I return with the parcel of fish—which is probably the worst thing I’ve ever smelled in my entire existence—but Cyrus isn’t there. My heart skips a beat, and I drop the fish and hurry outside. “Hello?” I call. Why didn’t I ask for his real name when I had the chance? “Where did you go?”

He couldn’t have gone far. I look for any trace of footprints, but other than the ones my wet feet leave behind, there are none. Terrific. He’s worse than Eros. I turn my back for a few moments and—

Laughter. I stop to listen, straining to hear over the sounds of the waterfall. Yes, definitely a man’s laughter. Tiptoeing through the trees, I follow it. What could Cyrus be laughing about? Who is he laughing with? And how did he leave the grotto?

Poking my head around a thick trunk, my mouth drops open. Eros sits in the middle of a small clearing, one he claimed as his ages ago, and he’s stringing flowers together. Cyrus sits beside him, leaning against a tree to support himself, and he too is making flower chains.

It isn’t just Cyrus who’s laughing. Eros giggles, too; the sweet sound of it mostly drowned out by Cyrus’s deeper chuckles. I’ve never seen Eros with anyone other than the nymphs before. The three days Ares was here after our son was born hardly count, after all. But Eros looks happy. Really, really happy. And so does Cyrus.

“What are you two doing?” I say in a playful voice. The last thing I want to do is make them feel as if this isn’t okay. I should be wary of Cyrus, especially around my son, but any apprehension I had about him is long gone now.

“Mama!” Eros holds up his flower chain, a mismatch of colorful blossoms. I kneel beside him and kiss the top of his head.

“That’s beautiful. Is it for me?” I say, and he shakes his head. Before I can say anything else, he holds it out for Cyrus.

“Yous!” Eros declares. I expect Cyrus to turn it down—Ares would never wear a necklace of flowers no matter who gave them to him—but instead he takes it.

“Thank you,” he says, and he ties it around his neck. “How is that?”

Eros giggles, and I kiss his pudgy cheek. “That was very nice of you,” I murmur. “Such a perfect little boy.”

“He is,” says Cyrus. “You’re very lucky.”

I smile faintly. “I am.”

Cyrus ties off the last of his stems. “Thank you,” he says. “I owe you my life. I can’t begin to make it up to you, the kindness you’ve shown me, but I suppose this is a start.” He offers me his crown of flowers. “It’s not much, but it’s all I have.”

My lips part in surprise. I hesitate, but at last I take it gingerly. He’s done good work, wrapping the stems around a thicker vine and securing everything in place. I touch a petal. No man’s ever given me something like this before—something they’ve taken time to make with their own hands. Ares has given me jewels, silks, the finest things in the world. But he’s never been able to appreciate the beauty in something so simple.

“Thank you,” I say. “It’s lovely.”

“As are you,” he says quietly. “You are the first person I’ve met who is as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside.”

I have to press my lips together to keep from grinning, and even then, my cheeks grow warm. “I should get you back to the grotto. I have your fish.”

He nods, and slowly he stands on shaky legs. He must be more healed than I’d thought. I watch him for signs of pain, and while he winces some, he manages to make it back to the grotto without too much trouble. I take Eros’s hand and follow.

That evening, we feast on fish. I have to eat to keep up appearances, and Eros eagerly tries a few bites before he declares he’s full. Cyrus, however, wolfs down three fish on his own, and I take note. Next time I find an injured mortal, fish it is.

By the time Eros falls asleep in my lap, the sun is setting, and I sit beside Cyrus as we watch the fire. It’s peaceful, and for the first time since Ares left, I’m not lonely. “What’s your name?”

He tilts his head and looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “What is yours?”

I shake my head. I can’t tell him. Our names were once a secret, but now that mortals worship us, we’re too well known for me to say. He might think I’m a namesake, that my parents wanted to honor a goddess, but he’s seen too much. He’ll put two and two together, and while I trust him, I don’t want to risk him bringing others back to my island.

“I call you Cyrus in my head,” I admit. “I don’t know why.”

“Cyrus?” His lips curl into a small smile. “That’s as good a name as any, I suppose. May I choose a name for you?”

I nod. “Just make it a good one.”

For a long moment he studies me, his gray eyes reflecting the fire, and at last he murmurs, “Ava.”

Ava. The way he says it sends a shiver through me, and I snake my hand through the space between us until I’m touching his. “It’s perfect.”

“As are you,” he whispers. Our eyes lock together, and time seems to stop. All I see is him. All I feel is him. All I smell and all I touch is him, and all I want to taste is him.

Maybe it’s loneliness. Maybe it’s the way he looks at me. Maybe it’s his laughter or smile or any number of things. But even though I love Ares, I lean into Cyrus and press my lips to his.

It’s a soft kiss without the burning passion I have with Ares, but it’s still tender. It’s still sweet and loving, but a different kind of love—the kind of love that tells me he’ll take care of me, and I’ll take care of him. The kind of love that wants to hear about my day. That sees me underneath the beauty and still loves me anyway.