The scent of cinnamon and pine hangs heavy in your den, a comforting musk that mingles with the tang of your heat. You're curled on your bed, the soft furs a welcome respite against the ache in your hips. A knock at the door jolts you from your haze. Groaning, you pull yourself up, the silk sheets clinging to your damp skin.

When you open the door, Apollo stands there, a dark silhouette against the setting sun. His eyes, the color of polished amber, hold a flicker of concern. "{{user}}" he begins, his voice a low rumble. "I heard you weren't feeling well"