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It started with an empty bed.
Penelope stirred to morning light and found only cool sheets where Odysseus should’ve been. No warm body pressed to her back. No steady heartbeat to curl against. The spot between her and Diomedes was vacant, the blankets tossed aside in a tangled heap.
She blinked blearily at the absence. “He’s gone.”
Diomedes didn’t open his eyes. “It’s not even dawn.”
“Exactly.”
A beat of silence.
Then Diomedes groaned, rubbed his face, and sat up. “That bastard.”
“He can barely walk.”
“He shouldn’t be walking. He should be sleeping. Or moaning.” A pause. “Preferably both.”
Penelope climbed from the bed, pulling on her robe. “We’ve got maybe two hours before he collapses out of pure stubbornness. Let’s go.”
They searched the palace, then the outer halls. The kitchens. The gardens. Not a trace. Not even the guards had seen him. But Penelope knew her husband—knew the sharp scent of ambition, of guilt and ache and the terrible drive to earn what he never thought he deserved.
They found him in the South Hall, half-bent over scrolls with a pained crease between his brows. He had three aides around him, and none of them seemed to notice how he barely shifted his weight off one leg, how his fingers trembled slightly as he scribbled notes.
Penelope stepped into the doorway. “Odysseus.”
He looked up, startled.
Too startled.
“Penelope. Diomedes.” He cleared his throat, voice still hoarse from the night before. “I was just—there’s a trade dispute with the southern vineyards, and the eastern road—”
“Is not your problem this early,” Diomedes interrupted. “You’re limping.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Penelope said, voice sharp enough to cut through marble. “And you’re a liar.”
The aides had wisely begun to edge away.
“Go,” Diomedes said to them. “We’ll take it from here.”
“But—”
“I said go.”
The aides scattered like frightened crows.
Odysseus sighed, sinking a little more onto the bench as though the weight of his guilt added bricks to his spine. “I didn’t want to wake you. You both deserve to sleep in.”
“And you deserve to rest,” Penelope snapped. “You can barely sit down without wincing.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re sore,” she growled. “You’re exhausted. You’re still marked up from our last night together. And instead of letting yourself heal, you’re running yourself into the ground. Again.”
His jaw tightened. “There’s work to be done.”
“There’s always work to be done,” Diomedes said. “That doesn’t mean it has to be you doing it. You’re not a servant anymore.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“Yes,” Penelope said, stepping forward, “you are.”
Her voice softened. “You think if you stop moving, we’ll see you as a burden. You think rest makes you unworthy.”
“I don’t—”
“You do,” Diomedes said. “You haven’t changed as much as you think, Odysseus. You still don’t know how to be taken care of.”
His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Then, quietly—“I’m trying.”
Penelope’s heart broke a little.
She stepped closer, brushing a lock of hair from his face. “You don’t have to try so hard for us, love. You don’t have to earn anything.”
Diomedes leaned down, lips brushing his temple. “You’re ours. That’s enough.”
“I have meetings,” Odysseus whispered.
Penelope grinned darkly. “No, you don’t.”
She grabbed his arm. Diomedes took the other.
“Penelope—Diomedes—wait—!”
They ignored his protests as they marched him out of the hall, half-lifting him when he tried to resist. His sputtered objections only earned him matching kisses to each cheek.
“You’re embarrassing me,” he muttered, red-faced.
“Good,” Diomedes said. “Maybe you’ll remember next time.”
They dragged him straight to the baths.
Warm steam curled around the marble as Penelope slipped his robe from his shoulders and clucked at the sight of the bruises—marks they’d lovingly pressed into his skin, now beginning to bloom.
“You look delicious,” she purred, not bothering to hide the hunger in her voice. “But you’re going to lie down and soak, and you’re not going to move until we say so.”
“I have—”
“Say meetings one more time,” Diomedes growled, “and I’ll tie you to the edge of the bath until you cry for mercy.”
Odysseus’s mouth opened.
Closed.
He sank into the water with a long, low groan.
They bathed him slowly, reverently. Fingers sliding through hair, over shoulders, down his back. Not teasing—just caring. Worshipful.
When he tried to help, Penelope slapped his hand gently. “No. You don’t lift a finger. Not today. Not this week.”
“I’ll go insane.”
“We’ll entertain you.”
“Not like that,” he groaned.
“No promises,” Diomedes muttered, kissing the curve of his throat.
By the time they got him back to bed, Odysseus was pliant. Not because he wanted to be—but because his body had reached its limit. Because no matter how hard he pushed, it wasn’t enough to outrun the ache he carried.
Penelope tucked him in like a mother with her most precious treasure.
Diomedes lay on one side, Penelope on the other, caging him in warm limbs and soft kisses and quiet devotion.
“You don’t have to fix everything,” Penelope whispered into his hair.
“You don’t have to give everything,” Diomedes added. “You’re allowed to receive.”
Odysseus blinked hard. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“That’s all right,” Penelope said, taking his hand. “We’ll teach you.”
They lay like that for hours. Murmuring. Breathing.
Whenever he tried to sit up, they pulled him back down.
Whenever he protested, they kissed him quiet.
And when he whispered, “Just let me do something,” Penelope leaned in close, lips brushing his ear.
“If you even try to leave this bed,” she said, “I’ll tie you to it.”
Odysseus shivered.
He didn’t try again.