Chapter Text
The week passed in fragments of light and shadow, and Annabeth noticed how quickly she had grown used to the rhythm of glances.
Every morning or late afternoon, when she rose from her chair and pretended to stretch, her eyes found the flower shop across the street. And almost as though he knew, Percy would be there, carrying vases inside, arranging chairs, or simply wiping his hands on the black apron tied around his waist. Their routine was quiet; a timid wave, a shy smile, the barest acknowledgment that one had noticed the other. It was nothing, and yet Annabeth carried that flutter in her chest longer than she liked to admit.
By now, the bouquets were almost woven into her days, absorbed into her routine as naturally as coffee or case files. She still didn’t wonder about their sender — which was only slightly ridiculous — because to let her thoughts circle too close to an answer meant opening doors she wasn’t sure she had the courage to look behind.
That Thursday was particularly heavy.
The day had begun before the sun itself, and Annabeth already felt wrung dry by the time evening set in. Meetings had stacked one after the other, draining her energy, her patience, even the steel she carried so carefully in her spine. By the time she stepped out of the mirrored building, the city was washed in twilight, her reflection swallowed into the crowd of commuters rushing home.
Almost automatically, her gaze drifted across the street. She didn’t even realize she was searching until the emptiness struck her: the flower shop was dark, its chairs neatly stacked, its counters swallowed by shadows. The vines curling against the fence swayed faintly, but there was no figure behind the glass. No man in a bandana glancing up, no quiet smile waiting to meet hers.
A foolish pang pressed at her chest. She shook it off as quickly as it came. He had his life, she had hers. Still, the ritual of seeing him had become a small anchor, one she hadn’t realized she leaned on until it slipped away.
Her steps faltered. She could have kept walking, gone straight home to silence and exhaustion. But the café beside the shop glowed warmly, its windows spilling soft light onto the sidewalk.
The place was empty inside. There was no murmur of voices, no clink of cutlery; there was only stillness, the scent of coffee and sugar lingering in the air, and the faint chime of a bell as she pushed the door open.
She almost turned back. Almost.
But the quiet pulled at her, and she let it. Adjusting the strap of her briefcase, Annabeth made her way to one of the tables, and the wooden chair creaked faintly as she sat. Her shoulders sagged for the first time all day.
Through the window, the shop next door stood silent. And though her chest felt inexplicably tight, she breathed in and reached for the menu, curious eyes examining it.
Maybe this was enough. Maybe tonight, she could allow herself this small pause.
The day had begun terribly.
Percy had tossed and turned through the night, shadows and restless thoughts tangling around his sleep until morning finally bled in. By then, his body ached with the kind of weariness that sleep never quite cures, and he moved through the early hours in a fog. The shop opened, as it always did, but he stayed tucked away in the café, shoulders hunched over the counter, more coffee than food keeping him upright.
He hadn’t meant to spend the whole day there. His mother and Grover had agreed to run the flower shop on their own, insisting he stay put, and he didn’t protest — truthfully, the café’s steady hum was easier than the constant chatter of customers and the delicate work of arranging blooms. There, all he had to do was clean, serve, count coins and make sure the machines didn’t break.
By the time the evening edged close, his body was begging for rest. The thought of walking home with his mother and Grover had felt like salvation the more the clocks ticked by. They would close the shop together, walk through the dark streets, maybe share a joke or two before each went to their own house. He wanted that simplicity.
But then Nico appeared, quietly, as always, his tone calm and a bit unsure when he told Percy that he needed to leave early, that something had come up that couldn’t wait and could you handle closing? Just tonight?
And of course, Percy nodded in agreement. He’d swallowed his protest, folded it neatly beneath his ribs, and agreed. Nico trusted him, and he was not only a friend, but a hell of a good worker — he’d been working with them ever since he and Percy were old enough not to break cups or burn their hands while making hot drinks, and he hardly ever asked for free days or got out early. And Percy, no matter how tired he was, never wanted to be someone who said no to trust.
So the hours dragged on, the café thinning out. A few customers lingered in the back — students with notebooks, an old man sipping tea slowly as though he had nowhere else to be, which was likely true. Percy cleaned in silence, polished the counter, pretended that the caffeine buzzing in his blood counted as energy rather than a thin thread keeping him from collapsing.
By the time he slipped into the kitchen for yet another cup of coffee — his mother would scold him, should she ever dream about him consuming caffeine after five in the afternoon —, his head felt heavy, his body sluggish. He pressed the warm mug to his palms and forced himself to stand upright. Just a little longer, just a while more; he could make it. He’s done worse, he’s worked longer.
Percy sighed, and took a sip of his new cup of coffee.
When he stepped back into the main room and slid behind the counter, the familiar routine ready on his lips, he froze.
His breath caught in his throat, and time, as if life was a cliché or a terribly dramatic movie, seemed to freeze.
Sitting near the window, in one of the small wooden chairs, was a woman he’d never seen before. Her long braids, bright purple now, like twilight sinking into night, trailed over her shoulders, the color catching faintly in the café’s golden light. She was alone, her posture both poised and tired, as if she, too, carried the weight of a day that had demanded more than it should.
He couldn’t look away.
The hum of the café, the tiredness pressing down on his bones, even the steam curling from the mug in his hand — all of it faded into something distant, muted. The air itself seemed to shift, like the moment before a storm breaks, or before music begins.
For the first time that day, Percy didn’t feel the drag of exhaustion. He felt startled awake, as if some current had run straight through him.
He swallowed, trying to steady himself. He was behind the counter. He was working. She was just another customer. And yet…
Something told him this wasn’t “just.”
Percy lingered behind the counter longer than he should have, hands tightening and loosening around the warm ceramic of his mug. He told himself he was only giving the customers in the back time to finish up, but the truth was he couldn’t quite bring himself to move. Not with her there — purple braids slipping over her shoulder like a brushstroke of color against the calm wood and soft lighting of the café.
She hadn’t looked up yet. Annabeth was absorbed in the menu that lay flat on the table, her brow faintly furrowed, lips pressed together as if the choices themselves were a riddle. That small crease between her brows tugged at something inside him, a quiet fascination.
The bell above the door jingled.
The students in the corner packed their things probably not quietly, but he hadn’t noticed while entranced by the lawyer, and waved goodbye at him as they passed. The old man with his tea shuffled toward the door with a gentle smile and a soft word of thanks. Percy waved back, his movements automatic, though his eyes kept drifting toward the figure by the window.
She didn’t notice the others leaving. She didn’t notice him in the café either, still bent over the menu like it might reveal something important if she only stared long enough. The place fell into silence, warm and expectant, the kind of quiet that could tip into awkwardness if he let it.
Percy set down his mug, straightened his posture, and drew in a breath that felt deeper than necessary. Then, only then, with more caffeine entering his system and a tad less of cowardice, he stepped out from behind the counter.
His footsteps carried him across the polished floor, and though he told himself not to overthink, every beat of his heart thudded like it wanted to drown out the sound of his approach.
“You’re just in time for a last order before we close the kitchen,” he said, voice lighter than he felt, carrying a playful lilt he hoped didn’t sound forced.
She looked up quickly, eyes widening, her expression shifting from confusion to adorable surprise to faint alarm.
“Oh—wait. Are you closing already? I didn’t mean to—” she sat up straighter, hands hovering as if she might push the menu away and stand. “I can leave, really, if it’s too late—”
He shook his head, a smile pulling at his lips before he could stop it.
“I’m only joking,” he confessed, letting the warmth in his tone soften the words. “Don’t worry. You’re not too late. The kitchen’s still very much open. You can order whatever you’d like.”
Her shoulders eased, though her cheeks colored faintly, a pink bloom he couldn’t look away from. She let out a breath, almost a laugh, though it came out as more of a sigh.
“That’s not very fair,” she murmured, her voice low and carrying a thread of shyness. “You made me feel guilty for wanting a coffee.”
“That was cruel of me, wasn’t it?” Percy tilted his head, leaning lightly on the back of the chair opposite her, careful not to intrude but close enough to seem present. “I’ll make it up to you with the best cup I’ve got.”
Her lips curved then—just slightly, but enough to brighten the space around her. She glanced down at the menu again, the tip of her braid brushing her arm as she moved.
“I guess I should choose wisely, then?”
He could have told her not to worry, that no matter what she ordered, he would’ve made sure it was good. But he bit the words back, savoring instead the simple fact of her presence—the way her voice shifted the air in the empty café, the way the silence between them no longer felt heavy but charged with something softer, something new.
And for the first time that long, weary day, Percy realized he wasn’t tired anymore.
“There is not much error with our menu,” he said, and somehow found it in him to wink in her direction.
Annabeth’s cheeks flushed, and he pretended not to see it.
“That’s a good thing to know,” she laughed softly, and suddenly it was his cheeks, the ones colored pink. She tapped the menu lightly with her fingertips, then glanced up at him with a hesitant little smile. “Actually… maybe you should suggest something. I’m not the best decision-maker.”
Percy arched an eyebrow, amused.
“That’s a dangerous request.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m biased,” his grin tilted, boyish and conspiratorial. “If you leave it up to me, you’ll probably end up with what I like.”
She tilted her head, the faintest spark of challenge in her gaze.
“Then I suppose I’ll just have to trust you, won’t I?”
For a heartbeat, the words hung between them. Her tone was light, but something about the way she said it—steady, almost earnest—made his chest tighten. He cleared his throat softly and let the smile broaden, covering the flutter in his chest.
“In that case, I’ll make you my mother’s favorite. That way, if you don’t like it, I can blame her taste instead of mine.”
That earned him a quiet laugh, short but warm, and she nodded.
“Fair enough.”
He straightened and moved back toward the counter, rolling his sleeves a little higher as he reached for the familiar tools of habit. The café was hushed now, emptied of chatter and clinking spoons, and for once the quiet wasn’t suffocating. It was… companionable. Comfortable. He could hear her shifting behind him, the faint scrape of her chair legs against the floor.
When he glanced back, he found her sitting differently — angled now so her back wasn’t to him anymore. The gesture was small, unspoken, but something about it tugged at him. As though she wanted to keep him within her line of sight. The thought warmed him in a way no coffee ever could.
Steam rose gently as he worked, and over the low hiss of the machine her voice drifted across the room.
