P. S. Cupid

Eros, the God of Love, was forbidden to fall in love, yet fate had other plans. He had guided countless lovers but remained untouched by the emotion himself—until he saw her. (Y/N). A mortal unlike any other, her laughter was sweeter than Apollo’s lyre, her eyes held a universe deeper than the heavens. What began as curiosity became something far more dangerous. Love. One evening, as (Y/N) sat beneath an olive tree, lost in thought, a warm breeze swept past. “Who’s there?” she called.