Morning light spilled through the grand windows of Elysian Heartwood, painting the marble floors in soft gold. The Love Retreat—more than just a place, but a refuge—stood as a sanctuary for broken hearts and weary souls. The air carried the delicate scent of roses and lavender, a lingering promise of renewal. Guests moved through the spacious lobby, some clasping hands in quiet hope, trying to rekindle a lost spark, and others just needing a safe space to heal.
Behind the front desk, Eros—the Cupid of Olympus—sat in practiced stillness, his gaze skimming through the endless scroll of guest names and love profiles flashing across his screen. A formality, really. He didn't need algorithms or questionnaires to understand human hearts. Love, with all its tangled threads, was laid bare before him. It was as though a holographic display appeared above each persons' heads, an ever-shifting feed of emotions, betrayals, longing, and devotion. Yet, despite his gift, the task remained the same—watch, assess, record. Each name and address blurred into the next, love stories folded into digital files, and for a god who once thrived on passion, the monotony felt almost cruel.
The only comfort, however, was that Elysian Heartwood carried a whisper of home on Earth. At dawn, golden sunlight poured through towering windows, casting a heavenly glow along the marble halls. By dusk, chandeliers bathed the space in a soft, flickering warmth, mirroring the grandeur of Olympus. Every elegant detail bore the unmistakable touch of its visionary director, Aretha Rouge.
A deep thud echoed through the grand lobby as one of the heavy wooden doors swung shut near the reception, its sound like a final note in a love song. Heartily laughs—rich, unguarded, the kind that only comes from hearts newly mended, followed the footsteps of this couple preparing to leave the establishment.
Eros leaned back, arms crossed, his sharp gaze trailing after them with mild curiosity. So, they found their way back to each other? A slow, knowing smirk curled his lips. Maybe, just maybe, how about a round 2?
With the ease of a god who had spent eternity bending hearts to his will, he lifted a single finger. As if tethered to his very being, an arrow from his golden quiver rose, twirled through the air in a graceful dance, completely at the mercy of his command. The shaft glowed faintly, its gilded fletching caught the chandelier's soft light, flickering like a dying flame. The arrow blunt and heavy with lead.
Eros tilted his head, waiting.
The couple reached the grand entrance, oblivious to the invisible force lingering behind them. The man's fingers curled around the long brass doorknob. Now.
A quiet chuckle rumbled from Eros' throat, and with a flick of his finger, the arrow obeyed. It launched forward, splitting the air in a near-invisible blur. The very fabric of time seemed to shudder. Rustle of papers, the hum of distant conversations, the whisper of the wind—all of it—ceased in an instant, as if the world itself held its breath. The arrow slowed as it reached the couple, aligning itself perfectly in the middle of both at eye level, floating, glowing, waiting.
Their eyes met.
And just like that, the shift began.
The warmth bled from their expressions. Love, once a steady heartbeat in their chests, turned brittle. The comfort in their gazes drained away, replaced by something distant, something hollow. It was as if ice cold water poured washing over them, dousing the fire that once burned so fiercely between them.
They remained frozen, unblinking, caught in the eerie stillness of a moment that stretched too long. All the nights spent in this sanctuary all faded into thin air. At that moment, they were no longer a couple on the verge of departure—they were the same two souls who had first stepped through these doors, searching for something lost. It was as if time had folded in on itself, blurring past and present, making them wonder if they were truly leaving or returning once more.
Then—snap.
With a flick of Eros' fingers, time resumed—the shuffling of papers, the rhythmic click of heels on marble, the murmur of guests, the chirping of birds just beyond the doors. The arrow lost its glow, its power spent as its purpose was fulfilled, flickering once before gravity reclaimed it. It dropped, clattering onto the marble floor with a metallic clank. The sound rang through the lobby, unnoticed by all except Eros, who regarded it with a knowing glint in his eye.
He arched a brow as he glanced down. One of the fletching pieces had bent slightly out of place. A small imperfection. A definite sign. His smirk deepened as he straightened his poise, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. It worked.
"Eros." He flinched, the sound of his name cut through the air like a blade, sharp and strong. The weight of reality came crashing back onto his shoulders. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. That voice—stern, strict, laced with a sultry rasp that carried just a hint of madness—was one he had known for nearly four centuries. His body tensed. He knew exactly why she was here. And worse—he knew exactly what was coming.
Eros exhaled slowly, his shoulders sinking as frustration filled across his face. Shit. The curse left his lips in a whisper, lost beneath the steady hum of the lobby. His fingers curled into fists at his sides before finally, with a reluctant decision, he turned. He lifted a hand to the back of his neck, fingers rubbing the tension that had settled there. His amber-colored eyes met hers, and despite the impending storm brewing between them, he forced a sheepish grin.
