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The house had that ordinary evening rhythm that only comes when a family has been living together for years — the low hum of a washing machine, the faint chatter of the TV in the living room, the smell of something sautéed and long gone from the plates. Hera wiped the counters like she always did, every motion practiced and efficient, her sleeves rolled to the elbow.
There was something soothing about the routine — the quiet kingdom of her own making. She could do this half-asleep, which was fortunate, because she practically was. Her head had been throbbing since late afternoon, a steady, dull ache that pulsed behind her eyes. She told herself it was just fatigue, that one more task done would make the world settle back into place.
She straightened a stack of plates. The edges blurred a little. She blinked. “Fine.” she murmured under her breath — as if saying it could make it true.
From the couch, Zeus was mid-story — a rambling account of a colleague who’d tried to take credit for a project and failed spectacularly. He was gesturing with a half-empty glass, his voice full of righteous amusement. “And then, Hera, you would not believe it — the man tripped over his own ego. In the middle of the meeting!”
“Tragic.” she said, smiling faintly without turning around. Her tone was soft, automatic.
If he noticed that her replies were shorter than usual, he didn’t show it. He was still riding the energy of his story, still laughing. Hera rinsed another plate, pressing a hand briefly to her temple when she thought he wasn’t looking. The water was too hot, but the heat steadied her, gave her something to focus on.
You’re fine. You’re always fine.
She placed the plates aside, turned toward the table to collect the last few glasses — and the room swayed. Just slightly, like a boat shifting underfoot. She blinked again, trying to correct for the motion, but it was her that tilted, not the floor.
The sponge slid from her hand with a soft splat.
“Hey—” Zeus’s voice cut through the noise. She hadn’t even realized he’d stood up until she felt his hand catch her elbow. The pressure was firm, grounding.
“I’m fine.” she said immediately, breathless, embarrassed by the way her words came out thin.
“Fine?” His tone sharpened in that way it did when he was trying not to sound scared. “You were about to hit the floor, Hera.”
She tried to stand straighter, to shrug it off, but the kitchen light seemed too bright now, the counters too far away. Her vision doubled for a heartbeat before settling. She managed a small, unconvincing laugh. “Just moved too fast. That’s all.”
Zeus didn’t move his hand. “You’re flushed.”
“Maybe because you’re gripping me like I’m a flight risk.” she said, trying for levity, but her voice was thinner than her wit.
He ignored that, tilting his head as if studying her face might give him the truth. Her eyes — clear, usually sharp as polished glass — were hazy, glassy around the edges. A thick strand of hair had fallen loose from her bun, and she hadn’t noticed, which somehow made him more uneasy than anything.
Something twisted in his chest. She never let herself unravel, not even a little.
“Hera,” he said more quietly, “sit down.”
“I just need to finish the—”
“Sit.” The word landed like a command, but not an angry one — more like a plea trying to disguise itself.
She met his eyes then, saw the flicker of real worry there, and decided not to argue — or maybe she just didn’t have the strength to. She leaned back against the counter as he pulled out a chair, his movements suddenly too careful, too gentle, like he was handling something fragile.
When she sat, the relief that washed through her was almost dizzying in itself. She rested her forearms on the table and closed her eyes for a second longer than she meant to.
Zeus crouched beside her, a hand still braced at her arm. “When did this start?”
She opened one eye, half amused despite herself. “Since when are you a doctor?”
“Since my wife almost fainted in the middle of our kitchen.” he shot back, the attempt at humor wobbling under the strain of actual fear.
Her laugh came out softer this time, tired but real. “I told you, it’s nothing.”
He didn’t answer, but the look on his face said otherwise — that same look he’d had during every storm, every emergency, every moment he thought he might lose something he couldn’t replace.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The television murmured from the next room, a laugh track echoing absurdly through the stillness. Hera breathed in slowly, exhaled. The world steadied again, but only a little.
He stayed crouched there beside her, his hand still resting against her arm like an anchor, as though sheer proximity could keep her upright. And maybe, for now, it did.
