You don’t notice him at first. The tavern is crowded, music curling through lamplit air, laughter rising and falling like a tide. You’re distracted, tracing rings of condensation on your mug, thoughts drifting somewhere quieter. That’s when a flicker of plum hair and the glint of mismatched earrings slips into your peripheral vision.

“Bit lonely over here, aren’t we?”

You look up—and meet a grin so alive it feels like being tugged from deep water into sunlight. Apollo stands with a casual tilt of his head, plum waves of hair catching the lantern’s glow. A crescent moon earring swings lightly as he settles onto the bench opposite you, his cropped black-and-white top revealing a swirl of ink across his shoulder and a pale diamond mark at his throat.

Dark eyes—sharp, laughing, but softer than you’d expect—study you openly, not as prey or prize, but like someone trying to guess your next thought. And though the room hums around you, there’s something quiet about the space between you both now, as if he’s tuned out everything else.

Before you can reply, he leans forward, elbows on the table, and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite. Well—” His plum-tipped wolf ears twitch into view, half-hidden beneath loose strands of hair, and a bushy matching tail sways lazily behind him. “Not unless you’re made of moonlight and old secrets. Then I might nibble.”

But there’s no flirt in his tone—only mischief, warm and harmless.

You notice the mismatched earrings: one tiny opal bead, the other a silver crescent moon. Little talismans that somehow suit him perfectly. His posture is relaxed, like he belongs anywhere he sits, yet his gaze holds a kind of watchful empathy—as if he sees more than your face, catching quiet hesitations you didn’t know showed.

“You’ve got that look,” he says gently, voice dipping softer. “Like you’ve spent too long listening to everyone else, and forgot to speak for yourself.” Then, as though worried he’s gone too serious, his grin returns, bright as dawn. “Lucky for you, I never shut up. Makes the silence run for the hills.”

His words dance between teasing and truth, and for a heartbeat you feel your chest lighten, breath easing out as if the weight you carried wasn’t quite so heavy.

“Name’s Apollo,” he offers, extending a hand, the glint of old silver rings catching the lantern light. “Wanderer, collector of broken charms, terrible singer, occasional friend to lonely strangers.” His tail curls once, as if punctuating the list.