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Annabeth Chase had never struggled with complex concepts. She understood the physics of a load-bearing arch, the grammar of Ancient Greek, and the flanking tactics of a monster army. But sitting on a stone bench under the afternoon sun in New Rome, she felt like an illiterate child trying to read poetry.
A few meters away, a Roman couple—likely from the Third Cohort—was reclining on the grass. The boy was reading a book aloud; the girl had her head resting in his lap, idly playing with the buttons of his shirt. There were no weapons in sight. No tension in their shoulders. They touched with a liquid ease, without urgency, without the fear that the other might vanish if they blinked.
Annabeth gripped her book (The Architecture of Vitruvius) until her knuckles turned white.
It was a soft love. A "normal" love.
Her mind traveled, treacherously, back to the past. To Cabin 10. She remembered the scent of vanilla perfume and the shimmer of lip gloss. She remembered Silena Beauregard sitting on her bed, giving advice to a fourteen-year-old Annabeth who barely knew what to do with her feelings for Percy.
"Not everything is a battle, Annie," Silena had told her, brushing her hair with a tenderness that made Annabeth want to cry. "Sometimes, you just have to lower your guard. You have to be soft. Tell him how you feel without expecting a plan of attack in return."
Silena knew how to love. She and Beckendorf were... luminous. Until they weren't. Until the war turned them into martyrs.
Annabeth swallowed hard. Then she thought of Travis and Katie at Camp Half-Blood. Their love was loud, made of practical jokes, shouting, and exasperation. Annabeth understood that. She understood conflict. Even Clarisse and Chris, an improbable pair full of challenges and the fierce temperament of the daughter of Ares—their love was there. She understood love as constant friction, like two stones sharpening one another. At camp, no one questioned how they loved, because they rarely had the time to think about the future or anything else; there was only the present moment.
But Percy... Percy loved like these people in New Rome.
Percy was a warrior, the best she had ever known, but his core wasn't made of celestial bronze. It was made of the sea, and home, and blue cookies. Percy loved with ease. He hugged his friends without hesitation. He told his mother "I love you" every time he called via Iris-message.
And Annabeth had barely managed to tell him she loved him maybe ten times in their entire relationship, from their days as friends until now.
The only thing she knew how to do was hold him.
From the first time they were twelve and she thought she would lose him, her mechanism had been to hug him. And for her—for someone like her—that was the greatest proof of her love.
Her abandonment issues weren't just scars; they were retaining walls. Her father had treated her like a calculation error for years; he had let her walk away at seven. Annabeth wouldn't even let Percy leave for more than a week without feeling sick, writing to him or sending Iris-messages every day—even Sally sent her letters every month—but her father had gone years without contacting her as if it were nothing. Her mother was a goddess who valued the mind over the heart, and after everything, Annabeth felt grateful when Athena didn't look at her, because it only brought pain when she did. Luke... Luke had taught her that loving someone meant preparing to be stabbed in the back. Because of that, Annabeth didn't know how to be "soft." Her way of loving was functional: I have your back. I keep you alive. I scold you so you aren't reckless.
And she had thought it was obvious to Percy that she loved him. She thought that yes, in her mind full of calculations and strategy, she was loving Percy in a good way.
But here, in the peace of the university, that didn't seem like enough. Percy deserved that softness she saw on the grass. He deserved to be looked at as if he were the most precious thing in the world, not a strategic objective that needed protecting.
Annabeth looked away, feeling nauseous. It wasn't just the comparison that was killing her. It was the voices.
That same morning, in the university hallways, she had made the mistake of stopping to tie her boots near a group of kids—perhaps children of Victoria, Feronia, or Somnus, judging by the descriptions she had gathered of the various Roman gods there; they fit the profile. However, they were so deep in conversation they didn't see her.
"...no, seriously," a whispering voice was saying. "Did you hear what she did when he arrived at camp? The day the flying ship showed up."
"What? Did she kiss him?"
"No!" the first boy let out a scandalized giggle. "She put him in a judo flip. She slammed him into the ground!"
"Are you kidding? The guy was missing for six months, no memory, and the first thing she does is hit him?"
"I’m telling you, that girl is violent. She’s dangerous. Percy is all smiles and she’s... well, she’s a Greek savage. I don't know how he isn't afraid of her. I couldn't be with someone who hits me when they miss me."
