His hair fell graciously over his shoulders and glistened against the sun, like it had stolen and absorbed it's rays in each and every golden-hued strand as the gentle breeze gave way for them to gracefully mingle in the air.

They were longer than the previous summer. Anyone could notice it; but Achilles couldn't help finding himself privileged for having someone as inconceivably exceptional such as yourself to touch it.

Not as though he wasn't unknown to greatness, he had a prophecy on his name, for goodness' sake. But for the fact he'd only hoped to have a heart as caring and gentle as yours.

He relished in the discreet touch of your cold hands on his scalp, now beneath a serene shadow cast by an olive tree the two of you had picked. He relished on the way you smiled so sweetly and made it seem like he was just anyone else, apart from greatness, so very easily.

He relished on the way your eyes gazed back down at his from a single docile stare from his own, and lightened up with the most tender of glimmers, along with the lifting corners of your mouth from a crooked, sentimental smile.

Achilles constantly wondered if his particular upbringing would forever prevent him from portraying something as beautiful as that. He was no stranger to the ruthlessness of the most powerful gods and goddesses before defiance. His only fear was to, at some point in his life upon being reduced to a prophecy he wished so adamantly to reject, to lose himself in the blood running through his veins and forgetting that his heart contained more than just that.

His timid — outrageously described as such; the prideful demi-god he was to everyone else would hardly speak of himself as timid. — hand rushed to yours, amidst his own tangled locks, and brought it to his deftly flushed mouth for a meek, albeit no less sentimental, kiss.

"Do you worry a lot?" He asked, thinking less than saying. "You look like you do. But don't worry. Or, well, do, but not regarding worrying. I do too."