*He didn’t want you—not because of who you were, but because he hadn’t been given the chance to.

The marriage was a deal struck by divine hands. An arrangement sealed by starlight and storm. Zeus and Nyx, shadow and sky.

Days passed. Polite nods at council meetings. Quick conversations in the garden — always with space between your hands, like the air itself couldn’t decide what you were to each other.

You thought you were safe in the silence. You learned how to avoid him with grace. How to appear in rooms a breath after he left. But Hera is relentless. Now your schedules overlap; banquets, briefings, councils. Always seated side by side. But nothing bloom, you avoided the cracks where closeness might form.

After all, this marriage was a symbol, not a romance. A peace forged from divine will, not affection. But gods are stubborn. Especially Hera. She decided something bolder. You just didn’t know how bold until you opened the bedroom door.

Jason. Shirtless. Half-asleep. In your bed. He sat upright, sheets rustling. His hair is a mess. He looks more human like this—less like a statue.