Sitting at his desk, she glances at Percy’s lanky form, sprawled over his bed just a foot away. He’s on his back, holding a copy of the Great Gatsby above his face. He hums to the melody of what’s coming through his CD player, which tells Annabeth he’s just skimming the novel.

The end of her pen tapping against her chin, she ventures, “You know, I’ve never seen you play your guitar before.”

He glances at her. “I don’t play that much.”

“But you know how to.”

“I mean I got it when I was like thirteen.”

“Percy.”

He lowers the book, still looking at her upside down. “What?”

“Would you play for me?”

“Annabeth,” he whines. “Please no.”

“Please,” she says, making her eyes extra wide and sparkly for him.

“Fuck off,” Percy mutters, but he’s sliding off his bed to pause his White Blood Cells CD and grab the guitar. She grins.

He doesn’t plug it into the amp, which also makes Annabeth wonder how often he terrorizes his neighbors with the sound.

He sits on the edge of his bed, the body over his lap, and adjusts the tuning pegs. “You can’t watch.”

Annabeth sputters out a laugh. “What? Percy. It’s just me.”

He widens his eyes at her and she acquiesces, turning back around in the chair.

He strums once, then says, “It’s gonna sound weird, I don’t wanna plug it in.”

“That’s fine.”

He begins to play a soft tune, light and simple. Annabeth is shocked out of her system when he begins to sing, too, though quiet and mumbling.

“The book of love is long and boring, no one can lift the damn thing.”

Her face feels warm. Annabeth side eyes to make sure he isn’t watching her, before turning her head to get a better look. He’s hunched over, his curls covering his eyes. But I, I love it when you read to me. And you, you can read me anything…

A ball of something very grand expands in her chest. Something about the boy she loves sharing this fraction of himself.

“This one’s better on acoustic,” he mutters between verses.

He hums again, and Annabeth’s eyes burn. She watches through a blur of the way his fingers are curled, strumming up and down, over and over. His left hand switching between chords, one finger pressed over this string, shifting positions a second later. She swipes a tear of her cheek.

“It’s full of flowers and heart shaped boxes, and things we’re all too young to know.” He glances up with pink cheeks and a light smile, until he registers Annabeth’s state.

“What happened?” he asks, alarmed.

She fails to swallow the tightness squeezing her throat. “I just, like… I really love you.”

“I love you too, baby. Is—you’re not sad?”

“No.” She sniffles with a wobbly press of her lips. “You’re just really sweet, and I don’t know when I’m gonna get used to it.”

He sets the guitar down. “C’mere.”

She crawls into his arms and they fall on the bed, one of his hands cradling her head and she cries into his shoulder.

This has only happened a few times before, where the love she feels for Percy is so overwhelming that tears are her only form of expression. It’s been years of these expressions and years of Percy opening his arms for her, but just recently is the only time it’s been born out of pure, powerful adoration.

They’re not fighting a war, and they’re not fighting each other anymore. They walk to the park and do homework together and she climbs up his fire escape and he plays love songs for her. This peace is so incredibly foreign, it’s terrifyingly freeing. What can’t be accomplished when Annabeth has someone who loves her with every fiber of his being, and even past that?

“You didn’t write that, did you?”

“Hell no.”

“Why say it like that?” She raises her head to look him in the eye. “Your short story was really good.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Beth, if I wrote a song for you, you’d break up with me.”

Annabeth doesn’t say anything. She’s learned that there’s no reason to when Percy’s being difficult.

“I didn’t even finish the song,” he says.

“Oh, now you want to play for me.”

“I think it’d just make you cry harder though.”

She swats at his chest. “You’re right, by the way—you can’t sing.”

“What the fuck is that logic,” he says with no bite, holding her tighter, “I put myself out there and you knock me down for it.”

“I did no such thing. It’s charming. Were you trying to serenade me or was that just the first song that came to mind?”

“Both? Doesn’t hurt to serenade you when I can.”

“Yeah.”

“I know this one really sick guitar solo, though.”