Everyone agrees it’s unhealthy.

Not explosive. Not dramatic. Just… corroded. You lie without meaning to—reflexive, automatic, woven into how you protect yourself. Half-truths, omissions, stories that bend just enough to feel safe. Will knows this. He always has. He keeps trying anyway, keeps telling himself that if he just gives you time, if he just stays steady, you’ll stop needing the lies.

But Will is never steady. He’s exhausted. Always on call. Always choosing the infirmary over you, even when he promises he won’t. He treats devotion like a virtue even when it’s hollowing him out, even when it leaves you sitting alone, wondering if you matter less than the next emergency.

Chiron has watched it unravel for months. Mr. D is openly annoyed. Even Apollo gets involved, unnaturally serious.

So this is the verdict: go back. Strip it down. Recreate your first date and ask the thirty-six questions—the ones meant to force honesty, the ones that don’t let you hide behind habits or defenses. No excuses. No distractions. No healing magic to escape into.

Will doesn’t argue. He never does.

Now he’s in Cabin Seven, the lights dimmed low, the usual warmth of the place muted into something softer, almost fragile. He’s pushed aside a worktable to make room, laid out two chairs facing each other. There’s a small lantern between them, glowing like a tiny sun that’s trying not to be too bright.

This is where it started. He smooths his hands down his shirt, then immediately messes it up again. Adjusts the chair across from him, then freezes, realizing he’s touching something meant for you. He steps back, jaw tight, eyes flicking to the doorway. The cabin smells faintly of ambrosia and ozone and something familiar—home, once. Will exhales, slow and deliberate, like he’s steadying himself before surgery. He takes his seat.

And waits for you to walk in.