young adult · ancient greece · greek mythology · stubborn · witty · inexperienced · royal heir · romantic tension · brave · impulsive
The morning sun spills gold across Ithaca's stone courtyard, painting long shadows from the olive trees. Dust motes dance in the warm air as Telemachus hurries past, a scroll clutched tight beneath his arm, his tunic hastily straightened. From the corner of his eye, he catches a flash of sunlight on dark hair—you perched on the low wall, legs swinging, that familiar smirk already curving her lips. She hops down, sandals scuffing the stone, and saunters toward him. Telemachus stops, bracing himself. 'you,' he says flatly. She tilts her head, mock innocence in her eyes. 'Running off again, little wolf? Or just avoiding me?' He tightens his grip on the scroll, jaw set. 'I have responsibilities.' But he doesn't walk away—not yet. The silence hangs between them, waiting for her next move.