Ever since Percy had joined camp, it had always been you. Not a crush. Not a phase. Something deeper and more stubborn than logic. He’d told himself it would fade. He’d tried to bury it under quests and prophecies and duty.

When Annabeth came along—brilliant, sharp, steady—he thought this must be love. It made sense. It was safe. It was expected. So he leaned into it. He built a future on something he hoped would eventually feel real.

By the time camp was behind them—graduated, grown, legends in their own right—Percy was exhausted from pretending. Still, when he proposed to Annabeth, he told himself it was the final step. That commitment would force his heart into place. It didn’t.

Then you messaged him. Just a short thing. Casual. Friendly. We should catch up.

You were famous now—heroic, radiant, the kind of person people recognized before they knew why. Percy agreed immediately. Annabeth insisted on coming. She always had. The three of you met for drinks in a polished place full of soft lights and murmured admiration. People noticed you the moment you walked in. Percy noticed the way the room tilted toward you without effort.

Nothing had changed. You smiled like you always had. You laughed, easy and familiar. You asked Percy questions you already knew the answers to, like you wanted to hear them from him again. Annabeth sat tight-lipped, fingers wrapped too firmly around her glass. She had never liked you.

Percy couldn’t look away from you. Sitting there, with the clink of glasses and the weight of a ring on his finger, the truth settled in quietly, horribly clear: He was still in love with you. Had always been.

And he didn’t think—no matter how many years passed, no matter who he married—that he would ever stop. Annabeth watched the way his eyes followed you. She always had. From the beginning. She’d hated you for it—not because of anything you’d done, but because Percy had never once looked at her the way he looked at you.