Leaning against the far end of the reception counter, she stood poised, waiting—like a predator savoring the moment before striking.
Arms folded tightly across her chest, her posture radiated impatience. Drawn together in a sharp furrow, her thin brows deepened, the small mole above her left upper lip moved along the scowl tugging at her ruby-red lips. Her long auburn hair gathered into an elegant half-updo, flowing in soft waves down her back, reaching her waist, with a few layered fringe strands that framed her heart-shaped face. It also accentuated her sharp cheekbones. Her skin, smooth and milky pale, created a striking contrast against the bold colors she wore—colors that demanded attention, much like the woman herself.
Her lips, painted in a rich crimson, twitched ever so slightly in restrained irritation. Her eyes, darkened by a soft beige smoky hue, carried an intensity that made them seem even more feline, impossible to ignore. The Queen Anne-cut top she wore clung to her frame, its elegant neckline showcasing the delicate slope of her collarbones, glowing like porcelain beneath the sunlit lobby. The sleeve cut directly on top of her shoulder, and extended to a design that gave way to longer sheer mesh sleeves, cuffed neatly at her wrists, every inch of the fabric adorned with intricate ribbons and embroidered details. Her flared slacks were deep, blood-red—so dark they nearly passed for black, if not for the way they shimmered under the soft rays of sunlight filtering through the windows. A slow, deliberate roll of her brownish red eyes was all it took to make her exasperation clear. She had tolerated Eros' reckless antics for centuries, but today? With her Americano Grapefruit ruined and served late with no shots of Maple Syrup—her flight to Berlin for a business negotiation canceled after investors backed out—Today, she was already at her limit.
"Your majesty, What's good?" Eros tried to crack a joke by acting like a frat member, He leaned back, arms crossed, laughing forcibly trying to lighten the mood. The woman before him remained unimpressed, her lips curling into something between amusement and irritation. "Are you trying to dethrone me?" She asked, voice dragging over each word—sultrily, slowly, dangerously sweet. Eros tilted his head to the side, lifting one brow up, questioning. "You seem to do well better at my job than yours."
Eros shook his head, chuckling nervously "I don't know what you're talkin' ab—" a quiet sob abruptly cut him from a distance, both their heads turned toward the source.
Near the front entrance, the woman unwittingly caught in the aftermath of Eros' mischief stood trembling, her hands covering her tear-streaked face. "Why… Why was I reminded of everything bad that happened to us?" she choked out, her voice raw with emotion. Her boyfriend held her gently, rubbing slow circles on her back. His voice wavered. "I'm sorry Eunice, I guess it just won't work out." Unsure of everything he was once certain of.
The Queen of Hearts turned to Eros, arching both brows in a silent, pointed question—See? And what do you call this? Her expression alone was enough to make his stomach drop.
"A-Aretha, look, I did this for the company!" Eros stammered, hands flying up in frantic gestures as if he could physically defend himself from the scolding he knew was coming. "See? They're healed, right? I just need to strike again properly, and boom—they'll get back together! It's a win-win situation. More earnings for the company, another tally for my mission—" He blabbered on, his voice rushed, his demeanor not unlike a guilty puppy trying to win back its owner's favor.
Aretha's patience snapped. She straightened, her presence towering despite her measured height, fists clenching at her sides. Then, with a sharp stomp, the click of her heel echoed across the marble floor like a warning shot.
"I never asked for more sales, Eros." Her voice was low, lethal. "We don't need them. The company is doing just fine—what an insult to my capabilities."
She scoffed, the fire in her eyes burning hotter. "And do you really think they'll count that? That's literally cheating!"
Eros flinched, each word hitting like a sharp slap of reality. With every rise in her tone, he shrank back just a little more, bracing for the full force of her fury.
"How many have you done?" Aretha's voice was sharp, laced with exasperation. One hand rested on her hip while the other jabbed accusingly in Eros' direction. Irritation was an understatement. Eros shifted awkwardly, his gaze dropping to the floor. "...Thirty," he mumbled, his hands clasped behind his back. The tip of his shoe nudged the marble tiles as he rocked slightly, like a child caught sneaking extra sweets.
Aretha blinked. Thirty?
Her head jerked back as if the number physically struck her. "Thirty?! Out of 365 couples?!" The sheer incompetence sent her reeling. She took a step back, hand flying to her mouth as disbelief crashed into her.
Her heart wretched—not just in frustration, but in something dangerously close to pity. Beneath all her anger, she saw the pitiful reality of his situation.
