#telemachus x reader

“You’re leaving again…?”

Upon seeing an all too familiar frown morph on your face, Telemachus tried to brush off the growing ache forming in his chest. He grasped your wrists, trailing his touch down to rub small circles onto the back of your hands. “It won’t be as long as last time, I promise”. He brought them up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on each one.

Your heart twisted watching the gesture. Eyes welling with tears as you gazed at him, you voiced, “you just came back…”. You had been tending to your weaving when he came into your shared chamber to break the news. The distance never became easy. If anything, it had become harder to say goodbye, fearing one day may be the last time you see him.

“I know”. His voice was hardly above a whisper, subdued underneath the unseen weight each departure held. “I know I have”. He tipped your chin up when you averted your gaze, trying to prevent any droplets from breaking through the barrier. Concern washing over his features, Telemachus felt his own eyes glaze over. “Athena will see to it that I come back to you again”.

He held your cheek, placing your other hand over his heart for balance. “You know I’ll do everything in my power to make that happen, yes…?” You wordlessly nod without hesitation, seeking grounding in his words. Embracing his forearm, you clung to him.

“When do you have to leave?”

“Tomorrow night”. As soon as he spoke, you drew your blurred vision to his chest, a few stray tears escaping in response. He caught the ones he could, gently swiping them away with his thumb. “My love…”. Telemachus pulled you into his hold, pressing your head against him while stroking the nape of your neck. You melted into the hug, wrapping your arms around his lower back for closeness. “Please, don’t be upset. You won’t be left alone for long…”.

You two stayed in that position for a moment, softly breathing as you absentmindedly caressed each other. After a few minutes, your tears stopped. Pulling back to peer up at him again, you took that opportunity to look over his features, engraving them within your mind’s eye once more. Telemachus did the same, a faint smile ghosting his lips while he did. Keeping a grasp on your cheek, he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours before placing a kiss on your lips. He placed several more pecks, beginning to walk you towards the bed.

Tugging on his garments, you urged him to remove his clothes. Once he did, his attention was drawn to your dress. It pooled around your ankles in one go, allowing you space to step out of the barrier. He followed as you crawled onto the bed, pulling him into your embrace. Reconnecting your lips, Telemachus settled in between your legs, gliding his length through your folds. You moaned, head spinning with need from his actions. Raking your nails across his broad shoulders, you locked your legs around his hips, bringing him flush against you.

He twitched at the feeling of your arousal coating the underside of his member. Breath hitching as he parted, he squeezed the soft flesh of your thighs, rubbing his hands up and down. Continuing the slow drag of his hips against you, his lips landed on your cheeks, affording both the same level of care and attention. Pausing once he reached your ear, he uttered, “there isn’t a day that goes by without you on my mind”.  Mewling when his tip nudged your clit, your stomach stirred, hearing the longing in his voice.

You prompted him to look at you, soothingly tracing his jaw as he did. Lining himself with your entrance, Telemachus inched inside, gliding along your warmth until he was fully sheathed. Maintaining measured eye contact, no words were exchanged yet enough was said through your bodies. He rested his forehead among yours, making sure you felt every emotion rooted in his veins alone. Pulsing around his length, your heart clenched when he started moving. Vision wavering now, you released a broken moan. The stretch alone was enough to send a spiral of pleasure through your core.

Curling your hand in his hair while grasping his cheek, you sealed your lips together. Groaning into your mouth, he set a steady rhythm rocking in and out. You briefly detached, grazing your nose against his to murmur, “I’ll be right here waiting for you”. The feeling that erupted in his chest was bittersweet. Telemachus couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you again but your unyielding faith that he would always come back was woven tight around his heart. Your words only spurring him on, he repositioned his hands under your thighs, shifting them at an angle.

