Zeus' Mistake

Weird Happenings

I wake up the next morning with a skull-splitting hangover, like someone replaced my brain with a rock and forgot to sand the edges. My tongue tastes like cheap alcohol and regret, and my muscles ache in ways that remind me I didn’t stretch before dancing on a table. Or maybe I just dreamt the table. I honestly don’t know.

What I do know is that I am alone. Painfully, embarrassingly alone.

It hits me harder than usual, maybe because my head is throbbing or because the light in my apartment—my half-unpacked, cardboard-box jungle of an apartment—exposes every flaw. I’ve lived here for months, and somehow, nothing looks lived in. My clothes still sleep in boxes. My shoes still hide in plastic bins. My mattress rests on the living room floor with mismatched sheets loosely thrown over it like a lazy apology for a “real bed.”

I have two perfectly good bedrooms that stand completely empty, haunting me with the possibility and also with the certainty that I’m incapable of finishing what I start.

Everything is just… empty.

Including me, apparently.

I force myself upright, wincing as my body protests like an old man. My phone tells me it’s 11:07 AM, which feels aggressively judgmental. I need air. Or coffee. Or an exorcism.

Instead, I decide to pick up my mail. The logic behind this is: if I complete one tiny task, I won’t feel like a failure.

Outside, the mailbox is already open. Again.

Which means Allan, my elderly blind neighbor, accidentally grabbed my mail. Again.

I check his mailbox, and sure enough, his mail is sitting in there, a little stack of envelopes that look too official to ignore. I take them and head to his door, brushing stray hair out of my eyes, trying to look less like a cryptid.

“Hey Allan, you accidentally grabbed my mail again,” I call, knocking gently. “I grabbed your mail so we can just trade.”

The door unbolts, and I expect the soft, papery voice of my ninety-something neighbor.

Instead, I get abs.

Spectacularly cared-for, deeply sculpted, definitely-oiled abs.

My hungover brain short-circuits. I freeze like I’ve just witnessed a car crash in slow motion.

It’s him.

Last-night-guy.

Beautiful, infuriating, too-confident guy.

He leans against the doorframe, wearing nothing but a towel slung dangerously low around his hips. His hair is damp, dark strands falling messily across his forehead. His body—god, his body—looks like it was built by someone who was really bored and decided, “You know what? Let’s craft perfection.”

“Hey there, stranger. Good to see you again,” he says, voice lazy and amused.

Heat creeps up my neck, and I immediately hate myself for reacting. I stare too long, and he notices. He obviously notices—men like him always notice.

I force my eyes downward, studying literally anything else—the carpet fibers, my shoes, my mail—because eye contact with him feels dangerous.

“What the hell are you doing in Allan’s apartment?” I snap. Defensive. Panicked. Mildly feral.

He lifts a brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is my apartment and has been for a while. I can’t believe you’ve never noticed me until now.”

I can feel the smirk he’s wearing without even looking up. He radiates smugness. It bothers me on a soul-deep level.

“This has always been Allan’s apartment,” I insist. “Ever since I moved in.”

“Are you sure he’s not on the other side of you now?”

“Now? What do you mean by ‘now’?”

His expression shifts, just slightly, like he realizes he said too much. I step away before he can cover it up.

I knock on the other door—the apartment opposite mine—and Allan answers instantly, voice warm but frail.

“Why yes, I’ve gotten my mail,” he croaks. “I haven’t opened it yet. Did I grab yours again?”

“Yes, you did, but don’t worry,” I say. "I grabbed yours so we can swap again. I'll get it so you don’t have to.”

“You’re such a kind young lady. Thank you so much.”

I smile, guilt pricking me. “It’s no problem at all, Mr. Petrovitsky.”

“The mail is right on the kitchen counter.”

His apartment smells like dust and lavender, like someone who has lived many lives and is small now, physically, but still full of memory. The layouts of our units are almost identical, so I navigate easily, but when I get to the counter, I stop.