“I thought you were a florist,” she said, almost absentmindedly, as if the question had been on her tongue for a while.
He chuckled, the sound low, glancing over his shoulder at her.
“I am.”
“Mm,” she toyed with the corner of the menu, her lips quirking faintly. “Then why are you here, making coffee?”
“Because my family doesn’t believe in letting anyone get too comfortable,” he replied with mock solemnity. “One day I’m in the shop, the next I’m in the café, and sometimes I’m just the guy carrying boxes.”
Her eyes sparkled at that, and he found himself staring a moment too long before turning back to the coffee, his smile lingering stubbornly.
“Also,” he added, his voice lighter now, “our night barista couldn’t close tonight, and I wasn’t about to make my mom or my brother stay this late. So here I am,” he spread his hands theatrically, as though to say lucky you.
Annabeth tilted her head, lips curving.
“Oh, chivalry isn’t dead, then.”
“I try my best,” he leaned against the counter as the machine hummed behind him, his grin crooked but earnest. “Someone’s gotta keep the legend alive, right?”
Her laugh slipped out before she could help it, a soft, surprised sound that made his heart stutter. She pressed her palm against the menu as if to steady herself.
“Well… at least I got to see you not-through-windows again.”
That made him pause. The words caught him off guard, the kind of simple truth that lodged itself deep before he could brace for it. He blinked at her, warmth creeping into his chest in waves he didn’t bother trying to stop.
“You wanted to?” he asked, quieter than before, though still playful enough that it gave her an exit if she needed one.
Color rushed to her cheeks immediately, betraying her. She looked down at her hands, fingers fussing with the corner of the laminated menu, before daring to lift her gaze again.
“Oh,” she began, stumbling a little, “I mean— I only saw you once, properly. And then only across the street, a few floors up,” she let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “It’s a bit… odd, I guess. To feel like I have a friend, and still we’ve only talked twice.”
Percy stilled. For all his easy smiles and practiced calm, something in him ached at her honesty, at the careful way she said friend, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed the word.
He leaned forward on the counter, resting his arms there, closing a fraction of the distance.
“Odd,” he echoed softly. Then his mouth curved. “But not unwelcome?”
Her eyes flicked up to his, startled, and the kitchen light caught on the faintest blush across her cheeks.
She hesitated, lips parting like she might deny it, but instead she gave the tiniest nod.
“No. Not unwelcome,” she agreed, voice low, as though admitting it too loudly would shatter the fragile comfort between them.
Percy’s chest loosened. The tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying unraveled, leaving something gentler in its place. He smiled, not his practiced one for customers but the slower, quieter smile that reached his eyes.
“Good,” he murmured, as if the word itself settled something in him.
He turned back to finish her drink, but his movements weren’t as brisk as usual. His hands lingered here and there, not because the drink needed it but because he liked that she was still at the table, waiting. Still here.
When he carried the cup over, she straightened a little, sliding her braid over one shoulder. He set the drink down carefully, like it was part of the moment rather than just an order.
“There you go,” he said. “My mom’s favorite. If you don’t like it, I’ll blame her entirely.”
That drew another laugh from her, softer this time, but genuine.
“So if I hate it, I’ll have to look her in the eye someday and tell her?”
He chuckled, slipping into the chair opposite hers instead of returning to the counter.
“Exactly. You’ll have to bear the guilt of disappointing a very sweet woman who did nothing but share her taste in coffee.”
She blew lightly at the steam curling from the cup, then glanced at him with a small tilt of her head.
“Is she a florist too?”
His smile deepened, a touch of pride shining through.
“Yeah. And a barista, actually. She’s the reason both places exist. Flowers and coffee and beauty and days. It’s all her. I just… help keep things going.”
“That’s… unusual,” Annabeth said softly, almost admiring. “Most people pick one or the other. But both?”
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.
“She always said they weren’t that different. Flowers and coffee both wake people up—just in different ways. My sister wanted it to be a bookshop instead, but she lost rock, paper, scissors, and my mother…” he shrugged. “I guess she convinced me.”
Annabeth let out a quiet hum, considering that.
“I like that,” she sipped again, this time slower, her expression gentling as the warmth of the drink seemed to settle her.
Percy leaned his arms on the table, studying her profile without shame this time.
“You know,” he said after a pause, “you’ve gathered quite a bit about me already.”
Her brow lifted, though her eyes remained on the cup.
“Have I?”
He grinned faintly.
“Florist. Stand-in barista. Son who can’t let his mom stay up too late, not a single child. Big believer in coffee and flowers as life essentials,” he ticked each one off on his fingers with mock seriousness.
A laugh slipped from her, surprised and soft.
“But see,” he continued, leaning back just enough to give the words their space, “I don’t know a thing about you.”
Her hand stilled against the cup. For a moment, the only sound between them was the faint hum of the refrigerator behind the counter. She looked down, the violet braids sliding forward like a curtain.
Percy didn’t push, but his gaze remained steady—warm, curious, waiting.
“Well,” Annabeth said at last, her voice quiet, careful—as though she was debating every syllable before letting it out. “I’m a lawyer.”
Percy’s brows shot up instantly, his lips parting in an exaggerated gasp.
“No,” he whispered, widening his eyes like she’d just confessed to being a secret agent.
Her frown was immediate, though the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
“You already knew that,” she muttered, rolling her eyes in soft exasperation.
“Did I?” His tone was all feigned innocence, but the glint in his eyes gave him away.
“Of course, you did,” Annabeth said. “I’m either a lawyer or I’m a very bad security guard that watches the windows from inside,” she said firmly, taking a slow sip from her cup as if to hide the way her lips wanted to curve upward. “And that reaction was unnecessary.”
He grinned then, utterly unrepentant.
“I thought it added dramatic flair.”
Her sigh was half-laugh, half-surrender, and the sound of it loosened something in Percy’s chest.
Silence lingered for a few moments, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. She looked down at the warm drink between her hands as if it might shield her from saying too much, and he let her keep that space, only watching the curve of her profile, the way the café light caught strands of color in her braids.
Finally, he pushed himself off the counter.
“Alright,” he said, brushing his hands together. “You’ve got coffee. But that’s hardly enough.”
She blinked up at him.
“Enough for what?”
“For surviving whatever kind of day made you come in here this late,” he replied easily, moving toward the shelves behind him. “Wait here.”
Her brows knit slightly, curious.
“What are you getting?”
He leaned down, pulling a small plate from under the counter.
“Something to eat.”
Suspicion flickered in her gaze, but the corners of her lips softened.
“Your mother’s favorite?” she asked, echoing his earlier words.
Percy’s smile tilted, playful. He shook his head.
“My brother’s.”
That caught her off guard — enough to make her blink once, twice, before the faintest shadow of amusement crossed her face.
“Ah,” she murmured.
“He swears by it. So if you don’t like it,” he added, lowering his voice as though confiding a great secret, “Blame him.”
That earned him the tiniest curve of a smile, and he felt the victory like a ripple through his chest.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, lifting the plate in one hand before pausing, glancing at the clock on the wall. Past closing time. His gaze flicked to the windows, to the faint glow of the street outside, and then back to her.
On a quiet breath, he crossed to the front of the café, footsteps muffled against the wooden floor. He reached for the door, his hand closing around the small wooden sign that hung there. With a slow, deliberate motion, he flipped it from open to closed.
The chime of the string against glass was soft, and when he turned back toward the center of the room, the café felt like it belonged just to them — warm, hushed, a bubble of light in the darkened street.
For a long moment after he turned the sign, Annabeth couldn’t breathe quite right. Her heart gave a betraying flutter, too quick, too sharp, leaving her cheeks warm. Something cold and weightless settled in her stomach at the same time, like snow pressed against her ribs — strange, contradictory, but not unpleasant. She wrapped her hands tighter around the cup to ground herself, though the coffee inside was already beginning to cool.
It was ridiculous, she told herself. Just a sign flipped to closed, just a boy crossing the room like it meant nothing. Yet the small act curled around her chest, pulling tight. The café felt different now, quieter, smaller, like the rest of the city had been shut out. Just her and him, the air between them oddly fragile.
Her lips wanted to tug upward. She fought it back, but couldn’t quite stop the thought that talking to him — like this, in this hush — was as easy as it had been that day on the bench, when the world had seemed to fold away and leave only their voices.
Percy came back then, balancing a plate. Not one thing, but two: a golden, crescent-shaped pastry, salt clinging to its folds, and beside it something sweeter, delicate and dusted with sugar.
She blinked at the offerings, caught between surprise and protest.
“I only came in for coffee,” she reminded him, lifting her cup slightly as proof.
“Yeah,” he agreed easily, setting the plate down in front of her. “But we’re closed now,” his tone was calm, matter-of-fact, as though that explained everything. Then his grin tilted, sly. “Besides, Nico tried a new recipe. Would’ve been cruel not to share.”
Her brow arched, curiosity softening the faint pink in her cheeks. She tilted her head, smiling briefly.
“Nico?”
The grin he gave her was boyish, unguarded, and it made her chest pull tight. He leaned a little on the counter, arms folding loosely.
“My cousin. He’s the night barista I mentioned,” Percy said. “Who’s burned himself with coffee more than I have ever messed up cappucinos.”
A laugh slipped out of her, soft and surprised.
“That’s… tragic.”
“Tell me about it,” he shook his head, though the affection in his voice made it clear he didn’t mean a word of complaint. “He still insists he’s cooler than his skills.”
“And is he?” she teased gently, picking up the salt pastry.
He considered that with a show of seriousness, then shrugged.
“Depends on the day. On days like today, when he makes something decent? Sure. On other days,when he’s the reason the sink caved in or the reason the flour bill doubled? Absolutely not.”
Her laugh came easier this time, carrying her along. And as she took her first bite, the sound caught in her throat, because the pastry was warm and sharp with salt and butter, comfort she hadn’t realized she needed until that exact moment.
Her stomach curled with gratitude. She reached, almost without thinking, for the sweet beside it. Sugar clung to her fingertips, delicate and light.
“I suppose Nico’s forgiven, then,” she said, and though her voice was steady, her lips curved in a way she couldn’t fight.
“Until the next disaster,” Percy answered dryly, though the fondness lingered. His gaze stayed on her a fraction longer than it should have, enough that she lowered her eyes again, hiding in the food and the warmth it brought.
