Mint Condition

The week since the argument with Liam had been a relentless swirl of tension and silence. You couldn’t escape the weight of the rift between you two, even in the rare moments of peace in your shared dorm. Liam had tried to talk to you once—after you came home from the last event.

He had asked, in a tone that was almost apologetic, "Hey, how did it go?" But the anger still simmered in your chest, boiling over with a simple, defiant middle finger.

You hadn’t expected him to fire back, but he had, and his words lingered: "From now on, you’re paying your half of the rent—$600 a month."

The shower’s warm water had done little to wash away the sting of that exchange. You stepped out, grabbed a towel, and dried yourself off with more aggression than necessary. "Great," you muttered under your breath. "Because money grows on trees, right?"

You stared at your reflection in the fogged-up mirror. The changes were impossible to ignore—soft curves, delicate features, and those C-cup breasts Aphrodite had so generously "gifted" you. You had never looked less like yourself, but after all this time, the sight was no longer shocking. It was just… frustrating.

Dressing was another minefield. You dug through your wardrobe for anything that still felt like you. A plain white T-shirt, slightly loose but hugging in ways you didn’t want it to. Dark jeans, a little tighter around your hips and thighs than you’d prefer, but passable. Sneakers, a blessedly neutral option. And yet, beneath the illusion of masculinity, the telltale signs of your curse were ever-present: a black bra, barely visible under the shirt, and a matching pair of panties that clung to your curves. You could feel the straps of the bra digging into your shoulders as a constant reminder of your reality.

The outfit might have read "casual," but it screamed feminine to anyone paying attention. The fullness of your hips, the softness of your waist, the ample curve of your chest—it was impossible to hide.

You pulled your damp hair into a messy ponytail, grabbed your phone, and flopped onto your bed. Rent. Groceries. Your dwindling bank account. The humiliation of knowing that Liam wasn’t just mad—he was right. You’d been relying on him too much, and now you were on your own until he apologized. If he apologized.

A quick check of your banking app revealed the ugly truth: $28.46. Just enough for a few days of food. Maybe a week, if you stretched it.

And then there was Vincent.

Your stomach churned at the thought. Sure, the $250 he’d slipped into your bra the other night was going to be useful—mortifying, but useful. And yes, he’d said he could keep "arm candy" like you around if you played your cards right. But the idea of relying on him? Of letting him become your main source of income? It made your skin crawl.

Slut. Prostitute. Sugar baby. Your own mind was taunting you.

But what choice did you have?

You heard the door creak open and froze, holding your breath. Liam’s quiet footsteps padded across the dorm. No words, no attempt at conversation. Just the sound of him grabbing his bag and leaving for class. The door clicked shut behind him, and you sat up, heart pounding.

This was your chance. The summit was tomorrow, and you couldn't have a repeat of last time. At least, you hoped didn't have to make more memories of it.

You stood, brushing nonexistent lint off your jeans, and straightened your ponytail. "Time to put the plan into action," you murmured, determination hardening in your chest.

Whatever it took to survive, you’d do it.

You shut the bathroom door behind you, locking it with a click. The tiny, sterile space felt colder than usual, though it could have just been the tension coiling in your stomach. You hadn’t called on Hermes in days—weeks, maybe. And you’d never done it without Liam by your side.

The toilet sat before you like an unassuming altar. It was ridiculous, really, how this ritual had become second nature. You pressed the flush handle once, watching the water swirl down. Then again. And on the third flush, you leaned forward, your reflection in the mirror catching your eye.

“Hermes,” you called softly. Nothing. You tried again, louder this time. “Hermes!”

The bathroom mirror rippled like water, and suddenly, his familiar figure appeared, lounging as though he’d been waiting all day for this moment.

“Well, well, well,” Hermes drawled, leaning one elbow against the edge of the mirror’s frame. “Look who decided to grace me with their presence! Where’s your boyfriend—oh wait—Liam?” His tone was sharp, teasing, but his raised eyebrow betrayed his curiosity.

You groaned, running a hand through your still-damp ponytail. “He’s not here.”

“Clearly. But why? Don’t tell me you two lovebirds had a lover’s quarrel.” Hermes smirked, his tone playful but probing.

You rolled your eyes. “We’re not lovebirds. And yes, we had a fight. A big one. We haven’t spoken in a week.”

Hermes leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Oh, do tell. What could the golden boy have done to deserve the silent treatment?”

“It’s… complicated,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “Let’s just say things have been tense, and now I’m on my own. Rent’s due, money’s tight, and I—” You stopped yourself, hesitating.

Hermes’s eyes narrowed slightly, his smirk softening. “And you what?”

You exhaled sharply. “And I might need your help with something.”

His grin widened. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What kind of help are we talking about? Need me to turn Liam into a toad? Slip someone a bad luck hex? Maybe…” He leaned closer, his tone turning conspiratorial. “…a little glamour spell to make someone extra susceptible to your charms?”

You shook your head, biting your lip. “No, nothing like that. I was wondering if you have… something that could help me forget.”