Annabeth had frozen in the hallway, her fingers numb over her bootlaces. The memory hit her with the force of a brick. The Roman Forum. The Argo II descending. Percy looking at her with that expression of lost hope. And she... She hadn't hugged him softly. Her body, wired by years of trauma and adrenaline, had reacted with violence. The judo flip. The dull thud against the stone. The forearm against the throat. It had been her way of saying "don't ever leave me again," but to the rest of the world, it just looked like aggression.
It was only a matter of time before Percy saw that she was defective compared to the Roman girls.
She just had to count the hours until he abandoned her.
"Are you analyzing the structural integrity of that tree, or are you just ignoring me?"
Percy’s voice snapped her out of her spiral.
He was walking toward her, holding two sodas, wearing that lopsided smile that always made her pulse quicken. He was wearing an old t-shirt, his dark hair tousled by the wind. He looked so... comfortable in his own skin.
Annabeth closed her book. Try, she ordered herself. Be like a normal girlfriend.
"I wasn't ignoring you," Annabeth said. She tried to modulate her voice so it sounded sweet, dropping the commanding tone she usually used. "I was... waiting for you."
Percy sat beside her, handing her a can of cherry soda.
"Took me a while because some kids from the First Cohort wanted to see Riptide. You know, fans."
Normally, Annabeth would have rolled her eyes and told him, "Don't let it go to your head, Seaweed Brain." It was their dynamic. Their safety routine.
But not today.
Annabeth set the soda down on the bench. She turned her body toward him.
She raised her hand. It was trembling slightly. With a practiced, almost painful delicacy, she brushed the back of her dark fingers against Percy's cheek. She wasn't looking for cuts, or fever, or monster dust. She was just touching him.
Percy froze mid-sip.
Annabeth slid her hand toward the nape of his neck, tangling her fingers in his soft curls. She looked into his eyes—those sea-green eyes that had seen her at her worst—and tried to project all the adoration she felt but that usually got stuck in her throat.
"You’re..." Annabeth searched for the words. What would Silena say? What would a Roman girl say? "You're very important to me, Percy. I really like being here with you. Just... existing."
The sentence came out stiff. Formal. As if she were reciting a translation from Latin.
It wasn't a lie. It was exactly what she felt.
But verbalizing it felt just as strange as the look he was giving her.
Percy lowered the can slowly. He didn't smile. In fact, a small wrinkle of worry appeared between his eyebrows. He stared at her, scanning her face with that intensity he had whenever he sensed danger.
"Annabeth," he said, his voice losing its playful tone. "Are you okay?"
"Yes, of course." Annabeth didn't pull her hand away, even though she felt the urge to flee. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Percy set the soda on the ground and, with a gentleness that contrasted with her clumsiness, placed his large hand on Annabeth's forehead. Then he touched her neck, checking her pulse.
"You’re a little pale," he diagnosed, sounding worried. "And you're talking... weird. You haven't insulted me once in the last ten minutes. Is it exam stress? Did you have a nightmare last night and didn't tell me?"
Annabeth’s heart sank like a stone in the ocean.
She jerked her hand back from Percy's hair as if it burned.
"I don't have a fever, Percy," she said, and this time she couldn't stop the frustration from sharpening her voice. "I was just trying to be nice. Affectionate. Like... like normal people."
Percy blinked, confused. He withdrew his hand, looking a bit hurt by her sudden shift in attitude.
"But... you are nice."
"No, I’m not," she whispered, shifting her gaze toward the couple on the grass. They were kissing now. It looked so easy. So organic. "I’m hard. I’m a strategist. I don't know how to do... this."
Percy looked at her, his frown softening into an expression of perplexed loyalty. He was about to ask more, to press her on that confession of "not knowing how to do this," but Annabeth felt panic bubbling in her throat. She couldn't have this conversation. Not now. Not when she felt like her armor was falling to pieces.
"It’s... it’s the final project on Vitruvius," Annabeth blurted out suddenly. It was a clumsy lie, a cheap excuse that would normally outrage her mother—though she had already resigned herself to the fact that everything outraged Athena. "I’ve been reading so much about golden ratios that my brain is fried. It makes me... irritable. It makes me say things that don't make sense."
Percy blinked. He looked at the closed book in her lap and then at her face.
