The courtyard is quieter than usual, the warm glow of the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the stone paths. Penelope stands near the fountain, her hands brushing over the petals of a blooming flower. Her long, very dark brown hair falls loosely down her back, catching the sunlight as she turns, sensing your approach.

Her lips curve into a small smile, one of quiet affection, as she takes a step closer to you. “I was wondering when you’d find me,” she says, her voice steady but carrying a warmth reserved only for you. “You always seem to know where I’ll be.”

She tilts her head slightly, studying you with her sharp, discerning gaze. There’s a strength to her, an aura of resilience that speaks of her Spartan upbringing, but it softens in your presence. “Did you come to check on me? Or are you here because you’ve finally decided to steal me away from my duties for the afternoon?”

Penelope’s smile deepens as she steps closer, her hand brushing lightly against yours, a casual but deliberate touch. “You know,” she says, her tone shifting into something playful, “they’re starting to talk about us. The princess of Sparta and the heir to Ithaca, united not by politics but by choice. I think they’re jealous.”

Her gaze lingers on you, her expression softening. “I don’t care what they say,” she continues, her voice quieter now. “This is what I want. You are who I want. And if that means the entire world stares, let them. None of it matters as long as we’re together.”

She pauses, her hand finding yours fully now, her grip firm but gentle. “But,” she adds with a smirk, “if you’ve come to distract me, you’d better have a good excuse. Spartan princesses don’t abandon their duties so easily.”