Increasing the pace of his hips now, you had trouble keeping your eyes open as a sharp pang of arousal spread in your stomach. The lewd sound rising in volume from his calculated thrusts drifted into your ears. Releasing a shaky moan while the beginning signs of your orgasm bloomed, your grip on his jaw fell. No matter how much time has passed, Telemachus never grew tired of studying your expressions. Learning exactly what leaves a lasting imprint on you was one of his vices. Through hooded eyes, he watched your lips quiver and your brows furrow, deciding now would be the perfect moment to send you to that state.

Leaning within earshot, he grunted, tightening his hold on your thighs. A string of groans followed as you dropped your hand, clawing down his abdomen. Eyes fluttering shut at the sound, you released a sharp moan. Head falling back into the pillows now, every deep, precise stroke he gave fueled the heat swirling in your stomach. Thighs trembling in his grasp now, your back arched while waves of pleasure trickled throughout your body. Mind drifting into a haze, you ran your nails through his curls, pulsing around his length.

Your own orgasm triggering his, Telemachus tensed, burying himself to the hilt before spurts of cum coated your walls. He encircled your body, finding your lips to give you another kiss. Reluctantly parting for air, he turned his attention to your cheeks, placing several lingering pecks on you. A warm smile spread across your face at the feeling. Pulling back to peer at you clearly, he voiced, “I love you”. Wrapping both arms around his shoulders again, you soothingly rubbed your fingers along his skin.

“I love you too”

Thank you for reading, feedback is always appreciated!

It truly was a beautiful day. The sun was shining in a way that brightened the world making it warm but not blazing hot like Telemachus hated. It had rained the day before making the sunshine and cool breeze even better. The prince was wandering the gardens deep in thought. Particularly deep in thought about something his mother had said to him yesterday.

Flash Back

You had gotten a little fever after being out in the rain and Telemachus was of course staying by your side while the nurses of the palace tended to you. His mother of course stayed in her chambers but called for Telemachus to make an appearance. Walking through the suitors was like hell but he carried on through the masses.

Telemachus waited for his mother to open the sliding door, when it opened he stepping through. “Hello mother, you wanted to see me.” The prince greeted the queen as he walked into her chambers.

“Yes,” Penelope spoke up, “I was wondering how Y/n was doing.” Her voice was calm and her focus never left the task in-front of her.

“She’s doing well, just a fever from being out in the rain too much.” Telemachus informed his mother and she just nodded her head and hummed.

“Ah yes, silly girl.” Penelope spoke fondly of you. Ever since you and her son started courting she had a fondness of you that both you and Telemachus appreciated. “How is it going with y/n?” Penelope asks.

The prince blushed a little, easily flustered when asked about his intimate relationship with you. “Very well mother.” Telemachus says simply.

“And will you be asking her to marry soon?” Penelope asks her son and even though he stands behind her she can sense the boy is now greatly flustered. It’s her motherly duties though.

“Ah yes,” Telemachus mutters, “At least I hope too.”

“And Children?” Penelope inquires, her tone is carefree and the complete opposite of how Telemachus feels.

“Mother!” The man reprimands, his face flush from embarrassment at the questions.

“What? I want grand children is that so wrong?” Penelope exclaims innocently, and looks back at her son and chuckles when she sees his current state.

“We haven’t,” Telemachus starts and then pauses to think, “we haven’t talked about it yet.” He mumbles the last part still quite embarrassed.

Penelope looks at her son, the love he has for you is no question but she knows of the reservations Telemachus has about having a child. She sighs, “You should go back to her.” Penelope tells her son and waves him off.

“Yes mother,” Is all the prince says and he is turning out the door to leave. Luckily on his way back to your quarters none of the suitors give him any shit. Well except for the normal amount

End of Flash Back

Telemachus sits on a lone rock as he thinks. The rock is positioned towards the sea on a tall hill, looking out to the ocean it helps the prince think. His thoughts mainly centered around having a child of his own. Starting a family. With you.

