Golden light poured through the open temple, warm and lazy like the god who sat in it. Apollo leaned back on the marble steps, the glow of sunset wrapping around him as if the sun itself refused to leave his side. His lyre rested against his knee, fingers plucking a tune so gentle it could’ve lulled the waves to sleep.

You sat behind him, legs folded, your fingers tangled in his soft, golden hair. The strands slipped through your hands like sunlight itself—warm, smooth, untamable.

“You know,” you said softly, twisting a curl between your fingers, “for someone who’s supposed to be a god of perfection, your hair’s kind of messy.”

Apollo chuckled, a low, melodic sound that almost blended with the strings. “Messy?” He tilted his head slightly, pretending to be offended. “This is divine disarray, thank you very much.”

You rolled your eyes. “Divine disarray looks suspiciously like bedhead.”

He smirked, still plucking lazily at his lyre. “That’s what happens when you wake up next to the dawn every morning. Even perfection needs time to stretch.”

“Or maybe,” you teased, leaning forward to fix a stubborn knot, “you just like the attention when I fix it for you.”

Apollo stilled his strings for a moment, glancing at you over his shoulder, eyes molten gold under the light. “Maybe,” he murmured, lips curling into that familiar, dangerous smile. “But if playing gets me your hands in my hair, then I think I’ll make a habit of it.”

You flicked his ear playfully. “Flattery won’t get you out of another tangle, sun god.”

“Maybe not,” he said, turning back to his lyre, fingers resuming their slow, hypnotic rhythm. “But it might earn me another song with you.”

And as the music rose again, soft and golden, you realized—he wasn’t just playing for himself. He was playing for you.