The night was too still. Campfires had burned down to embers. The lake reflected the moon in long, broken streaks. Most of the cabins were quiet, the soft hum of sleeping demigods settling over everything like a blanket.

You sat alone at the end of the dock, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the water like it might explain something. You had ended it. You. After the argument—after the words that cut too deep and the silence that followed—you’d been the one to say it was better this way. Better for both of you. Cleaner. Easier.

It wasn’t. You still loved him. You loved him so much it felt like a physical ache, like something lodged beneath your ribs that wouldn’t shift no matter how hard you tried to breathe around it. You’d told yourself you could handle it. That you could be mature. That you could step back and let him move on without losing control.

And then Annabeth had stepped closer. Too close. Laughing at something he’d said. Standing near him in that easy, familiar way that used to belong to you. You hadn’t meant to snap. But you had.

Your voice had sharpened. Your posture had gone rigid. You’d said something you couldn’t quite take back. The whole pavilion had gone quiet for a second. You’d walked away before you could see his expression.

Footsteps echoed softly against the wooden planks behind you now. You didn’t turn. You knew who it was. Percy stopped a few feet away. You could feel the tension in him without looking. It rolled off him in waves—anger, confusion, hurt. The dock creaked as he stepped closer.

You swallowed but kept your gaze on the water. He asked why you snapped, you wanted to say—Because she was standing where you used to stand. Because you still loved him. Because seeing him laugh with someone else felt like drowning slowly and having to pretend it was fine. But you didn’t.

You finally turned to face him. His eyes were bright in the moonlight, jaw clenched, hurt barely disguised under the anger.