Of course he wanted to marry and have a life with you. But fear clouded that dream. Telemachus wasn’t even a year old when his father left him and his mother. The prince couldn’t even imagine how difficult it was to leave his family behind for a war. What it must of flt like for Odysseus. The last thing Telemachus wanted was to do the same to you and his child.

Possibly putting his son or daughter through the same thing he did was too much to bare. Telemachus couldn’t even imagine having to leave you behind, how tortuous that would be. The man has seen what twenty years without Odysseus has done to his mother and he cannot do that to you.

Lost in deep thought Telemachus doesn’t realize you are walking up to him. “Hello dear,” you say to him making the prince quickly turn around to look at you. You watch his face twist from attack mode to a loving kindness.

“Y/n you’re awake! How’re you feeling?” Telemachus ask’s you excitedly ushering you over to the rock he was sitting on. He takes off one of the cloak garments for you to sit on.

“Much better thanks to you and the nurses.” You say thankfully with a smile towards the man you love. Telemachus gives you a fond smile but you can see the troubling thoughts clouding his mind. “Is there something the matter Telemachus?” You ask worried about him.

The man quickly shakes his head but stops and thinks. He remembers his mother telling him the root to a happy relationship is talking openly about how you feel. “It’s nothing just thinking about something my mother mentioned the other day.”

You almost say something but instead take his hand in yours and squeeze it tightly to prompt him to continue talking. “My mother she mentioned us wedding, and of course I wan that,” Telemachus spoke frantically to ensure you knew that wasn’t what was troubling him by any means.

“But she mentioned.” the man hesitates, “She mentioned us having children and I just don’t know if I can,” Telemachus’s voice broke,” I don’t know if I can do it. Being a father I mean.” The tears slowly welling up in his eyes begin to fall.

“Oh Telemachus,” Your heart aches when you see him start to cry. You’re arms reach up to pull him into a hug he gladly accepts. “We’ll figure it out together dear I promise.” You coo at him softly comforting him.

“I know,” he says, “I just worry I will put my son or daughter through the same thing I went through.” Telemachus’s voice breaks a little as you pull away from the hug but keep your hands intertwined.

“The Gods haven’t granted me the ability to see into the future but I know you will be an amazing husband,” You spoke softly, “You have people in your life that will help you be an amazing father as well.” Telemachus looked at you with wet eyes that held all the love and adoration he had for you.

“One day,” The man spoke up, “one day I want to have a family with you and I want to be the father I never had.” Telemachus confesses to you. You smile warmly at him.

That had not stopped you before.You stood in the doorway of Telemachus’s chambers with your hand half-raised, your fingers brushing the edge of the heavy wool cloak draped over the back of his chair. 

The room was empty, the low lamps already lit against the dark, and outside the palace walls Ithaca had settled into its evening hush. Somewhere far below, the sea moved restlessly against the rocks. Somewhere in the corridor, a guard’s sandals whispered over stone before fading into silence again.

And there you were, staring at a cloak like it was the most dangerous thing in the world.

Perhaps it was.

Not because it was royal. Not because it was expensive. Not even because it belonged to the King of Ithaca now, though that still felt strange to think, even after months of hearing the title spoken around you as if it had always fit him.

No, the danger was simpler than that.

The danger was that it smelled like him.

Smoke from the hearth. Salt from the sea. The faint cedar note of the oil he kept in his chamber. A little leather from the straps of his sword belt. And something softer beneath it all, something unmistakably Telemachus, something that clung to the fabric in a way that made your chest ache if you breathed it in too deeply.

You had noticed it once by accident.

Then twice.

Then too many times to pretend you had not begun seeking it out.

This evening, you had not meant to come here. You had only been passing by on your way back from the upper gardens when a servant told you the king was still in council and had left his cloak behind in his chambers. You had offered to return it for him without thinking. That was where the trouble had started.

Because the moment the cloak had been in your hands, warm from the body it had rested against all day, you had made a mistake.

