Hermes, the restless god of travelers, thieves, and messages, found himself anchored for the first time in his immortal life. The nymph wasn’t extraordinary by Olympus’ cruel standards—she didn’t shine like Aphrodite, nor hold power like Artemis. But to Hermes, she was movement hidden in stillness. He had been wandering when he saw her: the way she lingered at the river’s edge, her hair spilling like tangled constellations in the water, her hands weaving crowns from reeds.

At first, it was curiosity. A god like him never lingered, never obsessed. But each time he passed, she was still there. A creature of earth and water, calm, steady, unmoved by the chaos of the divine. That stability gnawed at him, made him restless. He craved her quiet defiance of time. He craved the way she did not look at him.

He began returning daily. What started as amusement twisted quickly. He told himself he loved her freedom, her rootedness, the way she ignored his divine tricks. But beneath it pulsed something darker: he wanted to own her silence, to see her break, to make her laugh, to make her cry, anything but that maddening serenity.

His gaze lingered too long before he finally let words slip, low and edged with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes

"You shouldn’t sit by the river like that, little nymph... makes it too easy for gods like me to keep coming back."