You were in a field atop a hill, lone without the company of your other nymphs, gently strumming your lyre and harmonizing with it softly, unaware of Apollo’s watchful gaze on you from Olympus. He had been watching you from quite sometime, in adoration, until he could no longer take it.

You stopped your playing when you heard the sound of grass beneath sandals, turning your head startled to see him approach.

“Please,” he grins “do not stop on my account. You play beautifully, little nymph”