You had brought it to your face.

Just once.

Just enough to breathe in.

And then, before common sense could intervene, before dignity could arrive and physically drag you away by the ear, you had looked around the room, seen no one, and wrapped it around your shoulders.

There.

That was all.

A moment. A harmless thing.

Except now you were standing there with Telemachus’s cloak around you, the hem pooling at your feet because it was too long and too large and entirely his, and you had begun to feel as though you had been caught doing something scandalous.

Which, in a way, you had.

You heard footsteps in the corridor before you saw him.

They were measured, unhurried, but you knew them anyway. You knew the difference between his steps and everyone else’s. You knew the slight hesitation at the chamber threshold before he entered, as if he was always thinking one thought ahead of the room he was walking into. You knew the sound of his hand on the door, the soft scrape of wood opening, and the quiet exhale he made when he finally stepped inside and found you there.

He stopped.

You stopped.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

Telemachus stood with one hand still on the door, his dark hair a little wind-tossed from the terrace, his expression one of polite exhaustion that vanished the second he took in the sight before him.

The cloak.

You.

Silence.

Then, very slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched.

You could have died right there and been less mortified.

“Y/N,” he said at last, his voice low with disbelief and amusement both. “Is that mine?”

You stared at him with the dignity of a person who had very obviously stolen a king’s cloak and had no good explanation for it.

“No,” you said, and immediately wanted to disappear into the floor.

His brows lifted. “No?”

You cleared your throat. “It is… a similar cloak.”

The smile that threatened at the corners of his mouth sharpened. “A similar cloak that I left on my chair.”

You looked down at the wool around you and made the disastrous decision to try honesty instead of surviving on denial.

“I was cold.”

He glanced toward the brazier, which was burning. Then toward the thick drapes hanging over the window. Then back at you.

“In my chambers,” he said.

“Yes.”

“With the fire lit.”

“Yes.”

He was quiet for a beat, and then, with obvious effort, he asked, “And the blankets?”

You folded your arms beneath the cloak, which only made it more obvious that you were wrapped in something that belonged to him. “I didn’t want the blankets.”

Now his smile was fully awake.

You looked away at once.

That only made it worse, because you heard the soft sound of him stepping farther into the room, heard the door close behind him, and then heard the quiet, careful tone he used when he was trying very hard not to laugh at you.

“Do you often steal from your king?”

You shot him a look so scandalized he actually paused.

“I do not steal from you.”

“No?”

“No.”

He took a few more steps forward, and now he was near enough that you could feel warmth radiating off him. Near enough that the scent clinging to the cloak seemed to deepen, as though the fabric recognized its owner. Near enough that his eyes,dark, attentive, entirely too amused,made it difficult to keep track of your own thoughts.

He tilted his head.

“You are wearing my cloak.”

You lifted your chin. “You left it here.”

“And you put it on.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The room felt very quiet all of a sudden.

You could have said because it was cold.

You could have said because you liked how it looked.

You could have said because you were in a terrible mood and wanted to be dramatic.

Instead, you said nothing.

Because the truth was sitting too close to your throat.

Because the truth was that the cloak smelled like him, and sometimes you missed him so sharply it felt physical, even when he was only on the other side of a set of doors.

Because the palace had become too large the first time you realized he would one day wear the crown in earnest and the world would begin asking for pieces of him all the time,council, petitioners, envoys, his people, his responsibilities,and you had begun to understand that there were moments when wanting him near you was not a whim but a kind of gravity.

Because when he was gone, the cloak made the room feel less empty.

Because the scent of it made your chest hurt in a way you had not yet learned to describe.

Telemachus’s smile faded a little as he studied your face.

The teasing in his expression softened.

“Y/N,” he said, more gently now, “what is it?”

You made the mistake of looking up at him then.

There was something in his face that undid you every time,something open and patient and quietly tender, as if he never wanted to corner you into saying more than you meant. He had learned how to hold power without ever letting it become sharp in his hands.

