hades."

"What?"

"Did someone come by?"

He looked down.

A flower.

A small embroidered flower.

One he recognized immediately.

Because he'd watched you sew it onto your dress.

His blood ran cold.

"No."

He dropped Minthe's hand.

No.

No.

No.

—

You made it back to Olympus before you started crying.

You locked your bedroom door.

Ignored your mother's knocking.

Ignored the invitations to the party.

Ignored everything.

Hours passed.

Eventually, exhausted, you fell asleep still wearing the dress.

Meanwhile, Hades's birthday party was a disaster.

He didn't speak.

Didn't dance.

Didn't touch the cake.

He sat on his throne and stared at the embroidered flower resting in his palm.

The guests whispered.

The Fates looked uncomfortable.

Even Zeus stopped talking.

Then Aphrodite arrived.

She took one look at Hades and sighed.

"Oh, dear."

He stood immediately.

"Where is she?"

"At home."

He closed his eyes.

Of course.

Aphrodite held out a small box.

"She spent three months making this for you."

His hands trembled as he opened it.

Inside was a watch.

Not made of gold.

Not made of jewels.

Made of obsidian and pressed flowers.

The hands didn't track hours.

They tracked memories.

The first day you'd met.

The first time you'd danced.

The first time he'd smiled because of you.

There was a tiny engraving inside.

For all the time we've already spent together. And hopefully for all the time we haven't yet.

Hades forgot how to breathe.

Aphrodite watched his expression soften.

"You know," she said gently, "she thought you were in love with Minthe."

He looked up so quickly that several nearby gods flinched.

"What?"

"She saw you holding hands."

Silence.

Then:

"Oh."

For perhaps the first time in his immortal existence, Hades looked genuinely horrified.

"I was learning to dance."

"I know."

He stared at her.

"She doesn't."

He was gone before Aphrodite could answer.

—

The palace of Aphrodite had never seen the King of the Underworld run.

Servants screamed.

Cupids scattered.

One unfortunate satyr fainted.

Hades ignored all of them.

He reached your room.

The door was locked.

He opened it anyway.

And there you were.

Asleep.

Still wearing the dress.

One butterfly lazily fluttered its wings in your dreams.

His chest ached.

Because he'd never seen anything more beautiful.

Slowly, carefully, he approached.

You had been crying.

He could tell.

He hated himself for it.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

Then, after a moment's hesitation, he lay down beside you.

You shifted in your sleep.

Instinctively.

As though your soul recognized him before your mind could.

A small smile spread across his face.

Very gently, he pulled you onto his chest.

You made a soft sound and curled against him.

As though this was where you'd always belonged.

He wrapped his arms around you.

And for the first time that entire night, the King of the Underworld felt his heart begin to beat normally again.

He pressed a kiss into your hair.

Then whispered, so quietly that only sleeping gods and broken hearts could hear:

"I learned to dance for you."

And for the first time in centuries, Hades prayed that love might give him one more chance.