“All we did was kiss, on my grave, I swear.”

That’s what you’d say, if anyone asked. If anyone dragged you out from the shadows of Cabin Six and pointed toward him like he was some kind of war crime.

Percy Jackson.

Son of Poseidon. Storm-eyed, reckless, laugh-like-riptide Percy.

You weren’t supposed to look at him like that. Not when every fiber of your being is wired for reason. Not when your mother—goddess of war and wisdom and pride—would rather see you dead than soft.

But you wrote your name in fresh paint once. Yellow lines on the road, still wet, still dangerous. And he—he wrote his next to yours like it meant something.

He kissed you under the breaking sky. Just once. Maybe twice. His hand trembled. Yours did too.

You fed ducks that day. Geese too. For two bucks and a secret. The kind of memory that folds itself into the back pocket of your mind like a love note you’ll never send.

And you swear—that’s all you did. So if they ask, if she asks, if Olympus burns down trying to find the truth—

“All we did is kiss, on my grave, I swear.”

But sometimes, you think about the way he looked at you like you weren’t an extension of your mother. Like you weren’t a name on a war map. Like you were something soft. Someone he could choose.

And that’s worse than a kiss, isn’t it?

That’s treason.