Gods don’t do casual dinner.

They do feasts — the kind where the air tastes like stardust and the wine pours itself while judging your posture.

The long obsidian table stretched beneath an open sky, constellations spinning slow and watchful overhead. Plates glowed faintly. Candles floated. And at the far end, Dionysus had already declared himself “host, vibe curator, and full-time eye candy.”

“I made place cards!” he said, shoving me into a chair with suspiciously purple upholstery. “You’re sitting here next to your cosmic soulmate. Totally random. No ulterior motive.”

Astronaros slid into the seat beside me, eyes narrowed. “How convenient.”

“I’m matchmaking,” Dionysus said. “Not subtle. You're welcome.”

Hephaestus sat across from us, fussing with a mechanical napkin that kept folding itself wrong. He looked up, caught me watching, and flushed. “Sorry. I made it too clever. It’s rebelling.”

“I respect that,” I said.

On Hephaestus’s right, Poseidon stared moodily into a bowl of sushi. “The salmon’s overcooked. Sacrilege.”

“Eat the shark,” Hermes offered, casually juggling an apple, a dagger, and a live beetle. “It’s symbolic.”

Apollo entered last, in golden robes that sparkled as if woven from daylight. “So sorry,” he purred. “I was busy glowing. Did I miss a dramatic entrance? Oh no wait—here I am.”

“Where do I sit?” he asked.

Dionysus grinned. “Between me and the forge boy.”

“I do love a love triangle with burn potential,” Apollo said, already sliding in next to Hephaestus, who looked like he was about to faint.

Dinner began with ambrosia.

Not the metaphoric kind. The real kind.

One bite and my tongue forgot how to be human. My teeth tingled with the memory of stars. Across from me, Astronaros blinked, visibly trying not to moan through a bite of enchanted lamb.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I—” he swallowed. “It’s like the food is flirting with my soul.”

Dionysus leaned in. “And yet I can flirt better.”

“Please don’t,” Astronaros muttered.

“Too late.”

It was a bizarre, beautiful kind of chaos. Gods laughing. Stories swapped. Hermes lying about three things per minute. Poseidon dissecting sea bass with surgical disgust. Hephaestus murmuring shyly about his newest designs, trying not to look at either of us for too long.

And then Apollo raised a glass.

“To the two brave demigods who’ve managed to survive shark attacks, space-time collapse, and Hermes’s blindfold therapy.”

Everyone clinked glasses. I tried not to melt.

Dionysus added, “And may they soon realize they’re in love before the rest of us die of secondhand tension.”

I choked.

Astronaros blinked rapidly, face unreadable.

“Subtle,” Hermes murmured. “I approve.”

Hephaestus shot Dionysus a look. “Don’t push them.”

“Push?” Dionysus said. “I’m cheering. From the sidelines. With glitter.”

“Maybe they’re not ready,” Hephaestus said quietly.

That surprised me. So did the softness in his voice. And the way his eyes flicked toward me, then away.

Astronaros exhaled slowly. “Maybe we don’t know what we’re ready for.”

Silence fell.

Then Apollo, breezy as ever, said, “Let’s all agree: no one has to declare eternal love until dessert.”

“Which is?” I asked, desperate to redirect.

“Chocolate mousse,” Dionysus said, “infused with truth magic. You might spill a secret.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s… fine.”

I absolutely considered bolting.

But when dessert came, and Astronaros hesitated with his spoon hovering in the air, I found myself watching him instead of worrying.

He glanced at me.

Held my gaze.

Took the bite.

And said nothing.

But his fingers brushed mine under the table.

Just once.

And didn’t move away.