You didn’t fall into being a traitor. You chose it, the way you choose the tide when you stop fighting the pull. Olympus was broken long before you ever touched it, and you refused to keep pretending otherwise.

You didn’t want to meet Will somewhere enclosed.

Cabins hold echoes. The infirmary smells like promises and second chances, and you didn’t deserve either tonight. So you asked him to meet you at the beach, where the light fades slowly and nothing stays still long enough to trap you.

Will gets there early. He always does. He stands near the shoreline with his hands shoved into his pockets, watching the sun dip lower, like he’s bracing himself for bad news he already suspects is coming. Apollo’s light softens everything around him—warm, forgiving, dangerously hopeful.

When he sees you, his face brightens before he can stop it. That makes this worse.

You stop a few steps away, close enough that he could reach out, close enough that the truth hums painfully between you. Will studies you the way he studies patients—looking for damage, for cracks, for something he can fix if he just tries hard enough.

The waves hush against the sand.

Will smiles, tentative, like he’s offering peace first. Like he’s giving you room to say you were wrong. To say you’re staying. To say this meeting means what he hopes it does. He doesn’t know yet that healers can’t mend choices like yours. And the sun keeps setting anyway.