Aphrodite lounged lazily on the large silk covered bed, her fingers drawing slow circles on the stone colored sheets. This bed held no memories that she could detect; no indents from bodies that should have been sleeping here, no heavy smells or creased pillows. The only things that that gave the room any feeling of being used were the delicate jewels hanging from the ceiling with their golden chains and the strong, constant scent that lingered through the entirety of the palace. The smell of fire and brimstone was so strong it surrounded her in its dark embrace, whispering promises only her husband could keep.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, the sound of their main door opening sent thrills through the love goddess. Bolting towards the door that led to their stairs, she waited with anticipation. Soon he would reach their room where she lay in waiting. Her stomach churned in nervous excitement. Soon, seconds ticked into minutes and she only grew more irritated.

Making her way down the stone steps, she glances down the hall following the sound of dragging steps and the soft click of the door. Moving off of the final step, she let out a quiet hiss at the cool marble on her bare feet and quickly tightened her robe around her bare skin.

She soon found herself up against the door, her ear pressed against the elegantly carved wood to listen to her husband on the other side. Papers crinkled loudly, followed by the creaking of a mattress. Counting the silent moments between the sounds, Aphrodite cautiously pushed the door open, her eyes falling to the man asleep on his side, his back to her.

His heavy breathing informed her that he was in fact asleep. Creeping around the cluttered room, she lowered to settle on the bed in front of him. Her amber eyes roamed his sleeping form, pausing only to gaze at his marred face.

She then began to wonder when she had stopped flinching at the sight of those scars, when had she stopped flinching every time she looked at his face or arm or leg? Lifting her hand, she delicately grazed the tips of her fingers across his scarred flesh. She had never heard the full story of how they came to be, but whispers around the halls of the Palace of Olympus mention him being thrown from the mountain due to a fight with their king, his father, Zeus. Pressing her thumb against Hephaestus' cheek bone, she rubbed the dips and rivets lovingly, wondering to herself what he had looked like before these marks hid his face from the view of others.

In a quick flash of movement she found herself pinned beneath the much larger god, his fingers dug painfully into the skin of her wrists, and his charcoal eyes burned with fear and anger.