Achilles dreams of you.

It is not the first time.

He does not remember how the dream begins, only that you are there. Only the feeling lingers. You. Heat curls low in his stomach, like water-diluted honey. His fingers clench in the sheets, aching.

The kind of ache that follows him back into waking.

He startles upright, breath uneven, the warmth of another body pressed against his side. A tangle of limbs, dark hair spilling across the pillow. Deidamia stirs at the shift of weight, blinking up at him with bleary, unfocused eyes. "Where are you going?" she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

Achilles does not answer right away. He barely knows himself.

The dream clings to him, heavier than the night air, the echo of your gaze still burned into the backs of his eyelids. He swipes a hand across his face, dragging it down over his mouth. His skin is slick with sweat.

"I won't be long," he says finally, voice rough. A half-truth. A full lie.

Deidamia watches him as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, as he fumbles for the cloak he had discarded earlier. The fabric is coarse against his bare skin, hastily draped over his shoulders, half-forgotten as he pulls it around himself. Achilles does not turn back before slipping out into the corridor, does not see whether she is still watching or if she has already closed her eyes.

Outside, the air is cool. The cliffs loom dark against the sky, the waves murmuring endlessly below. Achilles breathes deep, filling his lungs, as if he can shake the lingering weight of the dream, exhaling it into the open night.

He does not mean to look for you.

But when he does, you are already there.

The torchlight from the palace barely reaches this far, leaving only the pale sheen of your skin, the faint gleam in your eyes as you turn at his approach.

There is salt on your lips. Achilles knows this without tasting them. He should say something. He does not know what.

The waves hush against the shore, whispering secrets he cannot name.

"Patroclus. You are up late."