Anyone else would have noticed the lie. Annabeth Chase didn't "fry" her brain with architecture; she lived for it. But Percy had one flaw, and it was that he trusted her implicitly. If Annabeth said the sky was green, he’d go looking for sunglasses.
"Ah," he said, his shoulders visibly relaxing. "Right. Vitruvius. That guy sounds intense." Percy bumped his knee against hers. "Hey, don't stress. You're the smartest person in the world. You're going to crush that project."
He accepted the excuse. He simply took it and tucked it away, giving her space, never knowing that by doing so, he only made Annabeth feel more guilty.
"Yeah," she murmured, feeling like a coward. "I just need to... not think for a while."
Two days later, the "softness strategy" had completely crumbled.
They were at one of the cafes near the Senate. Percy had introduced her to some of his Marine Biology classmates; a mixed group of Greeks and Romans who seemed fascinated by the famous "Son of Poseidon."
The atmosphere was loud and cheerful. Percy was in his element, gesturing wildly with a slice of pizza in his hand while telling a (slightly exaggerated) story about his encounter with the giant fish at the Georgia Aquarium.
Annabeth sat beside him in silence, scanning the perimeter of the cafe while idly fiddling with her Camp necklace. North exit blocked by a table. Single-pane glass windows, easy to break. The boy at table three has a steak knife that’s too sharp.
"...and then, I slipped," Percy was saying, laughing and leaning back in his chair.
He leaned back too far. The front legs of the chair lifted off the ground. Percy, with his sometimes-dubious balance on dry land, began to wobble dangerously backward, straight toward a waitress passing by with a tray of hot drinks.
Annabeth’s instinct was faster than her conscious thought.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet.
Her hand shot out and grabbed Percy by the front of his shirt, yanking him forward with jarring force. The chair hit the ground with a violent CLACK that echoed throughout the establishment.
"Percy!" Annabeth barked. Her command voice—the one she used to lead troops at the Battle of Manhattan—cut through the air. "Sit properly! Do you want to scald your back? Pay attention to your surroundings, Seaweed Brain!"
Silence fell over the table like a lead slab.
Percy, his shirt crumpled by Annabeth’s fist and his eyes wide with surprise, went still. The pizza was still in his hand.
The waitress passed by, unharmed, but she looked at Annabeth with fear.
Annabeth released Percy’s shirt slowly. She realized everyone at the table was staring at her. Not with admiration. Not with respect.
They were looking at her as if she had just kicked a puppy.
"Sorry," Percy murmured, breaking the tension with a nervous laugh and rubbing his neck. "You're right, Wise Girl. Gravity and me... bad combo."
He let it go. But the others didn't. Annabeth saw the exchange of looks between a girl from the Second Cohort and a boy from Apollo. She saw the raised eyebrow. The silent judgment.
She felt the walls closing in.
"I’m going to the bathroom," Annabeth said, standing up so fast she nearly knocked over her own chair.
She walked toward the restrooms with her back straight, feeling their gazes pinned to the back of her neck. She went inside, made sure no one was there, and locked herself in the last stall. She leaned against the door, her breathing ragged.
Stupid, she scolded herself. You saved him from getting burned, but you humiliated him. Why do you always have to be so aggressive?
Then, the main door to the bathroom opened. Annabeth held her breath, instinctively lifting her feet so they wouldn't see her boots—a habit from hiding from the Harpies during curfew.
"...I don't understand how he stands her," a female voice said. Annabeth recognized the girl from the Second Cohort who had been at the table.
"She’s intense, right?" another voice replied as the faucet began to run. "'Percy, sit properly!' For the gods, she’s his girlfriend, not his mother. Not even his centurion speaks to him like that."
"Percy is a sweetheart. He’s always smiling, always kind. And she’s... well, she’s terrifying."
"She’s a bitch, that’s what she is," the first girl said disdainfully. "People say they're the perfect couple, but I just see a great guy stuck with a girl who's... a bit much. Did you see how she looked at him? Like he was some useless soldier. There isn't a shred of love on her face. Poor guy."
When the girls left and silence returned to the bathroom, Annabeth didn't come out. She slid down to the cold tile floor, hugging her knees against her chest.
The words were pure acid.
Aggressive.
There isn’t a shred of love on her face.
Poor guy.