Her heart beat quickly, but it didn’t feel sharp anymore. It felt steady, somehow, and it was startlingly easy, like the bench had been — like the same thread had simply picked itself up again.
Annabeth laughed, and Percy did, too.
And the day hadn’t been so terrible, after all.
Percy did learn more about her, eventually.
It happened in quiet pieces, never all at once. He didn’t push, didn’t pry, didn’t sit across from her with questions lined up like an interrogation. Instead, the knowing settled in between them like sunlight through a window — slow, easy and patient.
She realized it one afternoon when she sat in the café again, notebook open in front of her though she hadn’t written anything in quite a while. Percy had asked, almost casually, if the cases she worked on ever followed her home. The question should have felt heavy — it often did, when others asked it — but the way he tilted his head, the gentleness in his voice, made it easy to answer. Easier than she expected it could ever be.
“Some of them,” she admitted, tapping her pen against the paper. “Not in the way people usually think, though. It’s not nightmares or guilt,” she paused, searching. “It’s more… the weight of having been inside someone else’s world, even for a short time. I sort of can’t— can’t turn off? This side of me, I mean.”
And he nodded, as though that made perfect sense.
“The lawyer side?” he asked, even if she suspected he already knew the answer. Annabeth couldn’t possibly mind hearing his voice more.
“Yeah,” she agreed easily, and he smiled softly.
That was how he learned she had trouble letting go.
Other times, the details slipped out softer, without her noticing. Like the day he’d noticed the faint ink stains on her fingers and teased her about being a secret artist. She’d rolled her eyes, said it was only her habit of scribbling notes in margins, and he’d smiled as if he’d uncovered something precious anyway.
That was how he learned she loved writing, even if she didn’t call herself a writer for reasons too shallow, according to the florist.
And all the while, the flowers kept arriving.
Always in the morning, when she stepped into her office, there they were. Sometimes she thought they were roses, sometimes some that looked like lilies, sometimes bright wildflowers she couldn’t name and didn’t even know were sold. The vases were beginning to gather along her shelves in her kitchen, their presence impossible to ignore. Each bouquet came with a note—nothing grandiose, never too much.
They were just small lines that pressed into her chest like fingerprints and played the strings of her heart a little too in tune.
For the brightness you don’t realize you carry.
Because even cloudy days should have color.
Some things don’t need a reason.
The handwriting was neat but plain, unfamiliar despite having seen it so many times now. And Annabeth, because her heart was foolish and she was only human, did all she could to avoid crossing both paths of her heart that seemed to lead to flowers — when the wild idea of the sender being Percy, of all people, first came, she shut it down as if it alone had burned her.
It didn’t make sense, after all, even with her wildest wishes. The flowers had started before their first conversation, before the bench, before the easy rhythm of their not-quite-friendship that was a little too hopeful those days. And Percy — kind, golden, impossibly gentle Percy — was not someone she could imagine wasting time on her.
It wasn’t self-pity, not exactly. It was simply the way she’d built her life: work first, walls high, edges sharp. People didn’t usually look past that, and she could understand their reasons and reasoning.
But sometimes, when she sat in the café (and that became quite common, almost always twice a week) and he leaned on the counter to talk to her, when he asked how her day had been or remembered something she’d mentioned weeks before, she caught herself wishing.
Wishing it was him. Wishing the ink on those notes came from his hand, that the bouquets were pieces of his thoughtfulness reaching her in secret.
And then she would quiet the thought down, too quickly, almost violently, because wishing was dangerous. Wishing blurred the lines of reality, and she had no proof — nothing concrete but a restless, abstract hope that made her cheeks burn whenever his smile lingered too long.
So she let him learn about her in his own way. She answered his quiet questions, offered truths in small doses, and kept the rest close to her chest. In return, she learned things about him, too.
That he’d once wanted to study architecture (crazy, I know; it was mostly because I know how to draw) before realizing he’d rather build moments than buildings, that he liked cameras more than rulers. That he and his brother had learned how to braid his mother’s hair when they were young and never forgot. That he had a habit of leaving his own mug half-full, distracted mid-sip by conversation. That he had graduated high school and college in New York beside his brother, who was a musician with a minor in ecology, while he was a photojournalist with a minor in social services.
Little pieces, all stitched together until she almost felt like she could see him whole.
And little pieces were also every morning, when another bouquet waited on her desk and Annabeth didn’t know what to do when such similar feelings were fighting in her heart. Somehow, they became their own kind of haunting.
Annabeth would walk into her office and the sight of them made her pulse skip, made her lips curve without permission, and then immediately had her forcing herself to school her features back into neutrality. Because if anyone in the building noticed, if anyone dared to ask, she wouldn’t know what to say.
And deep down, she didn’t know what to say to herself, either.
Every time her fingers brushed over petals, a secret thought crept in.
What if it’s him?
The ridiculousness of it made her bite her lip, made her close her eyes in exasperation at her own foolishness. Percy, with his easy kindness, his laughter like sunlight, his way of making everyone feel welcome — why would someone like him choose her? Why would he spend his time arranging flowers or writing little notes that somehow knew exactly how to disarm her defenses?
It didn’t fit. It couldn’t.
And yet, sometimes, when she lingered over the words, the thought refused to leave. A stubborn, fragile I wish it was him.
But the danger of it all remained, and she knew that better than anyone. Wishing built castles out of mist, and the fall always hurt; but she was human, and lonely, and, when it came to him, her heart was beginning to betray her mind.
It made the café feel like a sanctuary and a threat all at once.
Annabeth kept finding herself there, even on days she told herself she’d just go straight home. Sometimes she pretended it was about the coffee, or the quiet, or the way the café lights were warm in a way her apartment lights never managed to be. But she knew better, and she couldn’t quite deny that it was about him.
Percy was more present there than before. Where once she’d only caught glimpses of him behind the flower shop window, or found him at the café by chance, lately he seemed to have woven himself into its rhythm. Nico and Percy’s mother still worked at the café, mostly (she saw them, sometimes, when she inevitably looked at the other side of the sidewalk in her lunch break), but on certain days — Wednesdays, she realized with something between surprise and a thrill to have it sort of permanent — he closed the café himself.
Even Nico had looked bemused when she overheard him mentioning it one evening, as if this was a new development no one had expected. But they didn’t question him — her or Nico —, and Percy made things feel natural, even the ones that weren’t.
For her, it meant something simple: Wednesdays became her favorite day.
She’d sit by the window with her coffee, the evening stretching out just long enough to watch him move behind the counter, sometimes pausing to talk to her if the rush was light. She never told him how much she looked forward to those moments. She never mentioned the way her stomach twisted when she saw another bouquet waiting on her desk that morning, her heart whispering please, let it be his before her mind scolded her for it.
Still, the hope lived there, impossible to crush entirely. A foolish, tender thing that glowed all the brighter every time he smiled at her as though she were more than just another face in the café.
But just as often as it rose, her fears pressed back against it.
Because Percy was– well, Percy. The kind of person who could hand a stranger on the street a flower without a second thought, just to brighten their day. She had seen it herself once, an older woman leaving the shop clutching a single stem like it was the highlight of her week. She had seen him wave off compliments from customers, as if kindness was nothing special. And she had noticed, with an ache she pretended not to feel, how people lingered around him. How he made room in his attention for everyone.
He was polite. He was thoughtful. He was good.
And good men didn’t single out women like her — rigid, tired, brittle-edged women who still woke at night with the sound of children crying in their dreams. Not women who carried shadows heavier than they liked to admit.
If Percy ever sent flowers — and why would he, when he sold them by the dozens every day? — it would be for a reason larger than her. For his mother, his brother, a celebration, an act of kindness. Not this strange, persistent devotion that had followed her from one bouquet to the next.
Not just for her.
The thought stung. Annabeth sighed against it, weary of herself, weary of the way her chest tightened every time she glanced at the newest bouquet sitting on the café table beside her. Of course she’d bring it with her. She always did, like a ritual now; carry them home, trim the stems, slip some into vases until the apartment was filled with colors she couldn’t quite explain.
The café was quieter that night. A Wednesday, and she’d grown used to the rhythm of them with Percy moving behind the counter, settling into the role of barista with an ease that almost made her forget it wasn’t his usual post.
Her fingers brushed the paper wrapping of the bouquet on the table, the words pressing against her throat before she realized she was speaking.
“This one is making you more thoughtful than usual,” Percy said lightly, his voice carrying from behind the counter as he set down the cloth he’d been using to polish a row of cups.
Annabeth blinked, caught in the middle of staring at the bouquet resting in the chair beside her like it might whisper all of its secrets if she only stared long enough. She looked up at the blue-eyed man, for some reason guilty and a little flustered.
“Oh,” a beat passed, and then she gave a small shrug, leaning back in her chair. “Sorry. It’s just— well. I’ve been… getting these,” her voice was hesitant, testing the waters. “Receiving flowers. For a while now.”
Percy tilted his head, his expression softening into something curious but not invasive.
“Well, now that’s a loving partner,” he said, half-smiling as he turned to wipe his hands on his apron. He averted his gaze from her for a second, a pretend nonchalance Annabeth didn’t even notice being forced.
She let out a short, sharp snort, more bitter than amused.
“Right. If only,” she said, shaking her head, her lips twisting. “That’d be worrisome to consider since I don’t have a partner.”
He stilled for a moment, his hand still resting on the apron’s fabric, and she felt her own words tighten something in the air. He pressed his lips together to try and contain the smile
“I mean,” she continued, rushing to fill the space, “I don’t even know who sends them. They just… arrive. Always fresh, always different, like clockwork,” her fingers traced the rim of her cup, restless. “And I know it’s foolish, but every time I think that maybe this one will come with a name. Or a less cryptic note. Or something that makes sense.”
Percy’s brows knit, just a little. He leaned against the counter now, his weight shifted casual, but his eyes held hers in quiet interest.
“That would make anyone thoughtful,” he said softly. “Someone out there seems to know you very well.”
Annabeth let out a dry laugh, though it sounded thinner than she intended.
“Or they just like practicing flower arrangements on me,” she joked, then sighed. “Half of me says I should be grateful and stop overthinking it, but… who does this?” she gestured at the bouquet beside her. “Who keeps sending flowers for weeks and weeks without saying a word? It’s—” she caught herself before finishing with the word cruel, biting it back and pressing her lips together.