The mail has someone else’s name on it. Not his. Not mine. A third stranger.

Weird.

I hand him his real mail anyway. I don’t think he needs another detail to worry about.

“Here you are, sir. Have a great day.”

“And you as well, young lady.”

He shuts the door slowly, with a shaky hand, and I turn back toward the hallway.

Towel Boy is still there. Because of course he is. Standing half-naked, leaning against his doorframe like a magazine ad. He looks amused. Possibly entertained by my entire existence.

“Look at that, you do have a heart after all,” he teases. “I was beginning to think I was going to have a monster as a next-door neighbor.”

“I believe this is yours,” I say, thrusting the mail toward him. “I want my mail back now.”

He looks at the envelopes but doesn’t touch them. He could make this easy. He chooses not to.

“Why can’t you go grab your mail from my room like you did with his?”

“Because he is an old, blind man, while you are an overly-bulgy male who could most likely overpower me, so I wouldn’t be caught dead in your apartment. Ever. Give me my mail back.”

His lips twitch, delighted. “Bulgy? I’m touched you noticed.”

I turn away because acknowledging any part of this interaction might kill me.

“Can I be honest?” he blurts, stopping me mid-step.

I don’t want honesty. I want coffee and Advil, and silence.

“Only if you go grab my mail and give it back to me,” I say sharply. “I already told you I want nothing to do with you. So please, just go grab it.”

He stares at me, unreadable now, like he’s weighing something heavier than a petty argument about envelopes.

Then: “Tell me my name.”

My brain hiccups. “What?”

“I can tell from last night and now—the way you avoid me, the way you tried to hand me mail without looking at it—you don’t want to know anything about me. But if you learn my name, I’ll give you your mail back.”

I look down at the envelope in my hand. The first name makes me snort before I can stop myself.

“Zeus? That’s a pretty stupid name—”

He snatches the envelope so fast I barely see his hand move. He stares at it, and the color drains from his face.

Not embarrassment. Something else. Fear? Loss? Recognition?

“Hey, are you okay?” I ask, genuine concern cracking through my irritation.

He looks at me then, and something behind his eyes ignites—like a match held to gasoline. My heart stutters. Not romantically. Instinctively. Like prey sensing a predator that knows her name.

Suddenly, he reaches for my hand.

I should pull back. I don’t.

His palm is warm—too warm—and he guides my hand to his cheek. The moment my skin touches him, the world ripples. My breath catches. Colors drain and reshape.

And then we’re somewhere else.

A sky full of stars explodes around us—like the universe opened a window and invited us inside. Galaxies twist overhead. Space breathes. Air glows.

He relaxes here, tension sliding off him like gravity doesn’t apply. He smiles—the real kind, soft and devastating and human. Not the cocky grin he wears like armor.

Something inside me recognizes him.

Not from last night.

Not from this building.

From somewhere older. Deeper. Impossible.

He steps closer, and my body responds without asking permission. I don’t think. I don’t breathe. I just move into him, like the space between us is magnetic.

He wraps his arms around me, warm and solid, and everything in me melts, traitorously grateful to be held. It feels right. Too right. Like we belong here. Like this is where time has always been pushing us.

His heartbeat is steady against my cheek, and mine tries to sync with it.

But under all of that sweetness… something feels off. A shadow behind the light. A question I don’t know how to ask.

He looks down at me, eyes glowing with starlight or magic or madness, and I swear he sees everything—every flaw, every fear, every lonely cardboard box in my apartment and in my chest.

His hands cradle my face like I’m fragile, but his gaze says I’m something powerful.

I look up at him, drowning in constellations and confusion.

He leans in—slow, inevitable—like a man who knows the universe wants this and he’s willing to prove it.

His breath brushes my lips, and time folds into a single moment, stretched tight, trembling, breathless.

My mind whispers no but my body whispers yes and my soul whispers finally—

And the stars bend closer, waiting.