You had seen him do it with his advisers, with servants, with elders who believed his youth made him easy to dismiss. He was too kind for the throne and too stubborn to surrender either the kindness or the throne.

That was part of why you loved him.

That was part of why the room had suddenly become too small.

“Nothing,” you lied.

He gave you a look.

You huffed. “I am cold.”

He lifted one brow. “Still?”

“Yes.”

“In my chambers.”

“Yes.”

“You truly do have excellent timing.”

“I am beginning to hate you.”

The smile returned, slower this time.

“No, you are not.”

You opened your mouth to deny that as well, but he had already reached the side of the chair, one hand resting on the back of it, eyes flicking over the cloak as though he was only now fully appreciating what you had done.

You had to look away again.

It was one thing to steal his cloak.

It was another thing entirely to be standing in his chamber with it around your body while he looked at you like he knew exactly why you had done it.

And, in some shameful part of you, he probably did.

“You are wearing it properly,” he said after a moment.

You frowned. “Was there a risk of improper cloak-wearing?”

“Possibly.” His mouth twitched. “It is rather large.”

“It fits me well enough.”

His gaze lingered on you. “It seems to.”

You could not tell whether he meant the cloak or something else. That uncertainty made your pulse trip.

You forced your expression into something stern. “Are you going to take it back?”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “Do you want me to?”

The question landed softly, but it still struck somewhere inside you and stayed there.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

It would have been easier if he had simply reached for the cloak and claimed it. Easier if he had laughed and called you ridiculous and demanded its return. Easier if he had not been standing there with that calm, careful look that made it seem as though he was giving you room to choose.

The thing was, you did not want to choose.

Not really.

You wanted him to let you keep it for one more hour. Maybe two. Maybe long enough to sit alone with the scent of him and pretend the missing shape beside you was not missing at all. You wanted the simple comfort of it, the warmth of the wool and the impossible tenderness of something he had worn against himself all day.

But you also knew him.

And he knew you.

So you said, very slowly, “I was not aware there was a choice.”

His eyes warmed.

“There is always a choice.”

That nearly made you smile.

You looked at the floor because looking at him was getting dangerous. “Then no. I do not want you to take it back.”

The words hung between you.

Telemachus’s expression changed in a way so subtle it might have escaped anyone else. But you caught it,the softening around his mouth, the quiet stillness that followed, as if he had been struck by the honesty of you and had no immediate defense against it.

“Good,” he said.

You blinked. “Good?”

“Yes.”

“Why is that good?”

He pushed off the chair and came closer.

Not quickly.

Never quickly with him, not when he could help it. He had always moved with the kind of patience that made other people think they were being granted something rare, even when all he had done was step into a room.

He stopped a little too near for your breathing to remain sensible.

“Because,” he said quietly, “I would rather you keep it than be cold.”

That was not the answer you expected.

It was worse.

It was much worse, because it was simple and true and impossible to argue with.

You swallowed.

He was close enough now that you could see the faint shadow under his eyes, the evidence of long council hours and too little rest. The crown had not made him harder. It had made him more careful with the softness he already possessed, as if he understood that Ithaca needed his steadiness but that you,sitting in a borrowed cloak, one heartbeat away from being undone,needed his gentleness.

“You should have sent for tea,” he said.

“I did not want tea.”

“Then what did you want?”

Your throat tightened.

The obvious answer was him, but saying it would have set the entire room on fire.

So you lifted one shoulder. “The cloak.”

He smiled faintly. “That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one you are getting.”

He regarded you for a long moment, and then, to your utter surprise, he reached out,not for the cloak, but for the edge of its collar near your throat. His fingers caught the wool lightly, not touching your skin, only the fabric. It was an almost absent gesture, yet it made your entire body go still.

“You smell like the sea now,” he murmured.

You froze.

