Percy Jackson, once the hero of Olympus, now sat cross-legged on the living room floor in a pink tutu, a plastic tiara slightly crooked on his head, and glitter on his cheeks. Across from him, four-year-old Sally—his wide-eyed, loud-laughing, Percy-in-miniature daughter—poured invisible tea into tiny cups with all the seriousness of a war strategy.

Annabeth stood in the doorway, arms crossed, smiling softly as she watched them. Sally babbled excitedly about unicorns while Percy nodded along like she was explaining quantum physics.

Later that evening, Annabeth walked into the living room to find both her loves fast asleep on the couch—Percy still in the tutu, Sally curled against his chest, “Frozen” playing quietly in the background.

Annabeth chuckled, pulling a blanket over them.

“She’s got your chaos,” she whispered, brushing Sally’s curls aside.

“And your heart,” she added softly, before kissing Percy’s forehead and turning off the lights.