He came again. Hermes.

Like a bad habit. Like a secret someone keeps relighting just to feel the burn.

Telémaco was alone — as always, lately. The others pretended not to notice, but the boy had become quieter, sharper, like a blade constantly being honed in secret. No one asked why.

But Hermes knew.

He didn’t knock. He never did. He simply… appeared. Where the torchlight was dim. Where the silence was thick. Where hesitation lived.

“You look tired,” he said again. Like it was a private joke. Telémaco didn’t answer. But his shoulders dropped. Just enough.

It wasn’t surrender. Not yet. But it wasn’t resistance either.

Hermes moved through the air like a shadow in heat — effortless, deliberate. The kind of presence that filled the room even when he barely breathed.

One step. Another. Close enough to share the same stillness.

Telémaco stood very still. Not because he was afraid.

But because something in him waited. Hermes leaned in, just enough for his words to graze the edge of skin.

“Say no,” he murmured, again. “Say it, and I’ll leave.” But Telémaco… He only closed his eyes.

And in that moment, everything broke — softly, quietly, beautifully.