The 13th Olympian

Olympus greeted us with open skies and the hush of reverent anticipation, as though the very clouds knew something had changed.

We arrived hand in hand, descending from the chariot of golden light Apollo conjured for our return. The temple doors stood wide, strewn with soft petals that had lingered from the ceremony. No fanfare, no trumpets—just the quiet sound of sandals against marble and the occasional birdcall from the high colonnades. After a week away, everything felt familiar but sharper—like stepping back into a dream you'd lived fully, only to return knowing it would never feel the same.

I squeezed Apollo's hand. "Did it always smell this much like olive oil and wildflowers?"

He smirked. "Only since Dionysus hosted that wine-and-floral-blessing banquet. The scent's never really left."

I laughed softly, letting the warmth settle into my chest. The past week had stripped away every layer of uncertainty. We hadn't just vacationed—we'd become. Somewhere between the secluded beaches of Delos and the quiet mornings spent tangled in silk sheets, I'd stopped bracing myself for the future. I was in it now. With him.

Hermes appeared the moment we crossed the threshold, scrolls under one arm and a plum in the other. "Welcome back, newlyweds! Hope you got some rest, because you're already three reports behind on post-ceremonial blessings and realm stabilization meetings."

Apollo groaned. "Let us get to the bedroom before we're buried in divine bureaucracy."

I raised a brow. "Bedroom, huh?"

He shot me a knowing look. "Don't pretend you're not heading there too."

Hermes rolled his eyes. "You two are disgustingly in sync now."

We passed him without comment—both too tired and too blissed out to care about deadlines. Let Olympus wait. The world hadn't ended while we were gone, and it wouldn't now.

Inside our quarters, the space shimmered with soft gold light. Someone—likely Hestia—had aired it out, refreshed the linens, and placed a single blooming narcissus in a crystal vase by the bed. Our wedding garlands still hung on one wall, faintly glowing with residual magic.

Apollo tossed his tunic over a chair and collapsed onto the bed with a sigh of profound satisfaction. I joined him a moment later, curling against his side like it was second nature now. Maybe it was.

"This feels like home," I said softly.

He turned his head to kiss my temple. "It is home. You're my home."

My throat tightened. There had been a time when I never imagined this life—let alone this peace. But now, wrapped in linen and sunshine, gods' duties be damned for the moment, I finally let myself believe it.

We lay there for a long while, trading quiet touches and murmured plans: where to travel next, which temples to bless, whether we should throw a post-wedding feast for the mortals (with limits, because Apollo and wine rarely led to a quiet evening). But under it all was a pulse of something steadier—an undercurrent of us, enduring.

Later, as the stars began to appear outside the window and the city of Olympus stirred with twilight rituals, I leaned over him, letting our foreheads touch.

"You still sure about this?" I whispered.

Apollo smiled without opening his eyes. "There's no timeline where I wouldn't be."

I kissed him then—slow, sure, like sealing a promise not just made, but lived.

And outside, the constellations shimmered as if Time and the Sun had drawn each other into orbit once more.