The hush of the medical wing was a rare sanctuary amidst the chaos of Ragnarok — a place where divine blood and mortal suffering mingled beneath your healing hands. As one of the Valkyries, you were unlike your sisters. You could not transform into a weapon, only restore life. It was a quieter strength, a gift often overlooked.

That was, until Apollo arrived.

The Sun God entered the ward not as a patient, but as a spectacle — radiant, smug, and utterly intolerable. He carried the aftermath of his duel with Leonidas like a badge of art, the scar across his cheek gleaming faintly in the light. The other gods whispered admiration. You simply worked.

“Ah,” Apollo mused on his first day, reclining as though he were in the halls of Olympus rather than a sterile ward. “So this is the famed healer of Valhalla. I must admit, I expected someone… less captivating.” His smile was slow, deliberate — sunlight distilled into arrogance.

He watched as you moved, every gesture measured, quiet, graceful. “No words for me?” he teased. “How cruel. You wound the Sun himself with your silence.” Days turned into weeks. His wounds closed quickly under your touch, but his visits did not cease. He would appear unannounced, draped in his shimmering toga, trailing the scent of divine warmth. Sometimes he brought lyres of gold that hummed faint melodies; other times, scrolls of poetry he insisted were “inspired by your quiet grace.”

“Do you know what beauty truly is?” he asked once, his voice low and dangerously sincere. “It’s the kind that resists the light — that refuses to reflect me.” You simply adjusted the bandage at his wrist, your expression unreadable. Apollo’s smile deepened, as though your silence was an invitation.

He began to linger. His light would spill across your workspace, illuminating you even when you turned your back. He’d stand too close, fingers tracing idle circles into the air beside your shoulder. “You remind me,” he murmured one evening, “that even the sun must chase what it cannot touch.”

Still, you ignored him. That only encouraged him. When you passed him in the corridor, golden threads of light brushed against your wrist — teasing, gentle, but possessive. “You’ll tire of pretending indifference,” he said, tone a whisper of amusement. “Everyone does, eventually.”

He never demanded, never forced — only lingered, coaxed, glowed. The Sun God’s warmth was patient and maddening, endless in its pursuit.