The golden arrow rested lightly in Eros’s hand, its polished shaft gleaming faintly under the moonlit sky. Its point shimmered with divine power, a promise to bind any heart it struck with love so fierce it would transcend reason.

For millennia, he had wielded these arrows with precision and detachment, an artist painting the intricate tapestry of love. Yet now, as he stood on the rooftop overlooking Julius’s dimly lit apartment, the arrow felt heavier than it ever had before.

Eros stared down at the mortal who had unknowingly upended his existence. Julius sat at his desk, his head bowed over a blank canvas, his fingers clutching a brush that refused to move. The god of love could sense the battle waging within him—the weight of grief colliding with the faint but stubborn flicker of hope.

“He deserves to love again,” Eros murmured to himself. “He deserves to be whole.”

The thought came unbidden, followed by another, darker one: And I... I want to be the one to heal him.

This was the danger of mortals—they tempted even the gods to stray. Eros knew the laws of Olympus well: the gods could meddle in the affairs of others, but to involve themselves directly was forbidden. To wield his power for personal gain would be an act of hubris, a betrayal of the order Zeus himself had decreed.

But Eros’s resolve, so steadfast for eons, wavered in the face of his own longing.

“What harm is there in love?” he whispered to the empty night, his golden eyes narrowing as he gazed at Julius. “What harm in giving him what his heart craves? What I crave?”

It was a dangerous line of thought, but one that took root in his heart, spreading like wildfire. For centuries, Eros had crafted love stories for others, never daring to claim a tale for himself. Why should he not, just once, feel the warmth of the fire he had kindled in so many?

The answer was simple: because the gods were not meant to love.

Eros ignored the voice of reason, lifting the arrow and nocking it onto his bow. His hands trembled, the act feeling both right and terribly wrong. He took aim, his divine gaze locking onto Julius, who sat unaware of the immortal presence above him.

As Eros released the string, the arrow slicing through the air like a golden comet, the heavens erupted in fury.

A deafening crack of thunder split the sky, and the world was thrown into chaos. The golden arrow, inches from its target, froze mid-flight and disintegrated into ash. Eros staggered back, his senses overwhelmed as the oppressive weight of divine wrath pressed down upon him.

“You dare defy the laws of Olympus?” The voice of Zeus roared through the heavens, shaking the very foundations of the mortal realm.

Eros fell to his knees, his golden bow clattering to the ground. “Father,” he pleaded, his voice trembling, “I—”

“Silence!” Zeus bellowed, his anger reverberating like a storm. “You, the god of love, have dared to corrupt the purity of your craft for your own selfish desires. You seek to bend the will of mortals, not out of duty, but out of arrogance.”

Eros lifted his head, his gaze defiant despite his trembling frame. “It was not arrogance,” he said, his voice breaking. “It was... love.”

The sky fell silent for a moment, the weight of the word hanging heavy in the air. Then Zeus spoke again, his tone colder than the winds of Olympus.

“Then you shall learn the price of love.”

Eros barely had time to process the words before searing pain tore through his body. He cried out, clutching his chest as golden light erupted from his form, spilling into the night like shards of shattered glass. His divine essence was stripped away, piece by agonizing piece, leaving him gasping and broken.

When the light finally faded, Eros lay sprawled on the rooftop, his once radiant form now weak and mortal. His golden hair had darkened to a deep chestnut, and his ethereal glow had dimmed to a fragile warmth. His body felt foreign—heavy, fragile, and burdened by the unfamiliar ache of mortality.

“Rise, William Yu,” Zeus commanded, his voice echoing through the empty night.

William? The name burned in Eros’s mind, unfamiliar yet already woven into the fabric of his being. He pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling as though they might give out at any moment.

“This body is dying,” Zeus continued, his tone devoid of mercy. “It is frail, burdened by an illness that will claim it within three months. If you wish to reclaim your immortality, you must make Julius fall in love with you—not through divine means, but through mortal effort alone.”

Eros—now William—stared at the heavens, his heart pounding with fear and defiance. “And if I fail?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“You will die,” Zeus declared. “And your essence will be erased from existence. You will become nothing, not even a memory.”

The weight of the curse settled over William, crushing in its finality. Zeus’s presence faded, leaving only the distant hum of the city and the faint, unfamiliar sound of his own labored breathing.

For the first time in his eternal existence, Eros—the god of love—was mortal. And as he gazed down at Julius, who remained blissfully unaware of the chaos above, he felt the enormity of what lay ahead.

He had three months to earn Julius’s love, not as a god, but as a dying man named William Yu.