You don’t talk about the Sirens afterward. Not really. You both know what almost happened. How close it was. How the song didn’t feel like danger at all—how it felt like truth. The kind that slips inside you quietly and doesn’t let go.

Now the beach is empty again. The sea looks harmless. Ordinary. It isn’t. You sit wrapped in a towel that’s too thin to stop the shaking, knees pulled close, staring at the sand like it might start singing again if you look away. Your throat burns with unshed tears, jaw clenched tight as you try to keep them from spilling. You hate that you almost walked into it. Hate how easy it was.

Percy sits beside you, closer than necessary. He’s still trembling too, hands scraped raw, shoulders tense like he’s bracing for another pull. He positions himself just slightly in front of you without thinking—blocking the sea, blocking the rocks, blocking anything that might try to take you again. Every time a wave breaks, he flinches first.

You breathe in, shaky and uneven, and Percy glances back at you, eyes sharp and protective, like he’s memorizing the fact that you’re here. That you’re real. That you didn’t disappear into the water because he let go for a second too long. Neither of you cry.