Charlie
Apollo was acting weird.
Weirder than normal.
And considering this was a guy who routinely brooded like a Shakespearean antihero and growled at people for breathing too loud near him, that was saying something.
He showed up at my door just after breakfast — disheveled, flushed like he’d half-run here, hair sticking up in a dozen directions like he’d either been in a fight or lost one with his pillow. He had a picnic basket clutched in one hand like it was a weapon or maybe a shield. And the expression on his face?
Painfully awkward. Weirdly hopeful.
It was giving “anxious dragon-man tries to flirt” energy. With bonus points for what looked like a folded blanket poking out the top of the basket.
He cleared his throat and offered me a smile that could only be described as deep
