▄▀▄▀▄ lily ▄▀▄▀▄

The teasing this summer has reached a fever pitch. Charles — who, as a son of Aphrodite, considers himself a professionally licensed authority on matters of the heart — has taken to making kissy faces every time you sit together at the campfire. Lando writes you into all his songs, barely even bothering to change the names. Even Alex has gotten in on it, using all the unclaimed kids in Hermes cabin to pull off elaborate pranks that always seem to leave the two of you in compromising positions.

You'd probably find it funny, if they weren't so right about how in love with him you are, and if Oscar would stop making that face.

It's the same every time: someone makes a crack about the two of you, and Oscar freezes and goes red. He'll duck his head, rub the back of his neck, suddenly become very interested in whatever happens to be on the floor beneath his feet. You've learned to laugh it off before he can get too uncomfortable, tossing out some joke about how everyone's obsessed with you or aiming a strategic elbow to the ribs. Oscar always catches your eye after, quick and almost startled, like he can't believe you bothered.

You wish he wouldn't look at you like that. It would be a lot easier to get over this stupid, pointless, seemingly-immortal crush if he'd stop gazing at you like you've just saved his life every time you tell your friends to mind their own business.

Not that you're getting over it. Not that you've ever come remotely close.

"I told you," you sigh, smoothing out another diagram on the worn wood planks, "I'm not swimming until we figure out our game plan for this week. I promised my cabin we'd come up with a way to beef up our left flank by the bonfire tonight and I do not want to sit through another George Russell lecture if it doesn't get done."

Oscar scoffs, making a bubble of water and floating it towards you. "C'mon. George is harmless."

"Yeah, well, you don't have to sleep in the same room as him every night, only child," you mutter, tugging your drafting pencil out from under your bikini strap and popping the bubble as you stare down at your map. The answer's there, you know it is — your alliance didn't become camp champions eight weeks running because you're a strategy slouch. But the solution isn't coming to you no matter how hard you try. You erase your latest idea a little too aggressively, flopping back against the dock and letting out a frustrated huff.

"Hey, smartypants," Oscar says softly from the water. "Take a break, yeah? Stop thinking so hard."

You ignore him, sitting back up. "Okay, what if we reposition the Apollo kids along the rock wall —"

You don't even see him move. One second, you're reaching for your papers; the next, tendrils of water curl up over the edge of the dock, slip beneath the stack and tug them all neatly from your grasp, bobbing just out of arm's reach.

"Oscar Jack Piastri," you warn.

"What?" He blinks at you innocently. You're going to kill him.

"You know what," you say, crawling to the edge of the dock. "Give them back."

He grins at you, warm and cocky, and your stomach flips. "Come get 'em."

You lunge, and the ribbons of water dart away just before your fingers can close around the stack, too far away now to grab. "Show-off," you pout, watching the papers dance above the surface. "You know, I'd already be done if you'd just helped like you promised you would."

Oscar dunks his head below the water, flipping over before he comes up flicking his hair out of his eyes. "Loop the archers up the east ridge and station the shield line behind the creek bed so I can back them up," he says casually. "George gets the extra help he wants on the left and Apollo cabin gets to be the heroes, so Lando'll stop complaining about how you don't let him do anything fun."

"That's —" you pause, running it through in your head, and frown. "That's really good, actually."

Oscar shrugs from the water. "I know."

The papers drift back towards you and flutter down to the dock, bone-dry. You stare at them for a moment, then back up at him. You know it's a mistake as soon as you do: the late-afternoon light makes him look lit from within, skin glowing, eyes bright, hair pushed back except for one stray piece, dripping on his forehead. Suddenly, you find yourself wishing you were blessed by the Muses; you could probably write some great poetry about Oscar Piastri's biceps in the setting sun.

Gods. You are so completely and utterly fucked. "Fine," you huff, pretending you're not pleased about the whole thing. "Fifteen minutes."

The way his face lights up would be worth losing every Capture the Flag game for the rest of the summer.

You shimmy your shorts down your legs, tossing them with the growing pile of clothes on the corner of the dock before dipping your toe in the water. The second you feel it, you let out a hiss through your teeth; it's bracing, despite the August heat. But then, little by little, it warms up until it's almost bath temperature.

You can't stop yourself from smiling. "Did you just —"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Oscar says, eyes cast to the sky.

"You warmed the lake for me," you beam, sliding cautiously into the water.

"Well, you always complain that it's too cold," he grumbles, but he's gone faintly pink from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

You swim over to him, paddling carefully, because even if you've got the son of the sea god on your side, your mother's told you enough times to make it stick that for you, water is never completely safe. When you reach him, you hook your chin over his shoulder from behind, arms wrapping loosely around his torso. "Thanks for making me come out here," you sigh dreamily. "It really is beautiful."

His hand finds yours under the water, resting carefully on top of it, thumb grazing over your knuckles so lightly that your entire arm erupts in goosebumps. "'Course," he says softly, almost shy. The lake has gone dead still around you, like the water itself is holding its breath. "It's always better when you're here."

You tuck your face into his shoulder and thank every god in the pantheon that he can't see your face; you're sure it's doing something transparently, embarrassingly lovesick right now. His skin smells like coconut sunscreen and the sea, and underneath that, the familiar sun-warmed Oscar smell that you've never really been able to identify but that your brain has unhelpfully decided is the best scent in the universe. You think you could probably stay here forever, swimming in this perfect water with your best friend not-quite-holding your hand, and never need another thing as long as you live.

