This time, it was real.

I could tell because the food didn’t shimmer with unreality, and the gods actually looked a little sweaty from helping Hephaestus haul tables into the clearing. Even Dionysus was scowling about having to open his own wine bottles.

The table stretched long beneath the canopy of starlit trees, strung with lazy loops of golden lanterns. The dishes were an ambitious mix of mortal and divine cuisines—roasted ambrosia fowl, cosmic-root salad, a suspiciously normal-looking lasagna that Hephaestus swore was "just easier to make in a big pan."

Poseidon was already seated, glancing warily at the grilled swordfish platter like someone had just served up one of his pets.

Apollo was adjusting his tunic for the tenth time, trying to look “casually radiant.” It wasn’t working. He just looked radiant.

And Hermes—Hermes was bouncing in his seat, eyes glittering like he’d already stolen dessert.

Astronaros and I sat side by side, which felt a little more significant than it probably should have. Dionysus took the other side of me, naturally.

“Alright,” Hermes clapped his hands once as everyone settled, “let’s all behave like semi-immortal adults and not cause a scene.”

Everyone stared at him.

He grinned. “I said try.”

The food was genuinely incredible. We were maybe three bites in when Hermes struck.

“So,” he said casually, spearing a slice of stardust peach. “Apollo’s been writing songs about Astronaros. Love songs.”

Forks paused midair. Astronaros blinked.

Apollo turned red—glorious, celestial red. “They’re metaphorical!”

Hermes cocked his head. “Really? Because one of them is literally titled ‘Stardust Skin and Cosmic Eyes.’”

Dionysus burst into laughter, wine nearly spilling out his nose.

Astronaros blinked again. “You wrote songs... about me?”

Apollo shoved half a roll in his mouth to avoid answering.

Poseidon, chewing thoughtfully, muttered, “At least someone’s productive.”

Hermes grinned wider. “Speaking of productivity—Hephaestus has built five new prototypes of something and hasn’t shown a single one to anyone except Pneumeros.”

Now it was my turn to freeze.

Hephaestus nearly dropped his fork. “H-Hermes!”

I cleared my throat. “They were just... tools. Hephaestus wanted feedback.”

“Is that what we’re calling late-night forge visits now?” Hermes asked innocently.

“I’ll kill you,” Hephaestus muttered, face flaming.

Dionysus leaned in toward me. “Tools, hmm?”

I didn’t respond. Mostly because my mouth was full of lasagna—and panic.

“Alright,” Dionysus said after refilling everyone’s goblets (twice), “I think it’s my turn to spill something.”

Hermes raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Dionysus looked right at me, then Astronaros. “I think the Time Prince and the Star Boy are falling for more than just each other.”

The table fell silent.

Astronaros blinked slowly. “You mean…”

“Oh, come on,” Dionysus said, rolling his eyes. “I’ve seen the way you both look at me.”

“I look at you with suspicion,” I said.

“Suspicion and longing aren’t that different.”

Hephaestus, face buried in a napkin, muttered, “I hate this table.”

Apollo looked deeply amused. “This is the worst best dinner I’ve ever attended.”

Poseidon just got up, muttered, “I’m getting a bucket of salt water,” and walked away.

Things really unraveled when Hermes flicked a grape at Dionysus.

It hit his cheek with a soft plunk. Dionysus stared at it. Then at Hermes.

“You forget I’m the god of wine and madness,” Dionysus said coolly.

“I never forget anything,” Hermes said—and tossed another grape.

It escalated. Quickly.

Apollo tried to defuse the situation with a song on a lyre that somehow only made things worse. Hephaestus tripped over a gravy boat trying to escape. Poseidon returned just in time to get hit in the face with a breadstick.

Astronaros ducked, reached for me—and pulled me under the table as a roasted chicken leg flew overhead.

I landed beside him, pressed close in the small space.

“Remember when you thought the dream dinner was wild?” he asked dryly.

“Honestly, this might be worse,” I whispered back.

And then someone kicked the table and the gravy poured directly onto Hermes’s lap.

Eventually, after much yelling and a few strategically thrown lightning bolts (thanks, Apollo), the chaos ebbed.

Everyone ended up around the fire again—grumpy, wine-stained, and still mildly amused.

Hephaestus leaned against my shoulder. “Next time, we just order pizza.”

“I don’t think pizza fixes Hermes,” Astronaros murmured.

I chuckled. “But it might keep his mouth full.”

Dionysus raised his goblet one last time. “To secrets spilled, truths half-told, and the very mortal mess of loving each other anyway.”

“To that,” Apollo echoed.

Glasses clinked. And despite the chaos, despite the breadstick in Poseidon’s hair, it felt real.

Not perfect. Not divine.

But real.

And maybe, just maybe, that was better.