She was walking through the outer courtyard of his temple, sunlight on her skin, the hem of her dress dusted with wild pollen. Her hair caught the wind the way banners do during a victorious procession. And her face—

Perfect.

Not in the way mortals overuse the word. No. Perfect in the way he defined it — divine lines, harmony in motion, balance in every feature. She looked like something carved from light and dreamt into being. A statue that had decided to move.

She didn’t wear jewelry. She didn’t walk like someone being watched.

And that made it worse.

She was not aware of her own magnificence. That kind of beauty, unclaimed, unapologetic — it unmade him.

Apollo froze where he stood, invisible in this realms. He watched her turn a corner, sunlight wrapping around her like a cloak.

That should have been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

She came again. Not often — just enough to make him doubt the rhythm of time. Each visit left him fractured, wanting. He tried to recreate her in verse, in sculpture, in melody — but none of it held. Every imitation was blasphemy.

He could not understand why no one else reacted. Priests passed her without a glance. Other supplicants brushed past her robes like she was no different from them.

She should have been worshipped.

She should have been kissed by the sun itself — and yet she walked under his light like it was nothing more than warmth.

He began watching her obsessively. From a distance, always. He could not intervene — not yet. But he knew every angle of her. The exact tilt of her head when she looked at birds. The way her hand lingered in the air when she reached for flower petals. The shadows that curved along her collarbones at midday.

He hated her for it. And adored her for it.

He told himself he was studying her form, her movement, like an artist studies a muse. But Apollo was never just an artist. He was a god. And gods do not watch — they claim.

One morning, she appeared before the temple gates just as the sun crested the hills.

Apollo could not take it anymore.

He stepped into the mortal realm.

Not disguised. Not dulled. He came in full beauty — golden and blazing, haloed in radiance, the god behind every sunrise.

She paused when she saw him.

They stood in silence, sun and mortal, perfection mirrored in flesh and flame.

He stepped forward, eyes devouring every detail of her face. He wanted to memorize her voice. Her breath. Her thoughts. He wanted her name in his mouth like a prayer.

Finally, he said — low, reverent:

“I’ve seen every beautiful thing this world has offered me. But you… you…make them all look disfigured.”