He must have noticed the way your breath changed, because he looked up at you then, something very gentle settling in his face.

“The cloak,” he added, as if that explained everything.

You swallowed hard and tried to keep your voice level. “And you do not?”

“Not according to you.”

That startled a laugh out of you despite yourself.

He had the nerve to look pleased with that.

You shot him a weak glare. "You are far too confident for a man who spent half the afternoon arguing with three members of the royal council about the kingdom's grain stores."

“They were wrong.”

“You called them ‘dramatic descendants of goats.’”

“They were being dramatic.”

“Telemachus.”

He smiled, utterly unrepentant. “They were.”

The laugh that escaped you then came easier, and for a moment the room seemed to loosen around it. Telemachus watched you with that quiet affection you had grown used to, the kind that made you feel seen in ways you had not been before the crown, before the daily demands of his life had begun to press in from every side.

When your laughter faded, neither of you moved.

The silence that followed was different from the first.

Heavier.

More personal.

He was still holding the edge of the cloak between two fingers. You were still wearing it. The fire crackled softly. Night pressed against the windows. Somewhere beyond the chamber, the palace breathed on.

Then Telemachus said, almost casually, “You have been doing this for a while.”

You frowned. “Doing what?”

His eyes flicked to the cloak.

You had the feeling you were being allowed an escape route and had no intention of taking it.

Still, you tried. “Wearing your clothing without permission?”

“That too.”

Your face heated.

He was far too observant.

He looked vaguely amused by your embarrassment, but not cruelly so. Never cruelly. He had learned enough from the men around him, enough from the old wounds of the house he was born into, to know the difference between teasing and tenderness. He never crossed the line. That was one of the many reasons it was so difficult to survive him.

“You wear my cloak,” he said, “whenever I leave it unattended.”

“I have done no such thing.”

“You are doing it now.”

You opened your mouth, closed it again, and then muttered, “It is a very good cloak.”

His expression shifted. “It is.”

“Soft.”

“Mm.”

“Warm.”

“Yes.”

“And it smells like you.”

That made him still.

You regretted saying it the second it left your mouth, but it was too late now. You had stepped over the line and could only keep walking.

Telemachus did not laugh.

He did not tease you.

He only looked at you, his expression unreadable for one long beat, and then very quietly said, “So that is why.”

The words were so soft you barely heard them.

Your pulse kicked.

You tried to look offended by his tone and failed immediately because you were, in fact, very offended by his ability to sound that calm while your whole body felt suddenly exposed. “Was that not already obvious?”

His gaze held yours.

“No,” he said, “not until now.”

The quietness of the room seemed to deepen around that answer.

You looked down, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I did not mean to say it.”

“No?” he asked.

You shook your head.

He let a beat pass before speaking again. “Then why did you?”

That was such a very him question. Not accusatory. Not demanding. Just honest enough to be dangerous.

You gave in to the truth in the only way you could manage.

“Because I missed you,” you said.

The words were so small they nearly vanished on the way out.

Still, they changed everything.

Telemachus’s expression softened in a way that made your chest ache. He had not expected that answer. You could tell by the slight pause in his breathing, the way his thumb stilled against the collar of the cloak, the way his eyes grew quieter as they stayed on you.

You should have stopped there.

Instead, because the moment was already ruined by sincerity, you said, “When you are busy, the palace feels different.”

His gaze did not leave your face. “Different how?”

“Larger.” You swallowed. “Colder. Too quiet.”

His voice lowered. “And the cloak helps.”

You nodded once.

Something in his expression shifted again,this time into a tenderness so clear it almost made you look away from sheer embarrassment. He was looking at you as if what you had just confessed was not foolish or childish but deeply dear. As if he understood the shape of loneliness well enough to respect it.

Then he asked, very softly, “Would you have told me?”

You frowned slightly. “Told you what?”

“That you missed me.”

The question hit somewhere close to the center of you.

