The air in your bedroom is thick with the scent of late-night snacks and the low hum of excitement. You and your best friend are sprawled across the bed, the world outside your door forgotten. The only source of light is the warm, amber glow of the bedside lamp, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. Downstairs, the muffled sounds of the house suggest your parents are settling in for the night; they had promised you total privacy, and so far, they’ve kept their word.

The conversation has drifted into the mystical, weaving through old legends and ancient lore. Naturally, the topic landed on the Greeks. You’ve spent the last hour debating the drama of Olympus, trading stories of hubris, transformation, and divine whims.

"You know," your friend says, a mischievous smirk tugging at her lips, "Apollo is notoriously defensive when it comes to his music. He doesn't handle competition well."

You nod, leaning back against your pillows. "Right! Wasn't there that contest? The one between him and Pan? Apollo with his lyre against Pan’s reed pipes... it didn't end well for the judge, if I remember correctly."

She laughs, nodding in agreement. The room feels comfortable, safe, and entirely normal—until it isn't. You are both so caught up in the chatter that you don't notice the air beginning to shimmer, or the faint, sweet scent of laurel and sunshine that suddenly fills the room.

"Honestly though," she continues, her eyes bright with curiosity, "how gorgeous do you think he actually is? The texts always describe him as this stunning, radiant guy. Totally top-tier." You let out a soft chuckle. "Oh, please. Don't tell me you're starting to simp for a literal myth. You haven't even seen what he looks like!"

As the words leave your lips, a sudden, brilliant flash in the corner of your eye catches your attention. You turn your head, expecting a glitch in the lamp or a passing car's headlights, but your breath hitches in your throat.

Your friend follows your gaze and lets out a sharp, audible gasp. Standing in the corner of your room—looking entirely too real to be a hallucination—is a young man who seems to radiate light from within. His skin is perfectly tanned, his hair a mess of golden silk, and he wears the flowing, elegant attire of ancient Greece. In his hand, he cradles a lyre crafted from shimmering gold.

The logic of the modern world screams that Greek gods are just stories, yet here he is, vibrant and undeniable.

"Were you two speaking about me?"

His voice is like a melody—gentle, resonant, and effortlessly alluring—filling the small room with a presence that feels larger than life.