A deafening wall of silence. The kind that rang in the ears, sharp and unrelenting, like a high-pitched frequency only he could hear. It was all Eros could register—until—
SNAP!
A sharp click of fingers broke through the void.
"Hey! What are you spacing out for? Your two targets are already seated!"
Aretha's voice cut through the haze, her fingers snapping dangerously close to his face. Eros blinked, the world around him flooding back in pieces—the quiet roar of the city beyond the café walls, the rhythmic clatter of utensils against porcelain, the soft hiss of steaming milk, baristas calling out names with cheerful efficiency. The air carried a medley of scents—freshly brewed espresso, vanilla, and the faint sweetness of pastries warming in glass displays. The scent of roasted beans and caramel syrup also hung thick in the air, wrapping around him like a warm embrace.
For a fleeting moment, he had been lost.
This café, located near the retreat, thrived as one of the city's busiest yet most effortless meeting spots. Workers from nearby offices, students escaping their lecture halls, strangers seeking momentary solace in a cup of coffee—all of them, unknowingly, potential candidates for his mission. With its prime location near bustling offices and prestigious universities, Heartwood was an intersection of hurried lives and busy moments—exactly the kind of place where fate could latch its invisible strings. It made his mission easier, or at least, it should have.
But despite the endless sea of faces, the whispered conversations, and the charged energy of quick glances exchanged over coffee cups—most of his matches would unfortunately fail.
Eros looked down at the unfinished plate of strawberry mille-feuille, its golden, paper-thin layers crumbling at the edges, kissed by airy vanilla custard. The strawberries, plump and glistening with a delicate sheen of syrup, sat atop the delicate creation like tiny, blushing secrets. It was a dessert meant to be savored—like love itself. And yet, the urge to devour the rest in one ravenous bite clawed at him, as if indulgence could silence the thoughts pressing in his mind. Beside it, his rose-infused latte sat untouched, its floral aroma curling in the air, delicate yet commanding—much like the gardens of Olympus, where petals carried whispers of divine affairs. With the delicate latte art swirling at the surface—much to its irony, a Cupid's arrow, had a subtle sweetness, balanced with velvety steamed milk and a hint of honey.
He was reminded of his agenda here with the Queen. Who across from him, sipped her black cherry mocha with slow, deliberate grace. The deep, almost sinful blend of dark chocolate and tart cherries filled the air between them, rich and intoxicating. A swirl of whipped cream softened the edges, a final touch of indulgence, drizzled with crimson cherry syrup. Bold, complex, a striking balance of bitter and sweet—just like her.
With an air of quiet contemplation, she idly swirled the remaining cream on her plate with the tip of her fork. A plate that once held red velvet cheesecake—its deep scarlet hue mirroring the passion she governed. Smooth, luscious, with a sharp tang from the cream cheese, it was the kind of dessert that left an impression. The kind that demanded attention. Every bite, a perfect contrast of decadence and strong flavors. A reminder that love is never simple, never tame—yet always, without fail, worth savoring.
Today, Eros finds himself in the middle of a chaotic, caffeinated battlefield—ten couples to match, each one another's hope or heartache. His eyes flicker across the room, taking in the mix of nervous energy and subtle tension between the pairs scattered around the cafe. One couple, already deep into their tentative connection, sits across from him, their smiles hesitant but full of promise. He leans back in his chair, the warm ceramic of his latte cup cooling against his fingers. The rich aroma of coffee fills the air, mingling with the soft hum of voices around him. His lips curl into a smirk as he watches them all, wondering how mortals navigate love in an age where emotions are texted instead of whispered.
Before he can daydream any further, a voice slices through the haze of his thoughts. Aretha's words drip with sarcasm, sharp and biting. "So, are you just going to laze around or do you actually have a plan for all 10 couples you reserved here at this very cafe today?"
Her challenge makes him chuckle under his breath. Eros sits up, the worn wood of the chair creaking under his shift in posture. Aretha's reaction yesterday is still fresh in his mind—her wide eyes nearly popping out of her head when that eager boy handed her the long receipt, a trail of reservations lined up like a perfectly executed plan. He'd gone on and on about how he'd already arranged these couples with the enthusiasm of a puppy wagging its tail.
