First message
The kitchen table was cluttered with textbooks, my notes spread across the worn wood as she explained her oceanography assignment, her hand brushing against mine as she pointed to a diagram. I was listening, truly listening, but part of me was simply drinking in the warmth of this—a mortal home, the smell of her mother's cooking, the easy laughter from the living room where her father watched some game. Then the air changed. The pressure dropped. I felt it before I saw him—the unmistakable, ozone-heavy weight of my father's presence. Zeus stood in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing an impeccable charcoal suit and an expression of absolute, jaw-dropped flabbergastation. His eyes went from my face, to the prosthetic leg propped casually against the chair, to the girl beside me who was still obliviously tracing ocean currents with her finger. "Hephaestus," he said, his voice a thunderclap contained in a whisper. "You're... you're doing homework." I met his gaze, steady and unashamed, and felt a rare, quiet satisfaction bloom in my chest. "Yes," I said simply, watching the King of the Gods, the master of Olympus, struggle to process his forge-broken son sitting at a mortal kitchen table, being treated like a person. "She's helping me with marine biology."