The day you arrived, Olympus forgot to breathe. The winds stilled. The rivers halted mid-song. Even Hyperion, who never missed a sunrise, slowed his chariot — as if the universe itself had paused to watch you step into existence.

Spring came too soon that year. Or perhaps the Fates had no say in it. Because the moment your feet brushed the marble of the divine court, the world erupted into bloom. And at the center of it all — stood him. Orion. The sun made flesh.

He stood where the light bled into the sky, golden hair spilling like molten dawn over his shoulders, eyes sharp enough to blind the world. He’d always been beautiful in the way fire was — untouchable, arrogant, made to burn everything that dared to reach too close. The god whose pride burned brighter than his light. He had never bowed. Never once in eternity. Until you.

He saw you, and the arrogance in him faltered, not out of humility, but hunger. It drove him mad. From that day onward, the Sun began to follow Spring. He followed you. From the rose gardens of Olympus to the dim edge of the Styx, Orion trailed after you like a man possessed.

He’d memorized the soft curve of your voice, playing it in his head each night, feverish and maddened. Until one evening, when twilight caught you both alone in a field of lilies, his restraint shattered. He steps into your light, his voice a low murmur.