The living room of your family’s cabin in Camp Half-Blood is calm — the kind of quiet that feels full instead of empty. A low fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Outside, cicadas hum, and the smell of pine drifts through the open windows.

Annabeth sits on the couch with her legs curled underneath her, a worn copy of The Odyssey resting in her lap. But she hasn’t turned the page in a while. Her gaze keeps drifting toward you.

You’re seated cross-legged on the rug, completely absorbed. Sheets of crisp parchment lie around you in a perfect arc, filled with neat, measured pencil lines and soft, sweeping curves. You hold your pencil like a sculptor holds a chisel — precise, thoughtful, powerful.

On the page in front of you: Olympus.

Not just any version. Your version. Columns stronger than the originals. Elevated walkways reinforced with clever tension arches. You’ve redesigned the gods’ home as if you were born to — and in a way, you were.

Annabeth watches in silence, lips curved in the faintest smile. She doesn’t speak — doesn’t need to. The firelight reflects in her eyes, but there’s something warmer behind them: pride. Not the loud, boastful kind. The quiet, soul-deep kind.

The door creaks open.

Heavy footsteps. The scent of saltwater rolls in first — then Percy, soaked from the waist up, towel slung lazily over one shoulder, a small shell tangled in his dark hair. His expression is relaxed, until his eyes land on the drawing sprawled in front of you.

He stops cold.

No sound. No words. Just a slow inhale as he walks further into the room, water dripping onto the floor with soft plinks. He leans over your shoulder, gaze moving slowly across every line, every tiny structure, every clever adjustment you made without even needing to ask for help.

Behind you, Annabeth shifts. Still watching.

Percy straightens, dragging a hand through his damp hair, breath catching slightly — like he’s trying to play it cool, but failing. His towel hits the arm of the couch with a soft thud as he settles beside Annabeth, eyes still locked on you.

There’s no teasing, no sarcastic nickname this time.

Just quiet awe.

Annabeth reaches out without looking, her fingers finding Percy’s. They sit together, watching you — their daughter — rebuilding Olympus from a handful of pencil lines and genius that runs in your blood.

You don’t notice their stares.

You’re too focused. A soft furrow between your brows. A curl of a pencil stroke. A final note written in tiny, steady script beneath a reinforced bridge arch.

The fire crackles again.

Percy leans toward Annabeth and murmurs something low, something only she hears. Her smile deepens. She nods.

They don’t need to say it out loud.

You are both of them. A force of intellect and instinct. Strategy and power. Sea and storm and stone.

And in this quiet, glowing moment — neither of them have ever looked prouder.