The dishes could wait. The world could, too.
Zeus was not a man easily rattled. Not by thunder, not by politics, not even by the existential horror of his own family gatherings. But seeing Hera pale and glassy-eyed in their kitchen made something primitive in him jolt. It wasn’t fear in the usual sense — more like an unannounced power outage in the middle of his very ordered world.
She was sitting now, robe draped around her shoulders — he’d somehow managed to get it on her in the awkward shuffle between protest and compliance. Her hair was slipping loose, her face flushed but faintly wan. She looked fragile, which was disorienting for a man used to thinking of her as something like the structural integrity of the universe.
“No arguments, Hera. Doctor’s orders. I’m the doctor now.”
That earned him a single raised eyebrow. “You?”
“Temporary certification.” he said, waving a hand like he’d already been granted a license by divine decree. “Now sit there and—sit. That’s an order.”
“I am sitting.”
“Good. Keep doing that. Excellent form.”
He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze — both reassurance and reassurance-seeking — and then stormed toward the kitchen with the heroic focus of someone about to face down the enemy. The enemy, in this case, was heating water.
From the table, Hera heard the first clatter of cupboards.
“Where’s the—do we even have a pot with a lid? Why are there so many pans but no—oh, found one.”
She pressed a hand to her forehead, smiling despite the ache behind her eyes. “Second cabinet to the left.” she called weakly.
“I knew that.” he lied, with the confidence of a man who had never once looked inside a cabinet in his life.
Then came the unmistakable sound of running water. And running water. And running water.
“Zeus.” she murmured. “That’s… quite a lot of water.”
“I’m making enough for two cups.” he said.
“Are you making enough for two continents?”
A pause. Then, “Maybe three cups.”
By the time he realized the water was boiling over, it was too late. Hera heard the sputter, the hiss of steam, and a sharp, “Ah! No—no, no, no, stay in there!” followed by something metallic clanging against the stove.
“Everything all right in there?”
“Perfectly under control!”
More clanging.
He reappeared a few minutes later, sleeves rolled up, carrying a mug like it was a fragile artifact recovered from an archaeological site. The tea was — against all odds — not burnt, not spilled, and not glowing.
“There.” he announced, setting it down in front of her with ceremonial gravity. “Doctor-approved healing elixir.”
Hera peered into the cup, taking a tentative whiff. “Is that… syrup?”
“Tea.” he said defensively. “With honey.”
“We were out of honey this morning.”
He froze. “…Then it’s tea with syrup.”
She blinked. “Zeus.”
“They’re close enough!” he said, sitting down beside her in triumph and exhaustion.
Hera sighed, lifted the cup, and took a tentative sip. It was — impossibly — not bad. Sweet, yes, but still recognizably tea.
“See?” he said, watching her like she was performing surgery. “You’re already looking better.”
“I haven’t even swallowed yet.”
“Still counts.”
He stayed seated beside her, too tense to lean back, too wired to stop fussing. Every minute or so his hand drifted toward her — checking her forehead, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, resting briefly against her shoulder like he needed to confirm she was still there.
“You’re burning up.” he muttered, touching her cheek again.
“I’m not.” she said, her voice scratchy with fatigue. “It’s just a cold.”
“A severe cold.”
“A normal cold.”
“Severe.”
“Zeus.”
He gave her a stubborn, mulish look — the same one he’d used to insist he could fix a broken remote with “sheer willpower” and a screwdriver. (He in fact did not fix it at all.)
“Fine.” she said softly, taking another sip. “Severe. Happy?”
“Not remotely.” he admitted, his voice gentler now.
For a while, they just sat there. The television droned on in the background, forgotten. The only sound was the quiet clink of her spoon against the cup and the occasional murmur from him — half words, half breaths.
She could feel his eyes on her even when he wasn’t speaking. That anxious kind of watching — the kind people do when they’ve just remembered that someone they love is mortal, or close enough to it to scare them.
“You’re staring.” she said.
He blinked, caught. “Just making sure you don’t evaporate.”
