Eros rode Nyxire into the city, and the city—God bless its overpriced cocktails and inflated egos—had absolutely no clue what the hell to do with him.
At first, he played nice. Kept to the side streets like some polite mythological inconvenience, letting Nyxire ease into her stride, letting the rhythm settle—hoof, asphalt, hoof, asphalt—like a heartbeat the city had forgotten it still had.
There was something almost therapeutic about it, honestly.
The weight of him, the sheer presence of a six-foot-somethingdemigod draped over a creature that looked like it had stepped out of a Renaissance painting and decided modern civilization wasn't shit… yeah, it synced.
It clicked.
Man and monster, or whatever the hell Nyxire counted as, moving like they owned the concept of motion itself.
But side streets are for people who want to be ignored.
Eros had never had that problem. And downtown? Downtown demanded witnesses.
So he went.
And oh, the eyes.
