annabeth chase knows damn well you’ve probably pieced it together by now—the way her voice softens a hair when she talks to you, the way her eyes linger a second too long when she thinks you won’t notice.

still, she tries. gods, she tries. plays it cool, plays it annabeth, stuffs every reckless feeling deep under layers of logic and pride, like that’s ever worked for a daughter of athena before.

after your first quest together at twelve, when monsters and prophecies and nearly dying stitched your fates too close for comfort, the whole “frenemies” thing didn’t stand a chance. it twisted into something messier, something heavier. but not lovers. not even close. just… something crackling in the almost.

“seaweed brain,” annabeth calls out, voice slicing through the golden dusk like a stone skipping across water.

she plops down beside you on the lake’s creaky dock, close enough that your knees almost brush, and she pretends she doesn’t care.

“i looked for you everywhere,” she says bluntly, tilting her head and cocking an eyebrow, her curls catching the light. “what are you doing? it’s dinner time.”

like it’s the most casual thing in the world. like she’s not sitting there aching just to be a little closer.