Annabeth buried her face in her arms. She didn’t cry out loud; she cried the way she had learned to in Cabin 6: in silence, her body trembling, swallowing every sound so as not to show weakness.
They were right. She was defective. Her trauma had raised her wrong. Where there should have been softness, there were walls. Where there should have been sweet words, there were orders. She loved Percy more than her own life—she had literally taken a knife for him—but if she didn’t know how to show it the way normal people did, what was the point?
She stayed there until her eyes were swollen and her breathing calmed. She washed her face with cold water, scrubbing until her tan skin ached, trying to erase the evidence.
She slipped out through the back door of the cafe, sending a quick message to Percy: "Something came up with the blueprints. See you at dinner."
Another lie. Another escape.
The next morning, Annabeth was sitting in the stands of the New Rome Colosseum, watching the morning training without actually seeing it. Her eyes were red and puffy, hidden behind dark sunglasses, and an open book sat in her lap that she hadn't read in an hour.
She felt hollow. She had avoided Percy at breakfast; last night she had pretended to be asleep when he arrived and left before he woke up, because she knew that he, with his hyperactive emotional radar, would notice something was wrong. And if he asked, she would break, and she would tell him that maybe those kids were right and he deserved someone who didn’t treat him like a combat mission.
"You look like crap, Chase."
Annabeth didn’t have to look to know who was sitting beside her. The scent of worn leather, electric ozone, and that cheap "sea breeze" cologne Chris had given Clarisse (and that she used religiously) gave her away.
Annabeth adjusted her sunglasses, trying to hide her swollen eyes.
"I’m studying. Go bother the Fifth Cohort."
"Cut the crap, will you?" Clarisse snatched the book out of her hands, snapping it shut with a sharp thud, and set it aside. Then, she sighed and bumped her shoulder against Annabeth’s. It wasn't a hard hit; it was an anchor. "I’ve seen corpses with better color than you. And Jackson is moping around the forum like a lost puppy asking the statues if they've seen you. What happened?"
Annabeth felt the knot in her throat tighten. She hated being vulnerable, but with Clarisse, it was different. Clarisse was her friend—maybe her best friend. They had fought together, and when Percy had disappeared, Clarisse had been a vital anchor in her life that kept her from murdering someone or dying of grief.
"I’m a bad person, Clarisse," Annabeth whispered. She took off her glasses, revealing her red, tired eyes. "Yesterday I humiliated Percy in front of his new friends. I snapped at him. I treated him like a stupid recruit just because he was balancing on a chair."
"Well, Jackson is a stupid recruit sometimes," she snorted, opening a bag of chips she pulled from her jacket and offering one to Annabeth. "So? You yell at him all the time. It’s your way of loving each other."
"No, it isn’t." Annabeth pushed the chip away, hugging herself. "I overheard some girls in the bathroom. They said I’m aggressive. That there isn't a shred of love on my face. They said... they said 'poor guy.' It’s how Athena treats me. It’s the only thing I know how to give."
Annabeth lowered her head, hiding her face in her hands.
"And they're right. Everyone here is so easy with their emotions, Clarisse. They laugh, they kiss, they touch. I... I can’t. I feel so much love for him that sometimes I think I’m going to explode, but when I try to let it out, it comes out as an order. It comes out as a lecture. I’m so afraid of something happening to him that I forget to enjoy that he’s alive."
She let out a choked sob, the sound scratching her throat.
"I feel like I’m failing him. He deserves someone who knows how to show him love, not someone who only knows how to manage threats. I don't even think he knows how much I love him. How could he know if I only bark orders at him?"
Silence followed. Annabeth expected Clarisse to tell her to "stop being stupid and just go hug him."
Instead, she felt a heavy, strong arm wrap around her shoulders. Clarisse pulled her close in a clumsy, sideways hug, smelling like leather and potato chips. Annabeth let herself collapse against her, resting her head on the daughter of Ares' shoulder.
"You’re an idiot, you know that?" Clarisse said, but her voice was unusually soft. She rested her chin on top of Annabeth’s head. "The smartest girl in the world and the blindest."
"Don't insult me right now..."
"Shut up and listen." Clarisse tightened the hug. "Annabeth, the whole damn world knows you love Percy. It’s disgustingly obvious."
Annabeth sniffled, looking up. "How? If I’m 'aggressive and toxic'..."
