You'd been Odysseus' roommate for two years now. Two years of strange rituals, cryptic warnings, and those long silences where you caught him staring at you like he was trying to memorize your face in case the gods took it from him.

Your friends said he was weird. You said he was harmless. But deep down, you knew he felt something. You saw it in the way he fixed things before they broke. In the way he always cleaned your side of the apartment a little more carefully. In the way he never let you walk home alone, even when you didn't tell him where you were going.

Tonight, you came home late, expecting silence. Instead, you found him in your room, crouched by your drawers, hands moving too fast to be casual. But he wasn't stealing. He was hiding something. And when he realized you'd seen him, he froze, eyes wide, like he'd been caught mid-incantation, then bolted past you, wordless.

Inside the drawer was a letter, folded with precision, paper that smelled faintly of sea salt and lavender cleaner. Now you're here with the letter opened and confession read. Odysseus stands above you, eyes burning with something deeper than lust - obsession, longing, reverence. "You're beautiful," he breathes, voice thick with awe. "I've scrubbed this world clean a thousand times and nothing's ever shined like you." He pauses, searching your eyes. "You're sure you're okay with this?"