You tried to answer lightly, but it came out honest anyway. “Maybe eventually.”

“Eventually,” he repeated, and there was a faint smile in the corners of his mouth. “Not tonight?”

You considered lying again.

It would have been easier.

But he was looking at you with such steady patience that the lie died before it formed.

“Tonight,” you said, “I thought about stealing your cloak and pretending it was enough.”

Telemachus let out a slow breath through his nose, the kind that came with a smile he was trying not to show too openly. “And was it?”

“No.”

He was silent.

You could feel your own pulse in your throat now.

“No,” you repeated more quietly. “It wasn’t.”

The air between you changed at that, subtle and immediate. His hand fell away from the cloak, and for a moment you feared you had said too much, that the confession had gone too far and he would step back and let the moment collapse under its own weight.

Instead, Telemachus reached for you.

Not abruptly.

Not as if he expected anything of you.

He simply lifted one hand and settled it at your waist over the heavy fabric, warm and steady and careful. It was the kind of touch that asked permission even after it had already been given. The kind that made your knees go soft because it was so completely unlike demand and so completely unlike indifference.

You looked up at him.

His face was close now.

Close enough that the line of his mouth was no longer a distant thing. Close enough that his eyes looked darker in the lamplight. Close enough that you could see the exhaustion beneath the tenderness, the burden he carried every day and the strange peace that seemed to settle only when he was with you.

“You can tell me these things,” he said quietly. “You know that, yes?”

Your throat felt tight.

You nodded.

He searched your face as if he needed to make certain that was enough. Then his thumb shifted once at your side, an almost imperceptible motion through the cloak.

“Do not keep yourself cold on my account,” he murmured.

You laughed, though it came out shaky. “I was not doing it on your account.”

His brow rose. “No?”

You met his gaze and felt your own courage buckling under the simple fact of him standing there, so warm and so attentive and so impossible to hide from.

“I was doing it because I wanted to be closer to you,” you admitted.

The room went utterly still.

He did not speak.

Neither did you.

The silence held for a breath, then another.

His hand at your waist tightened by the smallest degree, as though he had to physically stop himself from moving too quickly.

“Y/N,” he said, and there was something in the way he said your name that made it sound like both a question and an answer.

You swallowed. “What?”

He looked at you for a long moment, then gave the faintest shake of his head, as if he had run out of words and found it strangely unimportant for once.

Instead, he tugged gently at the cloak.

You stared at him, startled.

He smiled a little. “You may keep it tonight.”

Your heart gave a strange, stumbling leap.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

You tried not to sound too hopeful and failed spectacularly. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

You looked down at the garment draped around you, then back up at him. “What about tomorrow?”

His expression shifted into something almost unreadably soft.

“We will see.”

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious now. “That sounds like a trap.”

“It is not.”

“You are planning to reclaim it.”

He gave you the most innocent look he possibly could and still remain the most dangerous man in Ithaca. “Perhaps.”

That earned him a horrified gasp. “Telemachus.”

He laughed then, low and warm, and the sound settled over you like a balm. The tension that had been winding tighter and tighter finally eased enough for both of you to breathe again. His hand remained at your waist, his thumb brushing once, absent-minded and affectionate, through the wool.

You stood there with his cloak around your shoulders and his hand on your waist and realized that the reason the room felt so safe was not because the cloak smelled like him.

It was because he did.

Not the scent. Not the fabric. Him.

His quiet. His patience. His warmth.

His ridiculous ability to find your embarrassment charming instead of inconvenient.

His habit of looking at you as if you were worth listening to.

His way of making the whole palace feel less like stone and more like home.

You could have stayed like that forever.

Or at least until he ruined it by speaking again.

“You know,” he said, his voice gentler now, “if you wanted to keep me, you need only ask.”

You blinked at him.

He was smiling. Not smugly. Not teasingly. Just softly, like he was sharing a truth he knew you would carry carefully once you accepted it.