"Because you look at him," Clarisse said, plain and simple. "When he isn’t looking, you look at him like he invented the sun. When he laughs, you relax—and it’s the only time your shoulders aren't up to your ears. When he walks into a room, your eyes track him. Not as a threat, Chase. Like he’s your North Star. And do you think you, Chris, or I know anything about this emotional crap because of our parents and how we grew up?"
Clarisse snorted, shaking her head.
"Do you think these Romans know anything? They see little kisses and sweaty hands. We see... survival. You took a knife for him. You went to hell for him. That screams 'I love you' much louder than any sappy nonsense in a public restroom. And every day you keep him alive—that is our way of showing love."
"But he doesn't see it," Annabeth whispered, the guilt eating at her. "He just sees me yelling at him about a chair."
"He sees it," Clarisse assured her. "Percy is slow, yeah. He’s dense as a brick. But he speaks your language. Why do you think he never gets mad when you yell at him? Because he knows you’re saying 'I’m afraid you’ll get hurt.' He translates, Annabeth. He knows."
Annabeth felt a hot tear roll down her cheek.
"I’m so scared, Clarisse. My mom treats me that way. My dad does his best but he’s not the greatest at it either. I’m afraid of being just like them. I’m afraid that one day he’ll get tired of translating and want someone who speaks clearly."
Clarisse sighed and wiped the tear away with her thumb—a rough gesture, but full of affection.
"Look, I’m not soft either. Neither is Chris. None of us from Camp are. Only Jackson has a Sally. No one else had that. We didn't even think we’d make it to twenty alive, but here we are. He knows that everything you've ever done in your life has been out of love for him. We’re broken, Chase. You and me both. The war screwed us up. We’re Greek. We’re half-bloods. We’re not going to be those girls who make flower crowns. But we love hard. We love forever. We love to protect. And Jackson knows it."
"Do you really think so?" Annabeth asked, desperately needing that validation.
"I know so." Clarisse smiled, a crooked sort of grin. She gave Annabeth a playful shove on the head. "Now, wipe your face. Your nose is running. And let’s go find him before he floods the Tiber out of anxiety."
Annabeth let out a watery laugh, feeling a massive weight lift from her chest. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her tunic.
"Thanks, tough guy."
"Don't call me that or I'll punch you."
"Thanks, best friend," Annabeth corrected, resting her head on Clarisse’s shoulder for one more second.
Clarisse didn’t pull away. She only gave a soft grunt.
"Whatever. Let’s go. If I’m lucky, Jackson will have fallen into a fountain and we can laugh at him. That’ll cheer you up."
"That actually would cheer me up a lot," Annabeth admitted, standing up.
Percy’s apartment in New Rome was an organized chaos that smelled of the sea and lemon detergent. When Annabeth knocked on the door, she felt her heart in her throat—not with the adrenaline of combat, but with the leaden weight of guilt.
The door opened. Percy was there, his damp hair dripping onto an old gray t-shirt, his feet bare. Upon seeing her, his shoulders—which had been tense—relaxed instantly. His sea-green eyes filled with that immediate relief he always showed when she appeared, as if the world finally made sense again.
"Annabeth?" Percy took a step back to let her in, scanning her face. "I looked for you at the library. And at the temple. I was worried."
She stepped inside, clutching the small paper bag from the bakery against her chest like a shield.
"I brought you a muffin," she said, her voice coming out smaller than she intended. "Blueberry. Blue. I told the baker to put extra sugar in it, even though he said it was medically irresponsible."
Percy looked at the bag and then at her. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes. He was still worried.
"Thanks, Wise Girl." He took the bag and set it on the entryway table without opening it. "But you didn't come all the way here just to bring me sugar. What’s going on? Are you okay?"
Annabeth stood in the middle of the living room. She felt exposed without her armor, without a plan.
"I talked to Clarisse this morning," she blurted out.
Percy’s eyebrows shot up in amusement; he knew they were practically like sisters, just as he was with Clarisse.
"You talked to Clarisse? Voluntarily? And you're still alive?"
"She found me crying at the Colosseum," Annabeth admitted. Seeing the confusion on Percy’s face hurt more than any sword wound. "I told her what I heard... what they say about me. That I’m cold. That I treat you like a soldier."
Percy took a step toward her, intending to stop her, to deny it all, but Annabeth held up a hand.