Instead, she sighed again, heavy and deflated.
“It’s weird,” she settled on. “Strange and… distracting.”
Percy’s gaze flickered to the bouquet, and then back to her. His expression stayed neutral, almost carefully so, though there was something behind it she couldn’t name.
“You really do like them, though,” he said gently. “Even if they keep you guessing.”
Annabeth blinked at him, startled. His words landed so squarely on a truth she hadn’t admitted out loud, not even to herself, that for a beat she couldn’t breathe. She’d been so careful to lace every complaint with a shrug, every mention with a touch of cynicism, as if dismissing them would keep her from hoping too much.
But he’d seen through it.
Her lips parted, then closed again. She stared at the bouquet like it might shield her from having to answer, and the silence stretched, thick and startling.
And then, slowly, her mouth softened into a smile. A small one, hesitant at first, but then steadier, because— yeah. Yeah, she really did like them. The anticipation, the color, the quiet care someone poured into each arrangement. They brightened her week more than she wanted to admit.
“…Yeah,” she murmured finally, lifting her eyes to his. Her smile flickered wider. “I do. I like them a lot.”
For some reason, saying it aloud felt like unclenching a fist she hadn’t realized was tight. Percy studied her, and then a corner of his mouth curved, but his tone stayed measured.
“But there still seems to be a problem?”
The warmth of her smile faltered. She let out a breath, shaking her head.
“The problem is just that a big part of me thinks it’s a joke. Or a prank. From someone in the office,” she told him and he grimaced, folding her arms over her chest like she was bracing against her own words. “You know how it is. People notice when someone’s different it any way. I wouldn’t put it past them to cook something like this up for a laugh.”
Percy’s brow furrowed slightly, his head tilting in quiet disapproval.
“That doesn’t sound much like a joke to me. It sounds like a lot of commitment just to be cruel.”
“Exactly,” Annabeth said, almost sharply. “Which is why I can’t let myself believe it’s anything else. Because what’s worse— finding out it’s a prank, or letting myself believe it means something and being wrong?” she tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. “At least if it’s a prank, I’ll be right about people.”
He didn’t laugh. He leaned his elbows on the counter, thoughtful, steady.
“And if it isn’t a prank?”
Her gaze darted away, toward the flowers again, as if they might answer for her. Her throat felt tight.
Percy let the pause hang, then asked, his tone light but careful.
“What would you say to the sender? If they walked in this café right now and told you it was them?”
The question hit her harder than she expected. She froze, blinking at him, then down at the bouquet, as if the blooms themselves might demand an answer. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve, pulling at a loose thread.
She hadn’t let herself imagine that far. She’d entertained vague fantasies, sure, but never shaped into words, never into something real enough to say aloud.
Her lips parted, closed, then parted again.
“…I don’t know,” her voice was barely above a whisper. She shook her head, overwhelmed by the weight of it. “I really don’t know.” she repeated, and a second passed. Then, quieter still, almost to herself, she spoke: “Thank you, maybe. For noticing me. For thinking of me.”
Her eyes lifted to Percy’s at last, uncertain, raw.
“And then I’d probably ruin it by asking them why.”
The café hummed softly around them, the sound of the refrigerator in the back, the faint ticking of the clock above the doorway. Percy didn’t rush to fill the silence. He only nodded slowly, as though he were memorizing her words, as though he’d carry them with him when she left.
Annabeth sat back, exhaling shakily, surprised by how much lighter she felt just for having said it out loud.
“They’d probably get right back at you and ask you why not,” Percy said at last, his voice even, not teasing. “Flowers are a nice thing. You’re a nice person. You deserve nice things.”
Her instinct was immediate — deflect, push it away before it could settle too deep. Her mouth curved in a faint, lopsided smile as she lifted her brows.
“Why, be careful. If you keep talking like that, I’ll start expecting a full bouquet every week from you, too.”
But Percy didn’t laugh, he didn’t even flinch. His gaze stayed on her, calm and steady, like he’d seen straight through the armor she was trying to slip back into place.
“I mean it,” he said softly; his voice held no dramatics, no embellishment. “You do deserve it.”
Her smile wavered. For a heartbeat she wanted to look away — wanted to, but couldn’t. His sincerity pinned her in place, warm and terrifying at once. She sighed, shoulders sinking, and the joke slipped from her lips like air escaping a balloon.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a murmur. “It’s not the type of thing I ever imagined would happen to me.”
The corners of his eyes softened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“And now that it is something actively happening to you?” he asked quietly, tilting his head, as though the answer mattered to him more than he should admit.
Her throat worked. She pressed her palms together, fingers interlacing tight, like she could squeeze sense out of them.
“…Now that it is, it’s caught me completely off guard,” she let out a half laugh, the sound strained but real. “I keep waiting for the punchline, but it hasn’t come yet. So I’m… trying to figure out what that means.”
Her gaze fell to the bouquet on the counter, the colors too vivid against the polished wood. The flowers seemed suddenly heavier, like they carried the weight of a riddle she wasn’t sure she could solve.
“I haven’t even told anyone,” she admitted, her voice so low she almost hoped he wouldn’t hear. “Not my best friend. Not anyone. You’re the first.”
The words startled her even as they left her mouth, and her cheeks heated, the flush creeping upward until she thought she must be glowing. She shifted in her seat, uneasy at her own confession.
Percy didn’t gloat, didn’t press. He just blinked once, slowly, and then offered the smallest, gentlest smile. It wasn’t smug, wasn’t even reassuring in the way she expected — it was simply present, steady in the quiet that had stretched between them.
“You trust me a lot, then,” he said. It wasn’t a question, more an observation, and somehow that made it settle deeper.
And Annabeth realized with a jolt that it was true. She did. Without meaning to, without planning, she’d begun trusting him in ways she didn’t let herself trust easily. Her chest ached, tight and fragile, but not in a way that hurt. More like a door inching open where she hadn’t realized one was.
“Obviously,” Annabeth said at last, trying for nonchalance though her voice softened at the edges. She lifted her chin just slightly, as if bracing herself. “We’re friends.”
The word settled between them, small and sure.
Percy’s mouth curved, not in surprise but in quiet acknowledgment, like he’d been waiting for her to say it out loud. He leaned back a little, stretching his arms against the counter, letting the moment breathe.
“Friends,” he repeated, and somehow it didn’t sound like a boundary so much as a promise.
Annabeth felt the breath she’d been holding slip free, and with it came something lighter in her chest. She reached out and nudged the bouquet with one finger, watching a few petals shiver.
“Friends who happen to talk about mysterious bouquets and prank theories,” she added, tilting her head in mock seriousness. “Aren’t we?”
That coaxed a chuckle out of him, low and easy.
“Not a bad start,” he said. “Though I’d still like to know the real reason why this particular one—” he tapped the table lightly where the flowers sat, “—is making you more thoughtful than usual.”
She rolled her eyes, but the heat crept back into her cheeks.
“I just… don’t know what to make of it all yet.”
Percy nodded, as if that made perfect sense, and without a word reached behind him to grab the kettle that had been keeping warm. He poured water into a mug, steam curling between them, and slid it across the counter toward her.
“Tea,” he said simply. “It helps with thinking. And with not thinking, depending on what you need.”
Her lips tugged into a small, reluctant smile. She wrapped her hands around the mug, grateful for the heat against her skin.
“How wise of you,” she said.
He grinned, eyes glinting.
“I contain multitudes.”
She laughed, shaking her head, and took a sip. The warmth spread through her chest, easing that tight, restless knot that had been wound there since she first admitted the flowers out loud.
Silence followed, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. She found herself studying him as he busied his hands—straightening a napkin stack, wiping a corner of the counter that was already clean. He wasn’t restless, exactly, just giving her space, like he knew she needed it.
Finally, she spoke, softer than before.
“Do you really think someone would go through all this trouble just… because?”
Percy stilled, then looked at her fully. His expression was calm, steady, no teasing in sight.
“I think sometimes people want to say something they don’t have words for. Flowers can do that.”
Her fingers tightened around the mug. The thought made her heart flutter and sink at the same time. It was so simple, so hopeful — and yet so foreign to her that she hardly knew what to do with it.
She looked down at the bouquet again, then back at him.
“I can’t be that simple.”
“I’m not saying it’s simple,” he corrected gently. “I’m just saying it’s… possible.”
Something in her eased at that, though the flutter in her chest remained. She sighed, letting her shoulders relax, and gave him a small smile.
“Good thing we’re friends, then. You can keep explaining the world to me while I overthink everything.”
Percy’s answering smile was soft, almost tender.
“Deal.”
And with that, the air between them felt lighter again, less like standing on the edge of something she didn’t understand, and more like stepping into a room she might one day feel at home in.
It was another Wednesday, the kind that carried the faint scent of spring even in the night air. The café was already closed, the front sign flipped to Closed half an hour ago, but Annabeth was still there, perched at her usual spot near the counter. The bouquet she’d picked up on her way out of the office leaned against the edge of the table, its colors still vivid in the dim light, purples and whites mingling together.
She had offered, as always, to help wipe down tables or stack chairs as soon as he’d closed the front door. And, as always, Percy had waved her off with a smile and some excuse about “customers don’t work here” or “you’ll ruin my reputation if I make you mop floors.” So she sat, sipping slowly at her tea, pretending she wasn’t waiting for him to eventually settle in beside her.
By now, this rhythm felt almost unspoken. She’d linger until closing, he’d let her, and they’d talk like the night wasn’t rushing forward outside. It had become, somehow and within the possibilities of it, their space, quiet and steady, as if the walls of the café held the beginnings of something fragile they were both unwilling to disturb too quickly.
That night, though, Annabeth’s gaze kept slipping to the bouquet. She found herself turning the flowers in her hands, brushing fingertips over the lilac petals, soft and light as breath.
“These are lavender, aren’t they?” she asked at last, frowning faintly, lifting one bloom toward the light.
Percy, crouched near the counter with a rag in his hand, stilled. For a second, he didn’t move at all. Then he rose, too quickly, setting the cloth down with a clumsy thud.
“Not lavender,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “They’re—uh—they’re lilacs.”
She tilted her head, studying him with quiet curiosity.
“Oh,” she murmured, as if testing the word. “Lilacs,” she smiled a little, still oblivious to his unease. “And these branches?”
