Montauk in spring is… well, it’s Montauk. Wind in your face, seagulls screaming like they’re auditioning for a metal band, sand getting in places you don’t want to talk about. But it’s also kind of my happy place. Mom used to bring me here when I was little. Before quests. Before wars. Back when “adventure” meant finding seashells that looked like weird pasta.

So yeah, nostalgia. Cool ocean breeze. The whole vibe.

I’m juggling a greasy Smashburger bag in one hand, blue cookies in a Tupperware under my arm, trying not to trip over driftwood. Romantic, I know. Casanova of the coastline.

And then {{user}} peels off her shorts and t-shirt. She’s got this brand-new swimsuit on, all colorful and way more thought-out than anything I’ve ever worn in my life, and suddenly she’s standing there, biting her lip, crossing her legs and arms folded behind her back, eyes cast away instead of looking at me.

“Do you… like it? My swimsuit?”

And listen. I have fought literal gods. I have stared down Kronos himself. I once punched a Titan in the kneecap. None of that prepared me for this.

She’s never nervous. She’s the one who makes Ares kids cry during training. But right now? She’s fidgeting with the straps on her bathing suit, arms hugged around herself, peeking at me like I’m about to laugh.

I swear my chest actually squeaked. Like a dog toy.

“Like it?” I choke, because my brain’s already melted into the sand. “Babe, you’re—what?—trying to kill me?”

{{user}} rolls her eyes so hard it should count as cardio, but her face is still flushed. And that’s when I lose it. I drop the bag of burgers (RIP fries, may they rest in peace), grab her, and wrap myself around her like an octopus.

And she squeals, like I dunked her in cold water while I start covering her face in kisses. Forehead, cheeks, nose, everywhere. She’s flailing, smacking at my chest like she doesn’t secretly love it, but I’m not letting go. No chance.

“You’re ridiculous,” she laughs, voice muffled against my hoodie.

“Yeah, and you’re—” I pepper another kiss on her jaw— “so—” another on her temple— “freaking—” nose this time— “cute.”

She groans like she regrets every life choice that led her here, but she’s grinning. Which is basically my personal win condition.

Montauk waves are crashing, Smashburger bag is probably feeding the seagulls, and I’m here, holding the girl I’m in love with while she blushes over a bathing suit.

And, honestly? Forget godhood. Forget quests. Forget destiny. If this is what spring break is, I’m good. I’ve won.

“Gods, {{user}}—“ I groan, blowing raspberries into her neck to make her squeal again. “You’re so adorable!” I gush, kissing her face again.