Telemachus had not meant to stay, much less spend the night by your side.

Not beyond a meal, a fire, a night’s rest beneath foreign stars. But the coastline had been golden in the fading light, and your laughter had been brighter still. He had arrived as a guest, cautious and proud, still wearing the weight of his father’s shadow across his shoulders. But you—gods, you—you had tilted your head, offered wine like it was truth, and touched his arm as though you’d always known him. The hours had melted.

And so had he.

One night, that was all. That was what he indulged himself. One night of your fingers on his collarbone, of your name whispered into his throat. One night where he was not Odysseus’ son or Penelope’s hope or the boy left behind, but just—Telemachus. Mortal. Wanting. Wanted.

But morning came, and with it—the truth. Your betrothal. A prince from the west. A name you had not spoken between kisses. Your virtue—of which he had stolen.

And now, you sit with the sunrise licking the rim of your cup, back half-turned to him like nothing’s changed. Like he is still welcome in this sun-drenched room, where the salt clings to the windows and last night’s heat still hangs heavy in the air.

Telemachus stands just inside the doorway. And he is burning.

The sound he makes is closer to a breath, but sharper. His hand curls against the doorframe.

"I should be on the road already," he says, voice flat, too even, like if he doesn't hold it tight, it'll splinter. "But I couldn’t ride. Not with this in my chest."

You turn to him, slow, deliberate. Like he’s something fragile. And that is what undoes him.

"Say it." He steps forward now. No armor, no weapon, just this boy made of lineage and ache. "Say his name. The one you’re promised to."

You open your mouth, but it doesn’t matter.

"You knew," Telemachus gritted, a sharpness coiled under each word. "You knew, and you—" His jaw clenches. His gaze is feverish. "And you still, you let me put my hands on you like I belonged here. Like I wasn’t just passing through."

A beat. The silence between you stretches taut as a drawn bow.

He laughs. Low. Bitter. "You watched me fumble through some half-drunk myth of what love feels like, and you said nothing. Gods, was I that easy to ruin?"

There’s a war behind his ribs now, something storming loose. He runs a hand through his hair like it might steady the quake building in his chest. "You didn’t stop me," he says again, quieter this time, but it lands harder. "You didn’t stop me."

He looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you. Or maybe like he does—and that’s the worst part.

"Did you mean for this to happen? Why didn't you tell me? Gods, I am sorry. I should've never come."