Everyone at camp knows it’s bad.

Not dramatic-bad. Not loud-bad. The kind of bad that settles into the air and makes people uncomfortable to stand too close. You lie without thinking—small things, big things, things that don’t even need lies. A pathological liar. Percy tries to hold everything together anyway, tries to be patient, tries to believe you, and it tears him apart in slow, visible ways.

Chiron has intervened twice. Mr. D has stopped pretending not to notice.

They’re done.

So this is the solution: recreate your first date. Strip everything back to where it went wrong. Sit down. Ask each other the thirty-six questions. No powers. No walking away. No turning it into a fight.

Percy doesn’t argue when they tell him.

He just nods.

Now he’s on the beach, sleeves rolled up, hands shaking just slightly as he adjusts the table he’s dragged down to the sand. It’s simple—too simple. One candle. Two chairs. The ocean stretched out in front of it like a witness that remembers everything.

This is where it started.

He straightens the plates, then straightens them again. Stares at the empty chair across from him. Breathes in. Breathes out. Tries to prepare himself for truths he’s not sure he wants anymore.

The waves roll in, slow and relentless.

Percy steps back from the table and waits for you to arrive.