“Osier,” Percy replied, throat dry. Something in his chest thumped too hard, too fast. He hadn’t expected her to ask—not like this, not with that open, careful gaze fixed on him.
“So what do they mean?” she pressed, gentle, like it was nothing more than a passing curiosity. “Since you’re the expert and all.”
His breath caught. He could lie, truly, or deflect. He could say something vague about beauty and spring and leave it at that. But when he looked at her — the faint crease between her brows, the way she twirled the stem between her fingers as if it were fragile —, Percy couldn’t bring himself to choose the easy way out.
Slowly, he reached across the counter, taking one of the osier branches and a lilac sprig from her bouquet. His fingers brushed hers as he slipped them free, the faintest shock of contact darting up his arm. She stilled, eyes widening a fraction, but didn’t pull back.
“They—uh,” he cleared his throat, searching for steadiness. His voice wavered anyway. “Osier means frankness,” he held it up between them, the branch trembling slightly in his grip. Then he lifted the lilac, softer now, his gaze flicking to hers before darting away. “And these—these mean… ‘first emotion of love.’”
The words left him in a rush, so quiet she almost didn’t hear them. But the café was empty, the night wrapped tight around the windows, and his nearness carried the sound straight to her.
Annabeth’s only reaction was to freeze, to stop moving and breathing entirely. The silence that followed was deafening, her pulse hammering in her ears as the words registered in her brain. Her eyes widened, locked on him, searching his face for some sign that he was joking, teasing, playing with her the way he sometimes did. But his expression (uncertain, a little raw) told her that he wasn’t.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to finish, though his voice cracked around the edges.
“This– uh, this whole arrangement… it basically means that— well. It means to be honest, I’m falling in love.”
The air seemed to collapse around Annabeth. Her grip tightened around the bouquet still in her lap, knuckles whitening, breath caught halfway between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope, something terrifyingly near desperation. She stared, unblinking, at the flowers in his hand, at the way they trembled ever so slightly, betraying nerves he was usually so good at hiding.
Her heart was a drumbeat in her throat, fluttering wild and panicked. Every instinct screamed at her to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. All she could do was sit there, wide-eyed and still, caught between the impossible thought that he might mean her — and the safer, colder thought that he didn’t.
And so she froze, staring, while the weight of the confession, whether accidental or not, hung between them in the quiet café, too heavy to ignore, too fragile to break.
Annabeth’s breath hitched. The silence stretched, thick and unbearable, until she could no longer hold it in.
“What,” she said flatly. Just that one word, sharp and thin as glass.
Percy blinked, startled by the tone.
Her fingers twitched against her lap, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, but her voice rose in a rush, spilling out faster than she could control.
“No, no. This is—this is insanity. You’re playing with me, right?” her laugh was a brittle thing, too tight to be real, her eyes darting anywhere but at him.
He shook his head almost immediately, a small, desperate gesture, the heat in his cheeks betraying how unprepared he was for her recoil.
“Hm, no,” he said, voice low but steady. “They’re— well, together, that’s basically the message,” he lifted the flowers still caught in his hand, as though they could explain themselves better than he could. “It isn’t a joke.”
But that only made her chest constrict more. Her pulse skittered wild, panic rising like water she couldn’t hold back. Her thoughts twisted in every direction—how could he say that, why would he, it couldn’t be real, it had to be a misunderstanding. She didn’t deserve it. She wasn’t ready.
Her breath grew shallow, her skin hot and cold all at once.
“I—” she stumbled, nearly choking on the words. “I have to go.”
She pushed to her feet so quickly the chair legs scraped harshly against the floor. The bouquet, still nestled in her lap moments ago, slid onto the table with a soft thud. She didn’t even notice she’d left it behind.
“Annabeth—” his voice reached after her, softer now, uncertain, a thread trying to catch her before she unraveled completely.
But she couldn’t look back, couldn’t risk seeing the earnestness in his eyes and believing it. Her legs carried her faster than her thoughts could catch up, her braid swinging behind her as she crossed the café in long, determined strides. The bell above the door chimed as she wrenched it open and slipped out into the cool night, her chest tight, her breath coming too quickly.
Behind her, the café fell into silence again.
Percy stood frozen by the counter, the osier branch and lilac sprig still clutched awkwardly in his hand. His eyes trailed to the bouquet abandoned on the table, its colors dulled in the dim light. Something hollow spread in his chest, sudden and sharp.
He had told her too much. Or not enough, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that her absence left the air heavier than her presence ever had.
And though he tried to swallow it down, the ache lingered, etched into the lines of his face as he stared at the flowers she hadn’t taken with her. His fingers curled tighter around the stems, knuckles pale, until at last he let out a breath — quiet, broken — and looked away.
His heart, so full moments ago, felt like it had cracked clean through.
Her house was colder than it should be when spring was in full swing outside her window.
The air carried no warmth, somehow, only a draft that seeped through the cracks in the walls and pressed against her skin like ice. It was Thursday morning, and the world outside bloomed, and she couldn’t bear to look at it. She couldn’t even glance at the window because her garden sprawled there — a garden Juniper had mostly kept alive ever since she’d started dating Grover, who, by some mysterious instinct, knew how to coax flowers into thriving.
She used to smile at that, at how natural it seemed. Now, the thought of flowers made her stomach pirouette inside her body, a clumsy, painful spin that left her nauseous.
The ache wasn’t just in her stomach, though. It reached her chest, spreading heavy and deep, like something trying to root itself where it didn’t belong. She told Juniper she had a fever, some kind of sickness she didn’t want to risk passing along; Annabeth told her not to come by.
That was the first lie, and she knew that Juniper had a feeling that it was a lie, too.
The truth was she couldn’t stand the possibility of her best friend arriving with flowers in her hands, or mentioning them, or even standing near any of the bouquets in her kitchen and placing the pieces together.
Annabeth curled deeper into her blanket, her head spinning. How could it hurt this much? She hadn’t expected pain to be part of it. Surprise, yes. Terror, absolutely. But pain, like something vital inside her was breaking open, she hadn’t been prepared for that.
The words replayed in her mind. Percy’s voice, careful, hesitant, yet sure when he’d told her what the flowers meant. In love. The syllables lodged like glass in her ribs.
How could anyone — how could someone she didn’t even know — decide that? Decide they loved her? Decide that flowers could be enough to lay claim to her heart, her future, her everything? The sheer absurdity of it twisted inside her, made her want to laugh and scream all at once. Someone loved her. Someone she had never seen, never touched, never spoken to.
And what terrified her most wasn’t the faceless someone — it was the crack of light it cast over everything else. Over Percy.
Because she knew, with a clarity that frightened her, that she was falling for him. Not in quiet admiration, not in passing fondness. Falling. Uncontrollably, irrevocably, and every second she spent near him pulled her further in. His laughter, his eyes when they softened at her, the way his words seemed to steady her even when they made her stumble; they were undoing her.
And yet, there was someone else who had put their heart at her feet without hesitation. Someone who expected something from her, even if silently, someone who had risked vulnerability in a way she could not. Someone who believed, somehow, she was worth the kind of love that terrified her.
Her chest constricted, and she pressed her palm against her sternum as if that could ease it, but it didn’t. The ache remained, stubborn and sharp. What did it mean — what could it possibly mean — that a stranger loved her, when she… when she wanted Percy? What kind of cruelty was that, to be split between a phantom’s devotion and the reality of a man whose eyes had burned with heartbreak when she walked away?
She shut her eyes tight. It didn’t stop the spinning, it didn’t stop the truth echoing inside her. She was running from both. From the stranger’s love, from Percy’s eyes, from herself, most of all.
Her expectations had broken. That was the center of it, the jagged edge she kept circling around. She had thought she understood the shape of her life, the rhythm of her feelings, her slow, helpless descent toward Percy, the comfort of his presence, the dizzying ache whenever he looked at her a second too long. She could bear that ache, because it was familiar. Manageable. But this revelation that someone else, someone she didn’t know, felt as strongly for her as she felt for him tilted the ground beneath her.
She kept trying to convince herself that maybe Percy could be the sender, but it always collapsed under the weight of logic. No. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. If it were, why would he say something so serious through flowers when they spoke nearly every day? Why would he hide behind bouquets when his honesty with her had always been the one thing she trusted most? No. It wasn’t him. It proved, in her mind, that it wasn’t him.
And if it wasn’t, then what was left? A stranger’s devotion and, mainly, Percy’s knowledge of it. Now that he knew — that he had been the one to tell her of someone else’s feelings for her — any fragile, half-formed possibility between them turned into dust.
Her chest tightened again. Annabeth stood up from the couch because sitting still made the panic worse, and she began pacing the living room. The floor creaked beneath her feet, the sound too loud in the silence. Around and around, she rubbed her arms as though she could smooth out the restlessness from her skin, but it only made her more aware of the tremors in her hands.
She avoided the kitchen.
She couldn’t step past the doorway, couldn’t face the sight of the counter where the bouquets had been set down the night it arrived. The first flowers, pressed between book pages, hidden yet kept — she couldn’t throw them away.
The new bouquet, though… she’d left it with Percy. She hadn’t dared to bring it home, but the absence didn’t help. She still felt it, lingering in the air, as though the petals had marked her skin.
She thought about the older flowers sometimes. Dried, brittle, locked inside the spines of books she loved. She had trapped them there as if they could be preserved without reminding her what they meant. But even now, she didn’t want them gone. She couldn’t bring herself to destroy them even when, in amidst so many feelings, anger took over.
Annabeth pressed her palm against her forehead. Her head was spinning, and she couldn’t even eat — the thought of food turned her stomach, knotting it into something sharp. She poured a glass of water, lifted it halfway, and then set it down untouched. The house pressed in around her, each wall a reminder that she was cornered, that there was no way out of this revelation except to live inside it.
She returned to pacing, circling the same stretch of floor. Her thoughts wouldn’t quiet, regardless of what she could possibly try. Whoever had sent those flowers believed in something she couldn’t even picture for herself. They believed in her, in a version of her worth loving, worth confessing to. And all she could think of was Percy — Percy’s voice, Percy’s eyes, Percy’s quiet heartbreak when she’d fled.
Her chest ached, sharp and relentless. It wasn’t love that scared her most; it was that she didn’t know how to hold it, how to choose, how to bear the weight of being wanted at all.
