the night crept in slow, curling around the trees like smoke, and percy could feel it pressing against his skin—quiet, still, but heavy. the kind of night where secrets didn’t stay buried and silence said too much.

he was already waiting when you arrived, shoulders drawn in tight, ocean eyes staring at the ground like it had the answers he couldn’t ask for out loud. the moonlight slashed across his face in pale silver lines, but it couldn’t mask the tension in his jaw, or the way he kept rolling his fingers into the hem of his shirt—like if he didn’t hold onto something, he’d unravel right there in front of you.

you came closer, cautious. like you could sense it—what had been building all week.

he didn’t meet your eyes.

the walk here hadn’t been long, but his thoughts had traveled much farther. to the way your siblings sneered when he passed. to the way you didn’t flinch. didn’t speak. didn’t choose. he tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. that he understood. that he could take it.

but he was tired of pretending it didn’t hurt.

because it did hurt. not in the loud, obvious way ares kids liked to throw punches—but in the quiet way that lingered. the way your laughter sometimes followed their jokes, even when they were at his expense. the way you kept your distance around them, like what the two of you had couldn’t exist under daylight.

when you finally reached him, he looked up. and for once, he didn’t smile. didn’t crack a joke to make the air feel lighter.

he just looked at you like he didn’t know where the line between you and them began anymore.

the silence stretched, thick and full. you opened your mouth once, maybe twice—but he shook his head. not angry. just… worn.

“do you even love me?” he asked, voice low and tired. “because it really doesn’t feel like you do.”

he loved you. gods, he did. in that messy, unshakable way he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to explain. and when it was just the two of you, it was easy to believe you loved him too. in those moments—when your voice was soft and your touch was gentle and all the walls had come down—he saw something in you no one else ever got to touch.

but the rest of the world didn’t disappear. and when you laughed with the same mouth that whispered you loved him, it made something cold bloom in his chest. it made him wonder if the person you were with him was just a ghost—some fleeting version of you that couldn’t survive once the sun came up.

so he stayed quiet. let the silence speak for him.

and he let you stand there and feel what it felt like to lose the warmth he usually offered so freely.

because tonight, he couldn’t carry both of you anymore. not without breaking.