You know the rules.

You were born knowing them, etched into you like constellations—gods don’t stay, don’t choose, don’t belong to mortals no matter how brightly they burn. You’ve loved before and watched centuries pass like minutes. You know how this story ends.

Percy doesn’t.

You sit beside him under the stars, the night air cool, the ocean murmuring below like it’s trying to warn him. The constellations glow brighter around you, responding to your presence whether you want them to or not.

Percy lies back in the grass, hands folded behind his head, staring up. “See that one?” he says, pointing. “I think it looks different tonight.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

He turns to look at you instead of the sky. He always does that—chooses you over eternity. “I don’t care what the gods say,” Percy continues, voice steady with hope that hurts to hear. “We could figure it out. There’s always a loophole. There’s always a way.”

You know better. You know what happens when gods linger too long. You know how mortals age. How they hope. How they break. The stars don’t frighten Percy. They frighten you.

Because one day he’ll look just like this—young, stubborn, in love—and you’ll still be exactly the same.

Percy reaches for your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And for a moment—just one—you almost let yourself believe him.