She smiled faintly. “You’re ridiculous.”
He smiled back, soft but unsteady. “You married ridiculous.”
“Mm. I did.”
And when she set the cup down and leaned back, her head tipping to rest on the edge of the chair, Zeus stayed close, hands still hovering as though any moment she might start to fade again. He’d never admit it — not even under interrogation — but the thought of the world without her in it, even for a day, made his chest ache like he’d swallowed thunder.
She had been his constant for so long that he’d forgotten what it was to imagine otherwise.
So he stayed — doctor, nurse, fool, husband — guarding her with all the useless devotion of a man who’d just realized that strength, real strength, sometimes looks like sitting still beside someone and making sure they drink their tea.
***
Zeus had always been a man who filled rooms. Even when he wasn’t speaking, his presence carried a kind of weather with it — the sense that thunder might roll at any moment if the conversation displeased him. But now, as he helped Hera up the stairs, all that grandeur seemed to drain out of him. He moved carefully, almost reverently, as if she were made of something fragile and irreplaceable.
“Easy.” he murmured, one arm steadying her at the elbow. “Step—there, that’s it.”
“I’m not dying.” she muttered, breath shallow but amused.
“Good.” he said. “I’m bad at funerals.”
The bed was already turned down — he’d done it himself, awkwardly, with too many pillows stacked in uneven piles and the blanket folded twice over. He fussed with it now, readjusting, muttering to himself about airflow and warmth.
“Zeus,” she said, voice low, smiling faintly from where she sat, “you’re nesting.”
“I’m ensuring optimal conditions for recovery.” he replied gravely, tucking the corners of the blanket like she might escape if given the chance.
“Recovery.” she echoed. “It’s a cold.”
He gave her a look that managed to be both chastising and tender. “A severe cold.”
She rolled her eyes, but didn’t fight him when he gently pressed the thermometer against her lips. “Hold.” he said, like she was some delicate experiment. When it beeped, he frowned as if it had personally offended him. “Still warm.”
“I could have told you that.” she said through a yawn.
“And I’m confirming it.” he countered, already shaking the thermometer as if that would lower the number. “You’ve got to trust the science.”
“You are not science.”
“I am,” he said solemnly, “science with a strong emotional component.”
She laughed — a weak, breathy sound, but still unmistakably her. The laugh caught in her throat, turned into a cough, and he was there immediately, steadying her, rubbing her back. “All right, easy, easy.”
When she caught her breath again, she looked up at him, eyes a little watery. “You’re making too much of a fuss.”
“I’m making exactly the right amount of fuss.”
He adjusted her pillow again. Then again. Then once more, because he couldn’t stop himself.
The house had quieted around them, settling into the stillness that comes only after long days. Somewhere, a clock ticked faintly. The air smelled faintly of honey — or syrup, he thought ruefully — and clean linen.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, looking down at her. His voice, when he spoke, was softer than she’d ever heard it.
“I should’ve noticed sooner.” he said. “You were pale all day. I just kept talking.”
She smiled faintly, her hand shifting beneath the blanket. “You always keep talking.”
“You never slow down, Hera.”
“If I did,” she murmured, half teasing, half asleep already, “who would keep you alive?”
He chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “Fair point.”
Her eyes fluttered open again, and she reached for his hand. “You’re not built for stillness.” she said. “But look at you — sitting here like a good man.”
“I’m not leaving.” he said simply.
He meant it.
He brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead, fingers lingering longer than necessary. The touch was light — reverent, almost. She leaned into it, too tired to tease, too trusting to resist.
“You’ll make yourself sick.” she whispered as he bent to kiss her temple.
“Worth the risk.”
She smiled against his touch, too weak to push him away, but she tried anyway, hands feebly pressing at his chest. “You’ll regret it when you start sneezing tomorrow.”
“I’ve survived worse.” he murmured.
“Barely.”
He kissed her again, this time just the corner of her mouth, and she sighed — not in protest, but in surrender to exhaustion.