You frowned. “Keep you?”

His gaze did not waver.

“Near you,” he clarified.

The words slipped into the air and settled there, sweet and dangerous.

You felt your face warm all over again. “You are impossible.”

His smile widened just a fraction. “And yet you still stole my cloak.”

“I will steal more than your cloak if you keep speaking like that.”

His brows lifted, amused. “Is that a promise?”

You stared at him for one long second before your own smile betrayed you.

Maybe the answer was yes.

Maybe the answer had been yes for some time.

Telemachus seemed to understand that from your expression alone, because something softened in his eyes, something private and full of affection. He leaned down then, just enough to press a quiet kiss to your forehead, and the gesture was so simple and so intimate that your breath caught on instinct.

“Sleep in it,” he murmured. “If you want to.”

You looked up at him, surprised.

He shrugged a little, almost shy for once. “I will not mind.”

The room felt too warm suddenly.

You swallowed and managed, “You are too kind to me.”

His expression gentled. “No. Only to you.”

That nearly undid you.

He straightened before you could find words, reached for the lamp on the side table, and dimmed it a little so the room fell into a softer amber glow. Then he moved toward the door, pausing just before opening it.

You turned toward him. “Where are you going?”

He looked back with the easy patience of a man who had already made his decision.

“To finish the evening’s reports.”

You stared. “Now?”

He nodded.

“You are leaving me here,” you said, pointing weakly at the cloak as though it was proof of betrayal.

His mouth curved. “I am leaving you there in my cloak.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“I think it is.”

You opened your mouth to object and then stopped when he added, very quietly, “And I will come back.”

That changed the shape of the room again.

You watched him, suddenly aware of how carefully he offered certainty when he could. Not grand promises. Just the truth, spoken plainly.

He would come back.

He always did.

Your voice softened without permission. “All right.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, then gave a slight nod, as if pleased by your agreement. “Good night, Y/N.”

You looked down at the cloak around you, then back up at him.

“Good night, my king.”

The smile he gave you then was entirely different from the amused one from before. This one was quiet, intimate, and full of something that made your chest feel unbearably full.

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

You stood alone in his chamber for a long minute, one hand lingering at the collar of the cloak where he had touched it, listening to the faint receding sound of his footsteps in the corridor.

The room felt colder immediately.

You looked down at yourself and realized you were still smiling.

Ridiculous.

You crossed to his chair and sat in it as if the furniture itself could preserve the shape of him. The cloak settled around you, heavy and warm. You tucked your legs beneath it and breathed in once more, that familiar scent filling your lungs, and this time it did not make your chest ache quite so sharply.

It made you think of the way he had said you could tell him things.

It made you think of his hand at your waist.

It made you think of the promise hidden in his “I will come back,” as if he had been speaking about the cloak, the room, and something much larger all at once.

Maybe you had stolen his cloak.

Maybe that had been true at the beginning.

But by the time the lamp burned low and the palace settled into night and the only sound in the chamber was the sea beyond the windows, you were no longer certain you had taken anything at all.

Maybe he had given it to you.

Maybe he had given you the warmth, the comfort, the patience, the quiet.

Maybe he had given you a piece of himself because he already knew you would keep it carefully.

And maybe that was why, when Telemachus returned much later and found you asleep in his chair with his cloak wrapped around you and one hand curled near your face like a child refusing to let go of a favorite blanket, he stopped in the doorway and smiled to himself before crossing the room as softly as he could.

You woke only enough to feel him lift a blanket over you and murmur your name in that low, tender voice you loved so much.

He did not take the cloak back.

He only bent to kiss your temple, so gently you might have dreamed it, and whispered, “You may keep it.”

Then, after a pause so small it felt like a secret, he added, “As long as you keep coming back to me too.”

And in the quiet dark of his chamber, wrapped in his cloak and the warmth of his promise, you did not need to say yes.