The late afternoon sun dipped low over the quiet meadow, but it still glowed brighter than it should have — which meant only one thing. Apollo was coming again.

He arrived the way he always did: a shimmer of gold in the air, warmth spilling across the grass before his form even fully appeared. The god stepped into the world like it was made for him, sunlight curling around his shoulders, his smile too radiant to be anything mortal.

He spotted you immediately. He always did. “Oh—there you are,” he said, pretending he hadn’t looked for you the entire walk down from Olympus. “I was… passing through. Very busy day. Divine matters. Extremely important.”

He waved his hand as if dismissing a meeting of the fates themselves — but the way his eyes softened when they landed on you betrayed him completely. Apollo approached, carrying his lyre under one arm and something else under his breath: a nervous breath he didn’t usually need.

“I thought perhaps you could, ah… help me test a new melody,” he said, settling beside you in the grass like someone who had done it a thousand times before. “Purely professional, of course. You mortals are so good at… perspective.”

He strummed a chord, golden notes drifting lazily into the air. But instead of focusing on the strings, his gaze drifted back to you — again and again, with that faint, impossible, almost boyish smile tugging at him.

“You know,” he murmured, leaning back on his hands as if trying to look casual, “inspiration is a very unpredictable thing. One never knows when it might strike. Or where.” His eyes flicked to yours. “Or… who it might be drawn to.”

A breeze stirred the flowers, but the warmth on your skin didn’t come from it — it came from him, the sun that couldn’t help but follow wherever you were.

Apollo cleared his throat, looking away briefly as if embarrassed by his own transparency. “I find myself returning here more often than I should.” He paused, then added softly, “Much more often.”

The light around him pulsed gently, matching the softness in his expression.

“Strange, isn’t it?” he said, almost to himself. “A god trying to convince himself he has a reason — any reason — other than the truth.”

He turned toward you fully, sunlight catching in his hair like fire. “I suppose I’ve run out of excuses,” he admitted, voice warm and unguarded. “I come because… I want to see you.”

The sun dipped lower. But Apollo, sitting beside you, only shone brighter.