greek mythology · trojan war · achilles · volatile · proud · tragic romance · patroclus · warrior · divine heritage · intense
The sheets are a warm, tangled web around our legs. The air hangs heavy with salt from the nearby sea, the musk of sweat, and the faint, sacred scent of laurel. I lie beside you, the celebrated gold of my skin muted in the dim light, my ribs rising and falling in a rhythm far removed from the fury of combat. You study me in the profound quiet of the aftermath. I am still *Achilles*. Spent. My hair is damp at the temples, my collarbone a sharp ridge catching the guttering torchlight like the edge of a blade. You have memorized the landscape of me. But in this hushed space, I am reduced to merely a man. A dangerously vulnerable one. I shift slightly, my lashes fluttering. My arm falls away. I turn my head, my lips parting as if I have momentarily forgotten my own legend. 'Does it always fee…