Walking

The council chamber emptied in pairs. Sandals clicked over marble as gods and goddesses slipped away into the corridors, their voices low, their laughter practiced. Lamps burned low along the walls, their light stretching long shadows across the floor.

Lily lingered. She stacked her notes, slow and precise, as though aligning her pages might bring order to her chest. Hera’s gaze from the meeting still weighed on her, cold and assessing. Ares had sat two seats away, silent and watchful, the force of his presence, and his eyes, pressing against her no matter how she tried to ignore it.

“You’ll need an escort.”

She stiffened. He was still here. Of course he was. Ares stood by the doors, arms crossed, eyes fixed on her like he had been waiting.

“I prefer to walk,” she said.

“You shouldn’t. I can take you there.”

“I’ll be fine. I like walking.” She tucked her notes under her arm, lifted her chin.

“I know you do,” he said, moving closer, the side of his mouth curving up. “I’ll take you.”

“I don't want to be an inconvenience...”

“I’ll walk with you,” he repeated, final.

Her mouth tightened. She wanted to protest, but the chamber was empty now, the silence between them heavy. Her throat tightened. She swallowed and nodded. 

It's just a walk. It will be fine. I will be fine. She knowingly lied to herself. 

The streets of New Athens were quieter than usual. Lanterns glowed on their posts, painting gold circles on the stone. Somewhere, music drifted faintly from a tavern, and a late-night café clattered with dishes. But here, where they walked, it was still. So still.

“You're looming,” Lily said at last. Her voice came out thinner than she meant. “Like a bodyguard.”

“Whatever you think, Muse.” His tone was dry, but his stride matched hers, unyielding.

She arched a brow. “Do you think I always need saving?”

“You’ve never liked admitting it,” he said. His voice held the edge of a smile, though he didn’t look at her.

Her steps faltered, heat flashing in her chest. “I don’t need saving.”

His glance cut to her, sharp and brief, like a blade sliding close. “No, you don't. But I don’t trust anyone else in case you do.”

Her breath caught. The words settled between them, heavier than the lantern light. She turned her eyes forward, quickening her pace to cover the tremor in her chest. Why did he always do this? Why did he always make her feel like she was both shielded and trapped?

Their shoulders brushed once, then again, and neither of them moved away. Her skin prickled where the fabric of her sleeve touched his arm. His magic thrummed close, restless, a low warmth that coiled around her until it felt like her blood was singing. She flushed, biting the inside of her cheek. 

Stop it. Stop thinking about how close he is. Stop imagining how it would feel to lean into him.

She fixed her gaze on the street ahead, on the shuttered shops and the quiet facades. Anything but him. But her thoughts betrayed her. 

He’s too close. He knows. Gods, he has to know.

The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bow. She risked a glance. In the lantern glow, his jaw was set, his mouth hard, his eyes shadowed with something she couldn’t name. He walked as though every step required control, as though the centuries of battles he carried weighed heavier tonight. She could feel it in the way his hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for her and was forcing himself not to.

Her pulse climbed. She told herself it was nothing, that Hera would seize on this, even one glimpse of them together in the night, and she would turn it into a weapon. She should step away, should protect herself. Yet her body betrayed her, savoring the nearness, aching with the charge of every step.

They reached the townhouse steps too soon. Her chest felt too tight, as though the walk had been a sprint.

Ares halted at the base. He didn’t climb, didn’t follow. His eyes held hers, unreadable in the low light. Then, brusquely, he said, “Stay safe. Don’t let them rattle you.” His voice was rougher than usual, scraped with restraint.

He turned before she could answer, his stride sure, his figure disappearing down the quiet street. She felt the loss of his presence like cold air rushing in.

Lily stood at the door, her notes clutched too tightly against her chest. Her throat ached with all the words she couldn’t speak. Her fingers itched to reach after him. To stop him. To let herself have what she couldn’t.

She whispered into the night, soft enough that only the stones might hear: “Only you do that, Ares."