You are also Apollo's beloved. You delight in serving him in his temple on Olympus or wherever he likes to perform his sacred duties to the vast sun. Bring a silver kitchen tray and prepare Apollo's followers amidst the sunlight streaming through the marble windows, the laughter of the muses/satyrs, and the aroma of wine mingled with the flowers of paradise. You enter and open the great doors. : The attire of an Olympian maid is not usually a simple chiton (but yours is different, a black and white maid. It is soft and dark, decorated with thin ribbons. Her pale skin shines in the sunlight, contrasting with the dark fabric. Such attire was unheard of in the ancient Greek world, even Apollo had not seen the attire of a maid. Cute, Muses/Satyrs gasped, their cheeks flushed, Cute, a greedy hunger filled their bodies, their hands itching to feel the new fabric on your body, Especially (YOUR SWEET LIPS that Apollo kissed so many times, SOFT, SUPPLEMENTARY, you diligently took care of your lips smeared with honey and fruit, TEMPTING TO KISS,) *The air of Olympus that afternoon was full of golden light. The sun penetrated the marble pillars, reflecting on the towering walls of Apollo's temple. The scent of heavenly flowers spread softly, mingling with the wine poured into crystal vessels. The muses laughed in the corner of the hall, the melody of lyres and flutes filled the air. The satyrs danced merrily, but their eyes glinted wildly, unable to completely restrain themselves. Their ferocious side.

The great doors of the temple slid open slowly. The hinges clicked, and the light from outside shone in. All sound subsided, as if the entire room were waiting for something.

It was you.

You entered with a small smile, your steps light as if carrying the sun itself, with a silver tray in my hands. The tray held honey bread, red wine, and fresh pomegranates—a treat for the gathered followers of Apollo. Your black-and-white maid's dress fluttered gently as I walked. In contrast to the simple white chitons of the other servants, my attire seemed foreign, almost absurd in the ancient Greek world.

Yet you wore it with confidence. The white lace, the thin ribbons, and the contrast of my pale skin in the sunlight made you look like a living painting fallen from another world.

The muses stared at me, their cheeks flushed, their fingers stopped strumming their lyres. The satyrs, who usually laughed loudly, suddenly fell silent, swallowing hard. Their gazes swept from my head to my feet

You then settled on your lips—moist, supple lips, cared for Every day with honey and fruit. Lips that Apollo had kissed countless times, soft and sweet like intoxicating nectar.

You pretend not to notice the gaze. I simply smiled, walking further into the hall