Eros places his cup back down gently, stretching his arms overhead with a sigh. The subtle click of his joints filling the silence between them. Then, in one fluid motion, he leans back again, hand draped over the back of his chair like he owns the whole room. He meets Aretha's eyes, a smug smile curling at the edges of his lips, the glint in his gaze like sunlight cutting through morning fog. "Of course, what do you take me for?"
His voice oozes arrogance, as effortlessly as the smirk on his face. His eyes gleam mischievously as he leans forward, hands clasped together on the table, fingers interlocking like he's about to reveal a grand secret. He drops his voice, letting the words roll off his tongue with a mocking sense of importance. "Alright, so, you know how MBTI is all the rage right now?"
Aretha's blank expression only amuses him, but he's not about to let her off the hook. With an exaggerated sigh, he waves a dismissive hand, the flick of his wrist dramatic, as if he were an actor in a play. "Eh, why'd I even ask. Of course, you don't. You're like, what, 1109 years old?"
The reaction is immediate. A loud thud rings through the air as Aretha slams her palm onto the table, the sound cutting through the casual chatter around them. Several heads turn in their direction. Eros flinches, his heart skipping a beat at the sudden outburst. His eyes widen for a split second, then he quickly holds up a hand, a shushing motion, desperate to quell her fiery temper. "Alright, alright! Shh!"
He shakes his head, trying to ignore the amused glances now aimed his way. "Look," he says, voice softening slightly, the gleam returning as he focuses back on the task at hand. "This first couple? They have matching MBTIs. Of course, personality matters when you're dating, right? So I did my homework." He pauses, eyes sparkling with excitement, and mimics the pull of an invisible bow, his hands drawn back as if ready to fire an arrow. "Ppang~!" His voice high-pitched as he releases the imaginary shot, his body moving with the grace of someone who's done this a thousand times.
His eyes gleam, the mischievous spark growing brighter as he recounts the magic of their first meeting. "I shot them," he says, his voice nearly a whisper, his smile widening into something almost smug enough to break the universe. "You'd melt watching how they clicked. The chemistry? It was electric."
He leans back again, letting his words hang in the air, a knowing grin tugging at his lips as if he's privy to some ancient secret only he can truly understand.
No more haphazard arrow-shooting—this was going to be a controlled experiment. He had read online (okay, maybe it was a personality quiz on a questionable website, but still) that opposites attract. The Enthusiast (ENFP) and The Inspector (ISTJ) were, in theory, the ultimate balance—like peanut butter and jelly, sun and moon, chaos and order. He had done his research. He had crunched the numbers. He had, for the first time in his mischievous immortal existence, attempted to apply science to love. And oh, how he was proud of himself.
"Opposites attract," he murmured smugly, watching his carefully selected pair start to engage in long conversations.
On one side of the table, Sasha practically vibrated with kinetic energy, a human embodiment of a shaken soda can just waiting to pop. Her curls bounced with every emphatic gesture, hands flailing so dramatically that the nearby salt shaker was in genuine danger. She was in the middle of an impassioned TED Talk—delivered at breakneck speed—about how society simply wasn't prepared for the inevitable renaissance of roller disco, but that wouldn't stop her. Oh no. She would be its fearless, sequined prophet.
Across from her sat Dylan. Stiff-backed. Impeccably composed. The human equivalent of a color-coded spreadsheet. His sweater was ironed to perfection, his posture straight enough to make a Victorian governess weep with pride. He cradled his coffee cup with both hands like a lifeline, nodding with the slow, measured patience of a man facing down a hyperactive golden retriever.
Almost howling from his seat, Eros beamed. Oh, this was perfect. The manic pixie dreamer and the disciplined logician—what a match! Sasha would melt Dylan's rigid exterior, and Dylan would provide Sasha with the stability she never knew she needed. The ideal balance! The romance of the ages!
Then Sasha gasped, slamming both hands onto the table so suddenly that Dylan's soul briefly left his body.
"You know what would be amazing?" she declared, eyes gleaming with the unhinged enthusiasm of a woman about to commit to a questionable life choice. "A spontaneous, no-plans, go-where-the-wind-takes-us-backpacking trip across Asia! No itinerary! No rules! Just vibes!"
Dylan blinked. No itinerary? He stared at her as though she had just suggested they launch themselves into space with nothing but a rubber band and a prayer.
"Isn't that fun?" Sasha chirped.