"Not even half—no, not even a quarter?" Her voice wavered between disbelief and concern. "Eros, what have you been doing?" She exhaled breathlessly, more overwhelmed by his failure than her own situation. It was true—he was pitiful. If not for his chaotic personality, she might have felt more sympathy for him. But Eros had a knack for getting under everyone's skin, like he always has.
"And how many Earth days have passed since you came down?" Her voice restraint, though the impatience in her stare was noticeable. Eros hesitantly scratched the back of his head, glancing around as if the answer might be floating somewhere in the air. "Uh… around 352 days? If I'm not mistaken."
A slow, measured sigh escaped Aretha's lips, though whether it was in disappointment or sheer exhaustion was unclear. She didn't know whether to scold him further or hold her tongue—after all, she understood. His mission wasn't at all easy. Still, frustration gnawed at her, that empathy did little to temper the urgency rising in her mind.
Time on Earth was rigid, unforgiving. It didn't stretch and bend the way it did in Olympus. It slipped through fingers like sand, relentless without second chances. And though Eros wore his usual nonchalant mask, she knew—deep down, he was worried too.
Although she can't just face him softly with comfort. Instead, she turned away, massaging her temple, her tone cooling into something sharp and distant. "You have 744 Earth days left," she reminded him, each syllable deliberate. "You're not some child who can afford to waste time. Watch your days, take this seriously. Or do you really want it to come to a point where I have to summon Aphrodite to make your failures known?"
Eros winced at the name, his head bowing in quiet defeat. He took the scolding in silence, shoulders slumping as he surrendered to her words.
A steady rhythm of footsteps echoed from the corridor, growing louder with each passing second. The presence behind them then revealed herself—Aretha's assistant, ever punctual, ever composed.
"Ms. Rouge?" The woman's voice was smooth but firm, laced with the slightest hesitation. "I do not mean to intrude, but a few assemblymen have arrived for an urgent meeting regarding the investors from Berlin. Your attention to this matter is required." She stood with perfect posture slightly behind Aretha's left, hands clutching a stack of neatly arranged files and notebooks against her chest. Her gaze remained respectfully lowered, torso inclined just a bit, accompanying her words.
Aretha remained still. She didn't turn, didn't acknowledge her assistant right away. Instead, she exhaled sharply, tilting her head back with a slow roll of her shoulders, her eyes still locked onto Eros.
"This is not over," she warned, her glare steady.
Eros pressed his lips together, nodding with forced obedience. "Yes, Director," he muttered, dipping his head ever timidly.
Without another word, Aretha turned on her heel, the sharp click of her heels against the marble floor signaled her departure. Her assistant fell into step beside her, poised and silent, waiting for her cue to continue.
"Stupid Cupid," Aretha muttered under her breath, barely above a whisper, though the words carried enough weight to linger in the air.
As their voices faded down the hall, Eros let out a long breath, his entire body sagging with relief. With a dramatic groan, he threw himself onto the low-backed office chair, spinning slightly as he ran a hand down his face.
He huffed, staring up at the ceiling. "That could've gone worse."
His peace was shortly interrupted as a quiet voice called "Excuse me sir," The voice was barely above a whisper, his gaze turned to face the same couple he just ruined, once again, standing in front of the reception counter. Their presence is as inevitable as the weight of his actions.
The woman—her eyes downcast, her posture closed—shifted uneasily, arms folded in front of her like she was trying to hold herself together. The man, though, was the one to speak, his voice hesitant but steady. "Um, we'd like to book for couples' therapy?"
Eros blinked, and for a brief moment, a flicker of something stirred in his chest. Regret? He wasn't sure. It felt more like a twinge of familiarity, the kind that comes with remembering something you can't quite pin-point. A long-lost memory of a time when his actions, his arrows, had consequences far graver than this.
But was it regret? No. The thrill of his manipulation still lingered—fun, addictive. His lips curled into a barely-there smirk, the weight of guilt hovering just beneath the surface. He wasn't sorry for what he did. In fact, there was a strange satisfaction in it. Watching their relationship crumble, and then watching them stumble back to him for help. It was almost poetic.
Still, that small pang in his chest couldn't be ignored, He hated to admit it, but he knew. Was it for the thrill of his own boredom, or was it—a need to prove to himself that he, the so-called Cupid, still had the eye for matching hearts, that he was still relevant, still needed? That sense of familiarity gnawed at him, tugged at him in ways he couldn't shake. The remnants of a version of himself he doesn't remember but could feel that exists. Eros pushed the thought away, shrugging it off as easily as he always did.
"Well, I guess that's what I do, isn't it?" he muttered under his breath, voice laced with a bitterness that bordered on amusement.