Hermes blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Forget? Forget what?”

You shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze. “Just… a small spell. Something temporary. To forget, like, an hour or two of… stuff.”

“‘Stuff,’” Hermes echoed, clearly amused. “Care to elaborate? What kind of stuff are we talking about?”

You clenched your fists, the heat rising to your cheeks. “You know. Stuff.”

Hermes tilted his head, feigning confusion. “Oh no, you’re going to have to be more specific than that. Is it ‘forget an awkward moment’ stuff? Or are we talking 'oops, I did something scandalous’ stuff?”

Your patience snapped. “Fine! Forget giving someone a blowjob or something like that before doing it. Happy?”

Hermes froze for a beat before throwing his head back and laughing. It was a loud, carefree sound that echoed off the bathroom tiles. He doubled over, clutching his stomach as if your words had physically floored him.

“Goddamn, you’re cracking me up!” he wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. “You want a spell to erase a little extracurricular activity from your memory? Oh, that’s rich. That’s priceless!”

You glared at him, your cheeks flaming. “It’s not funny, Hermes.”

“Oh, but it is,” he said, still chuckling. “You know, most people would ask for money, power, or ****. But you? You want selective amnesia because you’ve been dabbling in… what, ‘alternative payment methods’?”

“Can you just help me or not?” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended.

Hermes smirked, recovering from his fit of laughter. “Relax, sweetheart. I could help you, sure. But…” He trailed off, his expression turning serious for once. “Are you sure forgetting is what you want? Because if you’re asking me, you’re going to owe me a favor. And we both know favors don’t come cheap.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. Was it really worth the cost?

Hermes leaned against the edge of the mirror, his grin fading just enough to make room for something a bit more serious. "Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m just kidding about the whole favor thing."

You blinked, unsure whether to believe him. “So… you’ll actually help me?”

He rolled his eyes dramatically. "Yes, yes, of course. I’m the god of communication, deceit, and wit. If anyone can cook up a solution to your little memory problem, it’s me. But…” He paused, leaning closer with a conspiratorial smirk. “…Mnemosyne—goddess of memory—will probably lose her shit if she finds out.”

Your brows furrowed. “She’ll get mad?”

“Oh, absolutely. This kind of thing is, uh, very much in her jurisdiction,” Hermes replied with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “But let’s not worry about her. She’s more bark than bite, and honestly? She owes me a favor or two. Now, when do you need this little spell of yours?”

You hesitated. “I’ll need it more than once. And… I won’t know exactly when.”

Hermes raised an eyebrow, the teasing glint in his eye returning. “More than once? Oh, girl, this is hilarious. You’re planning for future indiscretions, huh? What’s next, scheduling blowjobs into your calendar?”

You shot him a glare, your cheeks burning. “I’m being serious, Hermes. I can’t keep calling you every time… something happens. Is there a way to make it more… self-sufficient? Like, I don’t know, a phrase I can say in my head to trigger it?”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then suddenly snapped his fingers, his grin widening into something almost predatory. “Oh, I’ve got it. Girlie pop, you are going to love this.”

Before you could ask what he meant, Hermes straightened up, his hands moving in intricate patterns in the air. Smoke and clouds began swirling around his fingers, mixing with flickers of golden light. The bathroom filled with the scent of ozone and something faintly sweet, like freshly baked cookies. Sparks crackled, and tiny gusts of wind made your hair dance.

“What are you doing?” you asked, stepping back slightly.

“Getting to work, of course,” Hermes said, his voice light as if he were performing a magic trick at a dinner party. His hands moved faster, the smoke twisting into strange shapes before collapsing back into itself.

Finally, with a flourish, Hermes clapped his hands together. The room filled with a sharp pop, and when the smoke cleared, he was holding a small tin in his hand. He held it up with a triumphant grin.

The tin was metallic and sleek, with an old-fashioned design etched into the surface. The label read: “Forget-Me-Mints™: For When You’d Rather Not Remember”in curly, whimsical lettering.

He handed it to you, the metal cool against your palm. “Each mint will make you forget the next hour or so, give or take. It probably takes about ten minutes to kick in, so pop one when the occasion calls for it.”

You stared at the tin, disbelief and relief washing over you in equal measure. “That’s… actually kind of perfect.”

“I know,” Hermes said smugly, crossing his arms. “You’re welcome.”

You hesitated. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Hermes replied with a wink. “Well, besides the obvious: Mnemosyne might come after you if you **** these like percocets. But, hey, that’s your problem, not mine.”

He turned as if to leave, the mirror rippling faintly behind him. Just before stepping through, he glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, and one more thing: make amends with my boy Liam. He’s got a good heart, even if he’s a bit of a stick in the mud. You need him more than you think.”

Before you could respond, Hermes disappeared, the mirror returning to its normal reflective state.

You stared at your reflection for a moment, then down at the tin of mints in your hand. A small smile tugged at your lips despite everything. Maybe Hermes was a pain in the ass, but he always delivered.