And so she kept walking. Around and around, trying to calm down, but each step only led her back into the same storm.
There were no flowers anymore.
The realization pressed against her heart with an unexpected weight, and Annabeth felt it before her brain even fully acknowledged it. It wasn’t about a message, she told herself, or some elaborate secret confession she had no proof of.
It was just absence. The careful rhythm of colored petals appearing on her desk, each bouquet carrying a soft weight of thought and care, had become a quiet, secret companion to her days. And now, it was gone.
Annabeth sat at her desk that first Friday morning, the sunlight spilling unevenly across the polished surface, and felt the hollowness on the left side of her chest like a small, tangible space had been carved away. Ridiculous, perhaps melodramatic, but she couldn’t help it. She liked the flowers. She loved them, even, and the thought made her pulse quicken slightly in shame — was she really mourning flowers as if they were a person?
Her mind whirled, replaying the past months; the subtle thrill of spotting a new bouquet as she entered her office, the secret, tiny smiles she’d given to the notes left alongside the blooms. Even now, so many weeks after the first one, the memory made her stomach flutter. She had tried to rationalize it all — maybe it was a prank, maybe someone at the office wanted to tease her — but somehow, she’d always chosen to believe it wasn’t. To believe that someone cared enough to take the time, even anonymously.
And now it was gone, and like that it remained as day passed.
She hadn’t thought it would hit her like this. Annabeth had imagined relief, perhaps a quiet closing of the chapter. The absence should have been freeing but, instead, it left her unsettled, restless, and painfully aware of the small, invisible ritual that had threaded through her life without her even realizing.
Annabeth’s gaze flicked out the window, toward the street below, where she had grown accustomed to seeing the flower shop and café. She thought of the past week, the days she hadn’t seen Percy at all, the mornings he hadn’t appeared behind the counter or with a playful smile across the street. Friday morning, she’d glimpsed him briefly, along with Nico and the others, loading up a truck for an event. The sight had stirred something she wasn’t ready to admit: she missed him. Missed the easy companionship, the quiet familiarity, the way even a fleeting glance could leave her feeling lighter.
And then her thoughts turned to their last encounter. The memory of her hasty retreat at the café — the bouquet left behind, the unspoken tension, the fluttering shame in her chest — pressed down on her. She hadn’t even said goodbye. She hadn’t looked at him as she left. She had abandoned the space between them, leaving it unresolved, leaving him without closure, and she felt a pang of guilt that refused to fade.
Her hands rested on the edge of her desk, fingertips tracing invisible lines along the polished surface as if doing so could anchor her spinning thoughts. She told herself she should be relieved since it stopped and she had returned to her work, had managed the chaos of cases, clients, and the unyielding demands of the courtroom. She was competent, rational, careful — and yet here she was, in her office in the morning, feeling like a child who had lost her most treasured secret.
She tried to pull herself together, to focus on the stack of papers waiting for her attention. But her mind rebelled, drifting inevitably back to the flowers, to the routine, to the tiny, unspoken connection she had allowed herself to feel with the invisible sender. The absence wasn’t just an empty vase; it was a reminder of what she had let herself hope for, what she had begun to crave even without permission to do so.
A sigh escaped her, slow and heavy. Annabeth closed her eyes for a moment, pressing her temples as if the pressure could push back the sudden weight of longing and regret. She could almost feel the ghost of petals brushing her fingers, could almost hear the silent murmur of care embedded in each arrangement.
The silent wish that it had been Percy invaded her mind quite frequently, and she never once gave it attention. He wouldn’t have sent them. And if he had… if he had, surely she would have known. Surely he wouldn’t hide it.
Annabeth let out a bitter, quiet laugh, the sound hollow in the empty office. And the longing remained, stubborn and insistent. She missed the flowers. She missed the ritual, the quiet joy of being thought of. She even missed the tiny shock her chest had felt when a bouquet appeared, when a message — hidden or not — had been placed in her hands.
She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling, willing herself to think of something else. Anything else. The sunlight shifted across her desk, highlighting the clean lines of her workspace, the order she prided herself on maintaining. But even the neatness could not fill the absence, could not chase away the hollow ache that had lodged itself quietly inside her.
For the first time in weeks, she felt untethered from the small joys she had come to anticipate. The flowers were gone, and with them, a rhythm she hadn’t known she relied on, and a connection she didn’t even want to recognize.
Annabeth exhaled, slowly, deeply. She would face the day, she would focus and she would survive that, too, because no one died of heartache. But somewhere, deep in the left side of her chest, the space remained, quiet, stubborn, and aching.
By noon, Annabeth felt restless. She pushed back from her desk, the papers and files momentarily forgotten, and grabbed her coat. The sunlight was warmer now, spring teasing through the windows, and yet she felt a chill in her chest that had nothing to do with the air outside. She needed to move. She needed to see the world beyond her office, even if it meant confronting the empty space that had once been filled with flowers and, unknowingly, a kind of quiet affection.
Her steps were brisk as she descended the office stairs, her heels clicking against the polished floors. She almost didn’t look out at the street, afraid that the sight of the flower shop or café might sting more than it soothed. But curiosity—an undeniable, irrational pull—won. As she stepped onto the sidewalk, the city seemed almost alive in contrast to the hollow weight in her chest. People hurried past, their conversations muffled by the rhythm of traffic, and she felt momentarily untethered from the strict order of her office life.
Across the street, the flower shop stood closed, the wooden sign gently swinging in the breeze. The café next door was quiet, its awning fluttering softly. Even from here, she could imagine the laughter of customers, the warmth of coffee steam curling from cups, the subtle chaos of plates and clinking spoons. And she could almost picture him—the florist with the easy smile and the hands that had once arranged bouquets with meticulous care—moving behind the counter, his presence steady and quietly magnetic.
Annabeth’s stomach pirouetted again, white and cold, as it had the first time she had really considered him up close. She shook her head, trying to banish the thought. It was absurd. He was polite, kind, and entirely unreachable in the ways that mattered. And yet her feet carried her closer, almost unconsciously, until she was standing across from the closed shop and empty café.
She paused, staring at the doors, the windows reflecting the sun in shards of gold, and wondered what it would feel like to cross the street, to step inside, to confront the absence she had grown accustomed to. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, her other hand brushing against her coat as if to anchor herself.
The absence of flowers weighed against her again, the missing ritual, the lost moments of small, private joy. And with it came another ache: the ache of missing him. Not the flirtatious, teasing acquaintance of the past few weeks, but something quieter, something that had settled beneath the surface of her heart and refused to leave. She could see the café empty, the chairs neatly stacked, the counter polished and waiting for the next day, and she imagined him, just beyond, maybe cleaning, maybe checking on a recipe, maybe simply moving with the quiet, comforting rhythm that had become so familiar in her mind.
Her chest tightened. She hadn’t seen him that week — not since glimpsing him in the street, so far away — and the lack of the encounter was sharper than she expected. She reminded herself that she had been fine, that she had survived, that the world had not stopped turning without flowers to mark her days. And yet, the truth was stubborn: she missed the quiet anticipation, the hidden joy, the subtle tether that connected her to someone who had been just out of reach but impossibly present.
Annabeth took a step back, her heels clicking lightly against the sidewalk. She turned slightly, almost on impulse, imagining the faces of strangers who passed her by, people who had no idea how precarious a single moment could feel. And somewhere deep in her chest, a small, irrational hope flickered. Not hope that the flowers would return but hope that the world could tilt gently back into the quiet rhythm she had come to cherish.
She exhaled, letting the sound carry across the street, and the fluttering in her stomach eased, just enough to remind her that the ache was alive. That it was hers, and no one else’s. That she could survive it, and maybe, if the world tilted the right way, she might even let it grow into something… more.
With one last glance at the café, she started walking, her coat brushing against her knees, the spring sun warming her back. Each step was deliberate, a small victory over the spiraling thoughts that had plagued her morning.
She didn’t know what awaited her—another bouquet, another encounter, or simply the empty chairs of a quiet café—but for now, she carried the memory of what had been, and the faint, stubborn hope of what might still come.
When Wednesday came again, Annabeth’s office still didn’t have any flowers.
And the day seemed to be against her in all the ways possible.
Her heel had broken on the steps of the office building that morning, forcing her to hobble briefly before switching to the backup pair she kept in her drawer for emergencies. Her hair refused to stay in place, stubborn braids not looking like they were supposed to as she rushed between courtrooms and chambers. The judge, apparently in a mood to challenge patience itself, had decided that the trial would run even longer than it already had been, extending testimony and arguments until Annabeth’s head throbbed and her shoulders ached from the tension.
The office had emptied hours ago, save for the few late-night clerks tying up loose ends. Annabeth remained at her desk, eyes fixed on the screen, fingers numb from hours of typing and organizing documents. The clock glared at her with a merciless 10:15 pm; another late night, but she had promised herself that no unfinished case would follow anyone else into the morning. It was her responsibility. It always had been.
By the time she finally pushed back her chair, her body screamed with fatigue. Her shoulders were stiff, her neck a mass of tension, and every part of her felt heavy as lead. She grabbed her coat, wrapping it tightly around her, and shouldered her bag, still weighed down with papers and notes she had brought home for reference.
Stepping out into the night, she froze. Rain was falling — not a drizzle, not a courteous shower that could be dismissed, but a full, relentless storm. The streetlamps cast pale halos in the downpour, reflecting off puddles that had already formed across the uneven sidewalk. Her breath hitched as she realized her umbrella wasn’t in her bag. She had forgotten it, left it leaning against her desk in the early rush to finish the last files.
Her phone, dead and uncharged, offered no solace. No way to hail a ride. No way to call Juniper or anyone else. Even the small hope of using a ride-share evaporated. Her heart began to pound, a mixture of cold and frustration coiling in her chest.
She moved quickly, clutching her bag to her chest as the rain soaked her coat almost immediately, water seeping through the fabric and chilling her skin. The slick pavement reflected the streetlights, making each step uncertain. She called out softly, a whisper into the empty streets, hoping a taxi might be passing, hoping some miracle might appear. Nothing.
Minutes passed (or hours, even) before she accepted the truth that no one was coming. The quiet streets were empty, save for the relentless patter of rain against concrete and her own uneven breaths. Her fingers trembled, not from cold, but from the sheer accumulation of exhaustion, stress, and helplessness.
