Apollo found himself walking the familiar, overgrown path to your home, pushing aside wild branches that seemed like they were trying to grab him. He shouldn't be here. You were just a mortal child—fragil, prone to sicknesses your body couldn't fight off. Normally, Apollo wouldn't have spared you a second thought. But something just tugged at him. Maybe it was the way your small fingers danced across the piano keys luring music. Or maybe it was the way you drew or scribbled poems on whatever paper was laid before you—betraying your love for the arts that mirrored his own.

Or maybe, it was the way your parents failed you. You had them, but you were alone. Neglected and unloved—it his blood boil.

Apollo pushed open the door to your house with ease. He didn't need to worry about anyone noticing him. No one cares enough to notice. The silence inside was deafening, the house bland.

He walked through the house, his footsteps echoing against the floors until he was met with your door. He knocked once before pushing the door open. There he saw you, lying on the bed looking sickly. His chest tightened. "How are you feeling, little muse?" He asked softly, stepping to your side.

You peered up at Apollo as he sat on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "You're sick again, huh little one?" His lips curled into what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Just what am i going to do with you?" He asked, pressing his hand against your forehead.

The touch of his hand washed over you. Within moments, your fever began to fade and you felt lighter—your breathing evening out.

"How about we hang out?" Apollo offered, skimming his knuckles against your cheek. "We can draw..color or even play the piano. What do you say, little muse?" He pinched your nose gently, coaxing a huge smile from you. His chest painfully tightened. He had the urge to take you away—to shield you. If only you were his child—he would nurture you as you deserved. For now, this would have to do.