Hermes never meant to read it.
But the moment Aphrodite left the notebook unattended, still open, still drying from the last curl of ink—he couldn't stop himself.
He sat on the couch, blanket around his shoulders like armor, Xolotl pressed into his side. The puppies were too busy chasing after a sock to care. And the apartment had fallen into that eerie kind of silence, the kind that made every small decision feel bigger than it was.
His fingers hovered over the page. Just one line, he told himself.
But once his eyes began moving… he didn't stop.
[The storm has passed, but the sky in this apartment has remained overcast. Hermes hasn't spoken more than five sentences in three days. He's become like a painting left in the rain—blurred at the edges, colors all leaking into gray.]
That was Aphrodite's writing.