"Osc?" you murmur before your brain can think up something even more pathetic and stupid.

He hums contentedly, face pressed to yours, cheek to cheek. "Yeah?"

"Do the thing," you say, pinching his side.

"Children of Athena," he sighs dramatically, but you can feel him smiling. "Always so bossy."

"Shut up," you giggle, pushing off his shoulders to float next to him, looking over expectantly. Oscar raises one hand, palm to the sky, and the water lifts around you, a little cushion six inches off the surface. He promptly swims over, resting his elbows on the edge and gazing up at you with the soft, intent look he only ever seems to aim at you and that you have to try very hard not to read into.

"Alright, scoot over," he says. "You're taking up the whole thing."

"It's a water platform that you're controlling, you know," you tease. "Just make it bigger."

The surface extends, just slightly, and Oscar takes a deep breath before he hauls himself up next to you.

It's smaller than he usually makes it, noticeably so. You could swear last time you did this there was room enough to starfish, but tonight you couldn't fit a drachma in the space between you. You're pressed together from shoulder to ankle, hands woven together, his knee knocking into your thigh, his torso a warm, solid line against your own. He's so close that you can see the drops of water caught in his eyelashes.

"Thought I said make it bigger, fishboy," you say, trying to keep your voice level and failing miserably.

"I did," he says, and it almost sounds breathless.

He's tired, you remind yourself. After all, he's been entertaining you with water tricks for the better part of an hour. That's the only reason you don't ask him to make it bigger. That's why you lie there and watch the sunset and pretend that you're not excruciatingly aware of every single place your skin is touching his.

"Can I ask you a question?" you say tentatively after a while, still staring up at the sky. It's gone all pink and gold, the first stars starting to peek through.

"Think you just did, smartypants," he deadpans.

You halfheartedly shove at his shoulder, heart thumping in your chest. "Seriously."

He must hear the nerves in your voice, because he rolls onto his side, water cradling him as his eyebrows knit together. "Yeah," he says softly. "Anything."

"Does it bother you?" you blurt, biting your lip. "You know, all the jokes about us."

The water shudders beneath you, platform listing so sharply that you have to press your palms flat against it to stay steady. Oscar doesn't answer right away, tongue stuck in his cheek, gaze cast out over the water, and you feel something cold and awful settle in the pit of your stomach, because it's the exact look he gets when he's choosing his words carefully, trying to spare your feelings.

You're going to kill Charles. You're going to double-kill Lando. Or maybe you should just throw yourself in the lake and let Oscar's dad smite you and save everyone the trouble.

"No," he says finally. "No, it doesn't bother me."

"Cool," you reply, too fast. "Great. Same, obviously. Like, it doesn't bother me either, because it's just, you know — people think it's funny because we're so close, and it is funny because we're not —" your voice breaks off helplessly. Evidently, the wisdom of Athena does not extend to telling a boy you like him. "I'm just glad it's not making things weird for you. Or, like, messing up our friendship."

You're not exactly sure when it happened, but the lake's gone properly choppy, angry little whitecaps forming and crashing against the edge of the platform. "Right," Oscar says flatly. "Our friendship."

"I mean, it's sort of nice, I guess," you add quickly, your mouth running faster than your brain can catch. "That they think we'd be good together. And like, it's a compliment to me, actually, because you're —" You wave your hand through the air, gesturing vaguely at him: the jawline, the eyes, the water running in rivulets down his collarbone. "I mean, you're you. Anyone would be lucky to be with you."

Oscar stares at you, eyes wide and stormy, lips slightly parted. "You think so?"

You let out a weak laugh. "That you're a catch? Osc, I think the entire camp would back me up on that one."

"I'm not asking about the whole camp," he says urgently, voice rough. The water eddies around you, tiny riptides you can feel buzzing against your skin, and for maybe the first time in your entire life, your brain has gone terrifyingly, catastrophically blank. He's so close, all of a sudden, gaze fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. You nearly forget to breathe as his eyes drop unmistakably to your mouth.

Then the conch horn blows from the pavilion, loud enough to make you both flinch. The platform dissolves beneath you without warning, unceremoniously dumping both of you into the water with a massive splash.

You resurface, spluttering as you push your now-soaking hair out of your eyes. "Oscar!"

"Sorry, sorry," he apologizes immediately. He's blinking rapidly, disoriented, like he was having a really nice dream and someone just shook him awake. "Got distracted."

You raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore how fast your heart is beating. "Distracted. You, the only son of Poseidon, lost focus in the water."

"It happens," he mumbles, not looking at you. His face has flushed a violent shade of crimson. "C'mon, we should go. That's dinner."

You swim back to the dock side by side, and the silence between the two of you feels charged like a live wire. He gets out first and turns back immediately, offering you his hands. When you take them, he pulls you out of the water easily, and neither of you mentions the way his fingers linger against yours before he lets go.

By the time you've wrung out your hair, Oscar has already gathered your diagrams into a neat stack, rolling them carefully and tucking them under one arm. His towel lands over your shoulders a minute later, tugged snugly around you before you can protest.

"Thanks, Osc," you breathe, looking up at him. "I mean, not just for the towel. For the strategy, and the swim, and —" you cut yourself off, cheeks burning. "For all of it."

His eyes soften, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he wraps his arm around you. "Anytime, smartypants."

You take a deep breath, and just this once, let yourself lean into his touch as you start the trek back to your cabins, pressing closer into his side and resting your head against his shoulder.