The tide breathes in and out like something enormous and ancient, the ocean stretching silver beneath the moon. You hate the beach. You hate sand in your shoes. You hate the salt drying on your skin. You hate how loud the waves are, how they never stop talking.

But you’re sitting there anyway. Because he’s there. Percy’s shoulder presses against yours, warm and solid and real. His jeans are rolled up to his knees, feet half-buried in the sand like he belongs to it. He probably does. The water curls toward him like it’s trying to listen.

You dig your fingers into the sand. It’s cold. Gritty. Annoying. You don’t move away. He’s talking — about something small, something stupid. A blue cupcake he tried to bake at dinner. How it exploded in the oven. He laughs at himself like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

You hate how easily he laughs. You love how easily he laughs. You don’t say much. You never do. You’ve never been good at soft things. You’ve never been good at people. Most of them grate against you like sandpaper — too loud, too needy, too fake.

Percy never feels like that. He nudges you with his elbow. Not enough to annoy you. Just enough to make sure you’re still there. You pretend to be irritated. Roll your eyes. Brush sand off your hands dramatically. But you lean closer.

The wind tugs at your hair. The moon paints him in silver and shadow, and for a second he looks less like a demigod and more like just a boy — a boy who trusts you completely. That part scares you. You’ve hated so many things in your life. Hated being misunderstood. Hated being the one people whispered about. Hated the way you never quite fit anywhere.

But you’ve never hated him. You tried, once. You tried to convince yourself he was just like everyone else. That he’d get tired of you. That he’d look at you the way the others sometimes did — confused, distant, unsure. He never did. He just kept sitting next to you. On the beach. In the dining pavilion. On the edge of the dock at camp, legs dangling over the water.

Like it was obvious. Like choosing you wasn’t some grand sacrifice. The ocean surges higher, foam brushing your toes. You flinch. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He glances at you, and there’s something quiet in his expression. Not dramatic. Not loud. Certain. Your chest tightens in a way you don’t hate. You think about how much of the world annoys you. How easily your temper sparks. How you roll your eyes at love stories and sappy promises and forever talk.

And yet.. If he asked you to stay here forever, you would. If he asked you to build a little life by the water — somewhere loud and salty and impossible — you would. You’d complain the whole time. But you’d stay. The waves keep coming. The moon keeps watching. You bump your shoulder against his this time. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. For someone who hates almost everything, it’s strange how simple this feels. You don’t hate Percy Jackson. You think, maybe, you never could.And maybe — just maybe — you’d like to spend the rest of your life sitting beside him, pretending you hate the ocean while it keeps trying to pull him home.