And then, somewhere deep inside, the dam broke.
She sank to the sidewalk, letting her bag fall beside her. Her elbows rested on her knees, her head buried in her hands. The rain soaked her hair and dripped down her face, but she no longer cared. Tears mingled with the water, and she let herself cry with a ferocity that surprised her. Not a polite, controlled tear, but a release of weeks—months, even—of holding herself together, of being responsible, of being in control when the world around her refused to be.
Everything was wrong. Everything had gone wrong. Cases that tore at her heart. Hours that bled into nights with no end. Friends and colleagues who didn’t understand the pressure, the weight. And now this. Alone, cold, drenched, her phone dead, no car, no umbrella, no help.
She let out a choked sob, rocking slightly in place as if the motion could make the despair fade. Her chest heaved, but there was no reprieve. Her knees were cold against the wet sidewalk, her hands numb and trembling. The rain ran in rivulets down her coat and pooled around her on the uneven concrete, but she didn’t care.
Somewhere between exhaustion and surrender, she gave up. No thoughts of who might see her, no self-recrimination for letting herself break in public. She simply let the night encompass her—the storm, the darkness, the feeling that everything had gone so utterly wrong.
Her fingers dug into her wet hair, pressing against her temples as if she could physically hold herself together. She thought about the cases, the screaming children, the impossibility of making everyone safe or happy or just okay. Her throat tightened again, and more tears fell.
For the first time in weeks, she let herself collapse fully into the despair she had held back. No pretending. No composure. No rationalizations. Just the raw, staggering weight of being utterly, unbearably human.
And yet, even as the storm poured over her, soaking her to the bone, she didn’t move. She just sat there, soaked and trembling, letting the tears fall and the cold bite, as if in that surrender, somehow, she might survive the night.
Annabeth stayed on the damp sidewalk, elbows pressed to her knees, tears mingling with the rain that still fell in sheets. The world blurred around her—streetlights diffused by droplets, puddles reflecting distorted neon signs, and the relentless drumming of rain on concrete that seemed to echo her own heartbeat. She felt weightless and trapped all at once, a strange contradiction that made her chest ache.
And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the downpour softened. The storm didn’t end, not completely, but the rain became gentler, misting her face rather than lashing at it. She lifted her head, squinting through the silver haze, and for a brief, surreal moment, the city seemed quiet in a way it hadn’t all night.
Then she saw it—a large, almost absurdly big umbrella, its vivid fabric a sharp contrast against the gray night. And beneath it, a figure, running through the softened rain with reckless urgency. For a second, she thought her mind was playing tricks on her, conjuring warmth out of the cold.
“Annabeth!” a familiar voice called, and her heart stuttered violently.
The figure stopped in front of her, breath misting in the night, cheeks pink from exertion, and the umbrella tipped slightly as if it might swallow them both. And then she recognized him. Percy. Her chest caught, and the world seemed to pause—the puddles, the wet streets, the distant hum of a taxi—all fading to the background as his presence filled her vision.
He leaned the enormous umbrella just so, shielding them both from the remnants of the rain, water dripping from its edges in slow, heavy droplets. His hair was damp, curls sticking to his forehead, and his eyes, bright and concerned, were fixed on her.
“You’re— what are you doing out here?” she asked, the words barely audible, caught between shock and relief.
He gave a sheepish smile, shrugging as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“It’s… uh, kind of a long story,” he said, and then shook his head. Her mouth was agape. “C’mon,” he urged. “Let’s get you sheltered.”
Annabeth’s throat tightened, and she couldn’t answer immediately. Her hands clutched the bag at her side, her heart hammering. Even in the rain, even soaked to the bone, he seemed impossibly solid, warm, and safe.
It had been a disaster of a day.
One of those rare ones where everything that could go wrong, did.
Percy hadn’t slept well, had spilled coffee on his apron during the early morning rush, and Jason, who was replacing Nico due to a doctor appointment, true to his unmovable teenage habits, had called him a dozen times to ask about trivial things that could’ve waited. Orders had piled up, the espresso machine had groaned ominously, and just when he thought he might finally get a breath, a stubborn supplier had called to complain about a delivery mistake.
The café, however, had been quiet in the late afternoon. His mother and Grover had been bustling through the flower shop, and he had taken over closing the café that evening. He was tired, his limbs felt heavy, his eyes were burning with fatigue, but he had just poured himself a cup of leftover coffee when his wandering eyes caught something.
A flash of purple against the dim glow of the streetlights.
Sincerely, it could be anything, anyone, but Percy’s mind was trained on noticing colorful braids — a different color every other month — anywhere, in vain hope that anything could be her.
And her it was.
Sitting — slumped, really — on the wet sidewalk, hair plastered to her face and coat drenched, Percy could recognize Annabeth from miles away. He felt his chest tighten, a jolt of panic and something fierce he couldn’t name flaring up, because that wasn’t right. He couldn’t know a single thing from inside the empty café, through glass and windows and from across the street, but nothing about the scene he witnessed was normal.
Without thinking, Percy set the cup down, grabbed the largest umbrella from the café corner (an old one his mother had bought years before so he and Grover could walk beside her when it rained, too), and sprinted out into the storm, feeling the rain soak through his clothes instantly.
The street was oddly empty, and still Percy managed to almost get run-over by a motorcycle in his despair to reach the other side of the street. As he approached, his clothes and shoes getting wet because of the wind causing the rain to fall sideways, he could see Annabeth better.
Though, from closer, the scene was a bit more depressing.
Her shoulders shook slightly as she cried, tiny hiccups breaking through the rhythm of her sobs. She hadn’t noticed him yet, hadn’t seen the ridiculous, enormous umbrella clutched in his hands or how he had almost had a heart attack when the motorcycle honked.
Percy ran up, feet sloshing through puddles, and stopped just a step away.
“Annabeth!” he called again, more urgently, though carefully, not wanting to startle her. She flinched slightly at his voice but finally lifted her gaze. Her eyes, wide and red and glistening with tears, met his, and his heart seemed to both stop and sprint at once.
The umbrella tipped toward her, almost comically large, and she instinctively tried to shrink under it.
Her lips parted, a breath caught between disbelief and awe, and he felt something flutter deep in his chest — a mixture of relief, protectiveness, and something more tender that made his stomach twist. He hated seeing her like this. Hated it more than he could articulate.
“Come on,” he said gently, tilting the umbrella so it covered both of them. “Let’s get you sheltered.”
She hesitated for a moment, soaked hair clinging to her face, chest heaving with exhaustion and emotion, then finally allowed him to guide her, the warmth beneath the umbrella a fragile shield against the storm. She was cold as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and Annabeth, perhaps automatically, hid her face on his shoulder.
Percy noticed every detail; the way her shoulders slumped, the way her fingers clutched at her bag, the faint tremor in her hands, and he swore silently that he would do everything to make that night a little less worse than it clearly had been.
The rain hadn’t let up, still falling in steady sheets as Annabeth stood under Percy’s umbrella. The edges dipped low, catching drops that slid in slow rivulets, but she barely noticed; her limbs felt leaden, her thoughts scattered, and the warmth of the umbrella was the first comfort she had felt all evening.
Percy glanced down at her from beside her, careful to keep pace.
“You’re soaked,” he murmured, voice low but amused, though his eyes betrayed concern. “We’ll get you warm soon.”
Annabeth only gave a tight-lipped nod, her hair plastered to her cheeks and coat clinging uncomfortably. They stepped off the curb together, crossing the street in long, careful strides. The city lights shimmered through the wet asphalt, reflecting in tiny puddles, giving the streets a soft, fractured glow. She shivered despite the umbrella, partly from cold, partly from the lingering adrenaline of helplessness that still tightened her chest.
The café came into her view as she dared to look up, small and welcoming against the gray haze of the storm. Its windows glowed like lanterns in the night, golden and safe, and steam curled from the chimney and the awning above the door, and the scent of coffee and warm bread carried faintly on the wet air. Annabeth felt her steps slow, drawn instinctively toward the light, toward the promise of warmth and shelter.
Percy led her across the threshold and, in the moment they entered, the damp chill of the city gave way to a gentle heat that wrapped around them. The polished wooden floorboards were dry and smooth beneath their shoes, the soft hum of the coffee machines in the background a quiet counterpoint to the storm outside. Warm lamps hung low, casting pools of light across tables, chairs, and the small, tucked-away corners that made the café feel intimate rather than public.
“Here,” Percy said, tilting the umbrella for her to step fully inside. He shook it gently, droplets flying in tiny arcs, and then set it aside, giving her a half-smile. “Safe and dry.”
Annabeth blinked, taking a slow breath of the warm, scented air. The tension in her shoulders softened fractionally, the panic from earlier starting to ebb. She glanced around, noting the shelves lined with books, the counter gleaming under soft light, and the small tables arranged near the windows. Everything was tidy, familiar yet inviting, like a quiet pause in a world that had been rushing at her too fast.
“Come with me,” he offered, umbrella still in hand. “We can’t stay here if we don't want to freeze.”
Annabeth didn’t question when he took her elbow and led her towards the double doors that opened to the back, and Percy guided her to the back garden, the path lined with small potted plants, their leaves glistening in the lingering drizzle.
“Almost there,” he said gently, keeping pace with her uneven steps. Annabeth’s heels clicked softly on the wet stones as they walked, her coat still dripping, but the warmth from the café seemed to trail behind her like a promise.
At the far end of the garden, tucked behind a canopy of vines, was a cabin Annabeth had never once seen before. From the outside, it looked quaint and compact, the kind of place one might miss if they weren’t paying attention. She frowned, confused; perhaps it was less visible from where they placed the tables, but still it seemed so oddly obvious now that Percy guided her towards it.
As they stepped inside when Percy opened the door and gestured for her to go first, Annabeth’s exhaustion met wonder, and the cramped, dark night outside seemed to melt away.
The cabin was warm, cozy, and meticulous in its care. A full-size mattress sat neatly in one corner, a small table and chairs were arranged near a heater, shelves held carefully chosen books, and a small sink and stove hinted at a world larger than the door suggested. Purple curtains softened the windows, and a tiny bathroom was tucked discreetly into one corner. The space smelled faintly of clean linen and something sweet, comforting and quiet in contrast to the storm outside.