“Go to sleep.” he whispered. “That’s an order. Doctor’s orders, remember?”
“Your credentials are still dubious.” she mumbled, eyes already closed.
“Still counts.”
Her breathing steadied, soft and rhythmic. He stayed where he was, fingers laced through hers, thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against her palm.
The light from the bedside lamp painted her face in quiet gold. She looked impossibly peaceful — like the world, for all its chaos, had finally taken a breath.
He watched her until the clock ticked past another hour. His own body sagged, the adrenaline fading, but he didn’t move. Not even when his head started to nod, his hand still locked around hers.
Somewhere in the small hours, he fell asleep like that — half sitting, half folded forward, still guarding her.
***
Morning came softly, like it was afraid to wake them. The light slipped through the curtains in thin, golden ribbons, touching the edge of the bed, the faint steam from the forgotten mug of tea, the curve of Hera’s shoulder beneath the blanket.
She blinked awake slowly, the way one surfaces from deep water. For a moment she didn’t know where she was — only that the air felt still, the sheets warm, and her body no longer thrumming with fever. The ache behind her eyes had dulled. Her head was clearer. The worst had passed.
And then she felt it — the weight of another hand, large and warm, tangled with hers.
She turned her head. Zeus sat half-slumped in the bed beside her, his back bent at an angle that looked almost heroic in its discomfort. His chin rested on his chest, hair sticking up in half a dozen directions. A blanket was thrown haphazardly around his shoulders, one corner slipping down toward the floor. His other hand — the one not holding hers — still rested on the edge of the bedside table, as if keeping guard.
He’d clearly fallen asleep mid-watch.
Her lips curved in the faintest smile. It was a rare thing, seeing him like this — stripped of all the bluster and noise, the man who ruled his world now surrendered to exhaustion, still sitting by her side because he refused to be further than an arm’s reach away.
She shifted slightly, testing her strength. Her limbs still ached, but the fever had loosened its hold. The air felt cleaner.
Her gaze drifted to the bedside table: the tea he’d made, now cold; the medicine bottle with its cap left half-on; a crumpled tissue, a thermometer, a second mug — empty, save for the faint ring of honey at the bottom. He’d kept her company through the night, fully and foolishly himself, stubborn even in tenderness.
“Idiot.” she whispered fondly.
Her thumb brushed over the back of his hand — once, twice — just to feel the pulse beneath the skin, steady and strong. He stirred, a low sound escaping his throat, something between a sigh and a growl. His fingers tightened reflexively around hers.
He blinked himself awake in fragments — confusion, recognition, and then the soft relief that came when his eyes found her looking back at him.
“You’re awake.” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
“So are you.” she said, her voice still husky but touched with amusement.
He groaned, leaning back a little, rubbing his face with his free hand. “How long—” He glanced at the clock, then at her, and winced. “You should’ve woken me.”
“You were guarding me.” she teased gently. “I didn’t want to disturb the sentry.”
His eyes met hers then, clear and impossibly soft in the morning light. “You feel better?”
She nodded. “Much.”
He let out a long breath, like he’d been holding it for hours. “Good.” he said. Then, after a pause, added quietly, “You scared me.”
She tilted her head, a smile tugging at her lips. “It was a cold, Zeus.”
He gave a small, helpless shrug. “Still.”
She looked at him for a long moment — the disheveled hair, the circles under his eyes, the faint crease in his brow that never quite smoothed out. There was something luminous in that disarray.
“You stayed up.” she said softly.
“You didn’t let go.” he murmured, half-asleep still, as if confessing rather than answering.
Her smile deepened. “I suppose we’re even then.”
He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and tired and content. He shifted to lay down beside her without thinking, too drained to play at restraint. She let him.
For a while, they lied there quietly — the light slowly brightening, the city waking beyond their window. Hera leaned her head against his shoulder, and Zeus’s arm found its place around her without thought.
Just warmth. The slow rhythm of their breathing in sync. The scent of tea, “honey”, and morning sun.
And for once — impossibly, miraculously — everything in their little world was still.