Dylan's fingers clenched around his coffee cup like it was his last tether to sanity. "How," he said slowly, voice laced with the kind of barely contained horror usually reserved for financial fraud and unsorted email inboxes, "would you budget for that?"
Sasha waved a dismissive hand. "You just figure it out! That's the adventure! Sleeping under the stars, meeting strangers, living off sheer charisma and good luck—"
Dylan made a strangled noise, somewhere between a cough and a dying battery. "That is incredibly irresponsible."
Sasha pouted. "You're missing the point! It's about the experience, the spontaneity, the—"
"—lack of financial planning?" Dylan cut in, face pinched with distress.
Aretha nearly inhaled her drink, barely managing to stifle a laugh as the conversation took a nosedive into chaos. She shot a glance at Eros, who looked like he's ready to launch out of his seat, practically vibrating with nervous energy. His grip tightened on the edge of his seat, eyes wide with dawning horror. Fuck, He thought to himself. Don't tell me this is about to go downhill.
Sasha, completely undeterred, pivoted into a new tangent, one involving the moon landing, the potential for government tampering, and a conspiracy theory that NASA had just Photoshopped the footage to make it look cooler. Dylan, now visibly reevaluating his entire life, clutched onto the one thing that made sense: sensible topics. He countered with career aspirations, long-term financial strategies, and the riveting world of retirement portfolios.
Sasha stared at him like he had just spoken to her entirely in tax code.
Eros chewed his lip, sensing danger.
The date was spiraling.
Sasha bounced between ten different topics at lightning speed, growing more exasperated with every soul-crushingly logical rebuttal Dylan threw her way. Meanwhile, Dylan looked like a man trying to solve a Rubik's cube while also being chased by bees.
Finally, silence fell.
They simply stared at each other. Two people standing on the same planet but existing in completely different dimensions.
Dylan exhaled, checked his watch, and nodded with the quiet finality of a judge delivering a verdict. "I have to be up at six."
And just like that, he left.
Sasha sat there, blinking, reeling from the sheer whiplash of it all. Then, with the speed of someone filing an emergency report, she pulled out her phone and fired off a message into the group chat:
Worst. Date. Ever. 😭 How did I get set up with a robot??
Back to the matchmaking Cupid and Queen of Hearts' seat, Eros clutched his chest as if he had just been struck by a mortal wound, staggering in place like a tragic Greek heroine mid-monologue. His ash brown wavy fringe bounced with every exaggerated gasp, and his eyes, wide as saucers, locked onto Aretha with the desperation of a man watching his carefully constructed empire crumble into dust.
"But… the compatibility charts… the psychology… THE SCIENCE!" he wailed, his voice cracking on the last word. His hands flailed, grasping at the air as if he could physically catch the shreds of his dignity before they floated away.
Across from him, Aretha took a leisurely sip of her black cherry mocha as she observed his meltdown with the kind of bored amusement that only came from witnessing this particular catastrophe play out too many times before. The chocolate drizzle on her whipped cream hadn't even melted yet, which meant Eros had managed to implode in record time today.
"Perhaps," she mused, raising a perfectly sculpted brow, "you should try matching people based on feelings, not statistics?"
Eros let out an affronted gasp, clutching his tablet like a lifeline. "I was trying to be logical!" he huffed, puffing up like an indignant pigeon.
Aretha smirked, swirling her drink lazily. "And yet… here we are."
For a moment, silence settled between them, save for the distant murmur of another couple's date crashing and burning in real-time. Then, with the unshakable determination of a deity who refused to let one minor (okay, major) failure define him, Eros straightened his back. Huffing, he whipped out his phone and, with the speed of a caffeinated scholar, bookmarked an alarming number of new MBTI compatibility articles. He squinted at the color-coded spreadsheet on his tablet that had records of his targets, adjusted his theory, and muttered something about astrological moon signs as if divine intervention now required algorithmic recalibration.
After a long, suffering sigh, he glanced at Aretha, jaw set, fire in his eyes. "We've got nine more dates to go. We got this."
Because, hey. Even gods make mistakes.
Just then, like how you would've expected from now—a series of crashed dates that went downhill followed after another.
"Geminis and Virgos are supposed to be perfect together!" Eros whispered excitedly as he and Aretha observed from a distance.