"Let me finish, please. I need to say this."
She took a deep breath, trying to steady her voice.
"Clarisse told me I’m an idiot. She told me the whole world knows I love you, and that you... that you’re the only one who understands my language. She said that when I yell at you or order you around, you 'translate' it. That you know I’m actually saying 'I love you' or 'I’m afraid of losing you.'"
Annabeth looked up, pinning her gray eyes, bright with unshed tears, to his.
"But that isn't fair, Percy. It’s not fair that you have to do all the work. It’s not fair that you have to be a constant translator for my neuroses and my traumas. I don't want you to have to guess that I love you based on whether I scold you more or less."
"Annabeth..." he started softly.
"No—" Annabeth’s voice broke, and the tears finally fell. "Clarisse says you know, but I need you to know it from me. I don't want to be a closed fortress. I want... I want you to know that I love you. I love you so much that sometimes I feel like I’m going to burn up inside."
She took a staggering step toward him, clutching the fabric of his t-shirt with desperation.
"I love you. I really love you, so much, and it’s been... since almost always. Since you thought we couldn't be friends, since we defeated Alecto and Medusa. I love you in a way that terrifies me because if I lose you, Percy, there won't be anything left of me. And I’m so sorry I don't know how to say it with pretty words or soft touches. I’m so sorry for being like barbed wire. But I need you to know that you are the most important thing I have."
Percy remained silent for a second, absorbing the intensity of her words. The vulnerability on Annabeth’s face was something so rare, so precious, that it seemed to cause him physical pain.
Slowly, he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her into a hug that asked for nothing and offered only refuge. He rested his chin on top of her head.
"I know," Percy whispered against her hair. His voice was deep and steady. "Clarisse is right. I know. But thank you for telling me."
Annabeth sobbed against his chest, clinging to him.
"How can you know?" she asked, her voice muffled. "If I’m a disaster. If I shouted at you in front of everyone yesterday."
Percy pulled back just enough to cradle her face in his large, calloused hands. He wiped the tears from her cheekbones with his thumbs, looking at her with absolute devotion.
"Annabeth, look at me," he requested. When she did, he smiled. "I know because you memorized my blood type and my allergies before you even knew my birthday. I know because in Tartarus, when we were blind, you squeezed my hand three times in code. I. Love. You."
Annabeth let out a shaky breath.
"I know," Percy continued, listing them softly, "because when I have nightmares, you don't just tell me 'it’s over.' You turn on the light, take out your dagger, and check every corner of the room to prove to me empirically that I’m safe. That’s love, Annabeth. It’s your kind of love."
He rested his forehead against hers.
"And I know because you cover my back. You’ve been willing to die for me even when I told you I couldn't imagine a world where we were friends, and you've kept me alive more times than I can remember. I want you to yell at me if I’m doing something stupid, because that means you want me to stay alive."
"But you deserve softness," she insisted weakly.
"You are my softness," Percy said firmly. "When we’re alone, and you let your guard down, and you fall asleep on my shoulder... that’s all the softness I need. I don't need you to change. I don't need a Roman girl to recite poetry to me. I need you."
Annabeth closed her eyes, letting his words heal the cracks that insecurity had opened. For the first time in days, she felt like she could breathe. She didn't have to act. She didn't have to pretend to be Silena, or a normal girl.
Percy loved her. With her walls, her strategies, and her intensity.
"I love you, Percy," she said again, and this time the phrase didn't sound forced or stiff. It sounded solid. Indestructible. "And I promise... I promise to try to say it more. No codes."
Percy smiled and gave her a short kiss on her forehead, then her nose, and finally her lips.
"Seems like a fair deal to me." He pulled back a bit, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Now... does that muffin actually have extra sugar, or did you just say that to seduce me?"
Annabeth let out a watery laugh, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
"It has so much sugar you’ll probably get an energy rush and won't sleep for three days."
"Excellent." Percy hugged her again, lifting her slightly off the ground. "You’re the best girlfriend in the world. And definitely the scariest."
Annabeth hid her face in the crook of his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin and the steady rhythm of his heart.
"Shut up, Seaweed Brain."
"Make me."
And there, in the safety of Percy’s embrace, Annabeth realized she didn't need to learn a new language. She just needed to trust that the right person already knew how to read her.