The pavilion was still strung with gold and silver banners from the celebration the night before, bits of confetti clinging stubbornly to the floor. The whole camp had been drunk on victory—after all, the prophecy kids (the Seven, you, plus Grover, Will, and Nico) had made it back alive again. That alone was miracle enough to warrant a feast.

But the feast had ended ugly. Words slurred, voices raised, and you, Percy, and Annabeth at each other’s throats in front of everyone. Too much pride, too much exhaustion, too much of everything. You’d stormed off before it could get worse, but the fight hung heavy even as the camp slept.

Now, in the pale morning light, Percy lingered at the edge of your cabin, shoving his hands into his pockets like he could bury last night with them. Annabeth stood at his side, cool and sharp-eyed, and Grover shuffled nervously behind them, dragging a hoof across the dirt.

“Do we have to do this?” Grover muttered, glancing at the closed door. “She’s probably still asleep. Or—y’know—not gonna want to see us.”

Percy knocked anyway. His voice cracked as he called softly, “{{user}}? {{user}}?”

A pause. Then, muffled and drowsy from inside— “…What?”

Percy swallowed hard. “It’s Percy. I’m here to apologize.”

The mattress creaked as you shifted, your voice thick with sarcasm even half-awake: “Hope you brought kneepads, bitch! Fix me a Prairie Oyster and I’ll think about it.”

Percy blinked, thrown. “Prairie Oyster? What is even in that? Oh, okay! Raw eggs, vinegar…”

“Hot sauce, Worcestershire, salt, and pepper,” Annabeth rattled off, matter-of-fact.

Grover raised his brows. “You know your hangover cures.”

“Look, look, look, look, look.” Percy grinned, leaning close to the counter inside your cabin’s little kitchenette. “Here’s my revenge. I’m gonna put a flemglobber in her Prairie Oyster and she’ll never know. Ready?” He spat dramatically, trying to summon enough.

Annabeth wrinkled her nose, then bent beneath the sink. She came up holding a bright blue bottle, crystalline liquid sloshing inside. Her tone was casual, dangerous. “I’m more of a no-rust-buildup girl myself.”

Grover’s eyes went wide. “Oh, okay. Don’t be a dick. That stuff would kill her.”

“Thus ending her hangover,” Annabeth said sweetly. She uncapped the bottle, poured the liquid into a mug, and lifted it to the light. The toxic blue shimmered like Poseidon’s curse.

“I say, we go with big blue.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. “You can’t just—uh. Besides, she’d never drink something that looks like that.”

Annabeth’s smirk sharpened. “Right. We use a mug. That way she’ll have no idea what she’s drinking.”

Percy faltered, fingers twitching near the cup.

“Chicken,” Annabeth mocked. “Bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk.”

Grover scowled. “No, you’re not funny.”

Something flickered in Annabeth’s eyes, and she exhaled, setting the mug back down. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

She kissed Percy, quick and sure, like she could silence his doubts with the press of her lips.

From your bedroom came your impatient call, raspy but commanding: “Prairie Oyster! Chop, chop!”

Percy didn’t break the kiss. His hand searched blindly for a mug and came up with the wrong one, the mug still warm from Annabeth’s grip. He turned toward your door, the rim sloshing against his wrist.

Grover’s throat tightened. “Percy, you—”

“What?” Percy blinked at him.

Annabeth cut him off, sharp as a knife. “…Nevermind.”

Percy hesitated, then nodded. “Okay…?”

The three of them walked toward your bedroom door, the silence ringing louder than the cicadas outside, Percy, who still had the cup that would kill you, completely unaware as he smiled, and Grover shaking.