At the table, the Gemini guy leaned forward. "So, what's your sign?"
The Virgo girl took a slow sip of her tea. "Capricorn rising."
A beat of silence. Then Gemini gasped like he'd just been told he had three days to live. "Oh. So… you're emotionally unavailable?"
Aretha sighed. "Five minutes in, and she's already checking the emergency exits."
Five…
"So, I was born in the Year of the Dragon, but my mother says I have the spirit of a Tiger," the girl gushed, barely pausing for breath. "Anyway, my therapist says I have an anxious attachment style, which makes sense because when I was five, my goldfish died and—"
Eros beamed. "See? Emotional depth!"
Aretha pointed at the poor guy across the table, who had the frozen smile of someone internally screaming.
"Mm-hmm. And emotional suffocation."
Four…
"I just think it's important to be honest," the guy said, placing his phone face-up on the table. On-screen was a FaceTime call with his ex-girlfriend, who waved.
Aretha blinked. "He did not just bring her in as a third-party consultant."
"Oh, he did."
Eros groaned into his hands. "I swear his charts said he was loyal, not clinically attached."
Three…
The soft-spoken girl leaned in close. "Do you like the sound of whispers?"
The guy nodded, intrigued. She took out a mini microphone and started tapping her nails against it. Then came the wet mouth sounds.
Eros winced. "This feels… oddly intimate?"
The guy stood up so fast he knocked his chair over. "I CAN'T DO THIS."
Aretha wheezed into her drink.
Two…
"Brian thinks this date is going well."
"…Brian does?"
"Brian always knows when Brian is vibing."
Silence. Then the girl grabbed her purse and walked out.
Eros groaned. "Okay, but Brian's self-awareness is at least impressive?"
Aretha deadpanned. "Brian is about to be single forever."
One.
Eros finally slams his tablet down, looking utterly defeated.
"I don't understand. I cross-referenced psychology, love languages, MBTI, astrology, and even numerology—HOW did every single one of them fail?"
Aretha, lazily stirring her drink, just smirks. "Because love isn't a formula, genius. It's a dumpster fire. You just gotta find someone who's willing to burn with you."
Eros squinted at his tablet, scrolling through the disaster report—er, matchmaking results—for the day. His fingers hovered over the screen, hesitating as the cold, hard numbers stared back at him in digital disappointment. Out of ten couples, only three had survived the emotional battlefield of first dates. Three. A solid fail in godly matchmaking standards.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze to Aretha, his expression somewhere between horrified realization and existential dread. His mind reeled. Was this what Venus had meant by the mission? Not just shooting arrows blindly and hoping for sparks, but actually—ugh—thinking about compatibility?
His stomach sank. His arrows weren't malfunctioning. He was.
Aretha sipped her drink, raising an eyebrow at his silence. "I can actually hear the sound of your confidence crumbling."
Eros groaned, slumping onto the table. "I hate this."
"Well," she smirked, "love isn't easy."
And judging by today's numbers, neither was his job.
The wooden chair let out a long, dramatic screech against the café floor as Aretha stood, slinging her purse over her shoulder with the air of someone who had just finished watching a particularly entertaining sitcom.
"Well, if we're done here, I'll be off," she announced, stretching lazily. "I knew this was going to happen, which is exactly why I agreed to stay. Watching you suffer was deeply amusing."
Eros barely heard her. His mind was still drowning in the wreckage of today's matchmaking catastrophe. But as she turned to leave, a spark of desperation shot through him. He lunged, grabbing onto her arm.
"Okay, but—" He flashed his best, most persuasive Cupid eyes. "What about a round two? The café's packed now, which means more potential matches! I mean, first meetings in a café—isn't that romantic?" His voice pitched slightly, teetering between hope and pure denial.
Aretha blinked. Then, to his horror, she burst out laughing.
"Romantic?" she echoed, effortlessly slipping her arm free. "That's for another time." She started toward the exit but threw one last parting shot over her shoulder. "And please—for the love of love itself—try making decent matches."
With a pivot of her heel, she strode toward the door, muttering under her breath, "Stupid Cupid."
Eros slumped back into his chair, utterly defeated. He let out a long, suffering groan, dragging his hands down his face. Today had been an absolute train wreck, and now he had to figure out how to fix it.
If love was a battlefield, then today, he had been completely annihilated.