You hadn’t spoken properly since the party.

Not really. A word here, a glance there — that was all. Not since the kiss. Not since the look on Jason’s face when he saw you and the Ares kid. Not since he stormed off before you could explain, his eyes full of thunderclouds.

You hadn’t cheated. Gods, no. It wasn’t like that. You didn’t even kiss back.

But you didn’t get to tell him that.

And now you were here — in the middle of Apollo’s cabin, cramped between too many bodies and too many memories. Nico was sitting cross-legged on the floor playing cards with Will, Leo was balancing an apple on his forehead while dramatically pretending to die of boredom, and somehow, somehow, you’d ended up sitting right beside Jason on the edge of one of the bunks.

So close you could feel the warmth of his shoulder through his t-shirt. So close you could smell his shampoo — cedar and wind and something like sky.

You were trying not to think about it. Trying not to remember what it felt like when his hand used to rest on your thigh. When you used to laugh together until your stomachs hurt. When he kissed you — finally — under the stars, and whispered that he’d loved you since you were ten.

The two weeks you had were golden. Untouchable.

And now it felt like all of that had shattered, right at your feet.

You risked a glance at him.

He was staring ahead, jaw clenched, like he wasn’t aware of how close your legs were, or how your pinkies were barely not touching. Like he was trying very hard not to notice you.

But his eyes flicked to yours for a second.

Just one.

And then away.

You swallowed.

There were too many people here to say anything. Too much noise. Too much laughter. Too much pretending that everything was fine when nothing was.

So you sat. Next to him. Quiet. Still.

But your heart was screaming.

And then, so softly you almost thought you imagined it — Jason leaned the tiniest bit closer.

Jason’s fingers were tight around his knee. His brow furrowed in that way you knew meant he was thinking too hard. You wanted to reach out. To nudge him like you used to. To whisper something dumb just to get that twitch of a smile.

But the words got caught in your throat.

So you just sat there. In silence. With all your friends laughing around you like the world hadn’t ended a few days ago.

Until his voice finally, finally, broke the air.

“You didn’t even look for me that night.”

It was quiet — just loud enough for you to hear, just soft enough for no one else to notice.

Your heart dropped.