Annabeth sank to the nearest chair her eyes registered, finally allowing herself to feel the full weight of her exhaustion. Percy crouched beside her, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face.
“Take a moment,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”
She let herself breathe, eyes tracing the warm, inviting details of the room. The heater’s gentle glow painted the walls in soft light, the faint scent of flowers from a vase on the table mingling with the comfort of the cabin. Outside, the rain continued, but inside, for the first time in hours, Annabeth felt safe, warm, and slightly untangled from the chaos that had followed her all day.
Annabeth shifted slightly, letting the warmth seep into her chilled limbs. Her gaze roamed the cabin again, lingering on the tidy corners, the small bookshelves, the way the light softened the walls. Then she turned to Percy.
“What is this place?” she asked, curiosity threading through her tired voice.
Percy hesitated for a beat, his fingers brushing the wardrobe’s smooth surface before he opened it.
“Where we used to live,” he said softly, almost like a secret he wasn’t sure she should know.
Annabeth frowned, glancing at the neatly hung clothes and the small, lived-in space.
“You… Used to live? Here?”
He nodded, his eyes briefly catching hers before flicking to the floor.
“Hm-mm,” he agreed. “Me and mom. After her ex-husband tried to kill us and we ran away.”
Annabeth’s eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to apologize — for what, though, she wasn’t sure. Percy, though, kept talking as if he’d felt that she would do just that.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s in the past, and he’s dead now,” he told her. “Life got better eventually.”
Percy offered Annabeth a sad smile, and she felt her chest tighten with the ease he felt to share that piece of his story with her. He said everything with so much normalcy and calm that it didn’t seem such a heavy topic at all.
He stepped toward the wardrobe again and pulled out a folded shirt, then some pants, neatly arranged.
“It only had a mattress back then,” he continued as he approached her, placing the clothes in her lap with care, “and buckets we used as chairs. The terrain was mom’s, left by an uncle who didn’t hate her, so no one could kick us out. She started selling flowers because she always knew how to take care of plants, and then… well, years passed, and eventually we could afford a real house and got out of here,” he laughed softly, the sound light and fleeting, like a breeze through an open window. “But we never got rid of this place, and it felt too private to make it part of the café when we built it.”
Annabeth’s eyes softened as she listened, touched by the intimacy of the space and the story it held. The cabin wasn’t just a room — it was memory, resilience, care, and a childhood lived quietly against the world.
Percy’s voice shifted slightly as he gestured toward the tiny bathroom tucked into the corner.
“There’s the bathroom. I think these would fit you,” he added, still holding the clothes gently in her lap. His tone was soft, careful, as if every word carried a measure of respect for her presence and for the memories woven into this place.
Annabeth’s fingers lingered on the folded clothes, the weight of them almost grounding her after the chaos of the evening. Her hands were still trembling slightly—not from cold alone, but from the storm of everything outside: the rain, the broken heel, the relentless hours at work, the impossible expectations she carried for herself. She stood slowly, murmuring a quiet thank you, before retreating into the small bathroom to change.
The clothes Percy had laid out were soft, comfortable, and fit just right. She dressed quickly, though her movements were unsteady, still shaking from the damp, the cold, and the lingering ache of the sidewalk earlier. When she stepped back into the cabin, the soft hum of the small heater greeted her, pushing warmth into her bones. For the first time that night, she felt a thread of relief. Her shoulders loosened slightly, and she let out a shaky breath. Tears pricked her eyes, unbidden, and she blinked them away.
Percy, standing by the small table, noticed immediately. He had changed, too—his casual shirt replacing the damp clothing from the rainy street, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly mussed but dry. His expression softened the moment he saw her, brows knitting just slightly with concern.
“Hey… what’s wrong?” His voice was low, careful, carrying that same quiet steadiness that made her heart both race and ache.
Annabeth swallowed hard, staring down at the floorboards.
“It’s… it’s just…” her voice faltered, and then she let it spill in a rush, teary and uneven. “It’s been… a very difficult day.”
Percy’s eyes narrowed slightly, a frown of worry tugging at his features. A beat of silence fell, and Percy took that as a chance to take some more out of her — Annabeth looked like she could vent, and he could offer that metaphorical space, too .
“What were you doing on the sidewalk?” he asked gently, stepping closer.
Her lips quivered, and she swallowed hard.
“Crying,” she admitted in a small voice, too tired and raw to hide it. She looked up at him briefly, then away again, ashamed. “My heel broke, I don’t have my car, I am overworked, my hair looks like shit, and I forgot my umbrella and—” her words cut off as tears slid down her cheeks, uninvited but unstoppable.
Percy moved toward her with the quiet inevitability of someone who had seen storms before and knew when to shelter someone from them.
“Annabeth,” he said softly, placing a careful hand at her elbow. She flinched slightly at first but didn’t pull away. “Come here,” he murmured, guiding her toward the mattress. “Sit down.”
She hesitated only a heartbeat before letting him lead her, her legs stiff and trembling, until she sank onto the warm bed. The mattress shifted under her weight, cozy and reassuring, and the heater’s soft hum wrapped around her. She let her hands cover her face, muffling a sob, though it was quiet and small.
Percy crouched a little, tilting his head as though trying to catch her eyes.
“First of all,” he said gently, “I have to disagree with you about your hair.”
Her hands lowered slowly, confusion flickering through her tear-reddened eyes.
“You said it looks like shit,” he went on, his tone careful, almost teasing but never cruel. “It doesn’t. But if the braids feel too tight, you’re more than welcome to take them down.”
A wet laugh almost escaped her, surprised and unwilling, but she swallowed it, cheeks warm. Still, her fingers brushed self-consciously at the braid, as if testing the idea.
“And,” Percy added after a beat, his voice softening again, “to be honest, you’re not the only one who had an incredibly hard day.”
That caught her attention. She sniffled and looked around, her gaze landing on the small clock on one of the shelves. The hands pointed past ten. Annabeth blinked, then turned back toward him, her voice thick but curious.
“What are you doing here past ten p.m.? The café closed hours ago.”
Percy huffed out a small laugh, leaning back slightly on his heels.
“Consequences of a bad day,” he admitted. “And of forgetting keys,” he rubbed at the back of his neck, sheepish. “The spare’s with Grover, who took my car to spend the night at Juniper’s. And my mom is out of town with Nico because there’s some business there that I forgot the details of.”
Annabeth blinked at him, slow and cautious. Juniper? Grover? Her mind snagged on the names, replaying them silently.
But Percy kept going, distracted by the telling of it.
“This morning, one of the deliveries got mixed up and I had to drive across town to fix it before opening. Then the pipes at the café decided to act up, and I spent an hour on the phone trying to convince a plumber to come before everything flooded. And right when I thought I could breathe, I realized I didn’t have my keys,” he gave another laugh—short, resigned, but not bitter. “So here I am. Figured I’d crash in the little house in the back. It’s not the first time.”
He leaned his elbows onto his knees, sitting more comfortably now, like admitting it all loosened the weight off his chest. His eyes flicked toward her, the faintest hint of apology written there, as if embarrassed she had to see him in such a state.
Annabeth, however, had stopped listening at the mention of Juniper and Grover. The names turned in her head, striking something she hadn’t expected. She sat still, the tears cooling on her cheeks, her thoughts sharp and scattered all at once.
Did he say Juniper and Grover?
Annabeth’s lips parted, her brows drawn tight as the puzzle in her mind clicked together. She swallowed once, then again, and finally spoke, her voice slow and uncertain.
“Juniper?” she asked, tilting her head. “You said… Grover’s staying at Juniper’s?”
Percy frowned, a flicker of confusion tugging at his features.
“Yeah. Grover’s my brother.” He leaned back, brow furrowed like he was trying to catch her meaning. “The one I’ve mentioned before?”
Annabeth blinked hard.
“And he dates a Juniper?” her voice picked up urgency as her brain scrambled for confirmation. “Pink hair? Constantly happy? Can’t sit through dinner without starting an argument with someone?”
Percy froze, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
“...Yeah,” he said slowly, then with more certainty, “yes.”
And that was it — Annabeth laughed. Not bitter, not weary, but startled and bright, the sound spilling into the little cabin like it belonged there. She covered her mouth with one hand, shaking her head in disbelief.
“Oh, God,” she said between small bursts of laughter. “Juniper’s my best friend.”
His eyes widened, the weight of coincidence hitting him square in the chest.
“Really?”
“Really,” she said, still half-laughing, half-bewildered. “You’re telling me all this time, your brother’s been dating my best friend and we didn’t know?”
Percy let out a short, incredulous laugh, running a hand through his damp hair.
“That’s… a hell of a coincidence,” his gaze softened as it lingered on her, the kind of look that said maybe the world wasn’t just throwing storms at them tonight. Maybe, in its strange way, it was nudging them closer.
For a moment, the air was lighter, warmer, carried by her laughter and his disbelieving smile. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it hummed with the quiet awe of connection, like the two of them had stumbled upon a secret.
“Guess,” he said finally, his voice gentle and teasing, “it makes us a little less strangers than I thought.”
Her smile lingered, curved with surprise, and she nodded.
Then Percy glanced at the clothes he’d changed into earlier and back at the bathroom door.
“It’s my turn now,” he said, brushing at the sleeves that still clung damply to his arms. “I’ll get out of these before I catch something.”
He started to rise, then paused, noticing the way her eyes drifted again—around the small cabin, the shelves, the little corners that spoke of a life once lived here.
“You’re welcome to look around, if you want,” he offered, his voice softer than before, carrying no expectation.
Her gaze flicked to his, uncertain for half a beat, and then she gave a tiny nod.
Percy smiled faintly, lingering just a moment longer as if to be sure she was truly comfortable, then turned and slipped into the bathroom, the door clicking quietly shut behind him.
Left alone, Annabeth exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Slowly, carefully, she rose from the mattress. Her legs still trembled, her body worn down by the storm of the day, but curiosity tugged her forward.
The heater hummed on, the purple curtains shifting gently in a draft. Her fingertips grazed the spines of books on the narrow shelves — some worn, some new. She walked toward the wardrobe, still ajar, where neatly folded clothes waited as if always prepared. The table, the stove, the bed: all simple, all alive with the ghost of lives once lived here.
And she couldn’t help but feel it, pressing quietly against her chest — that strange mix of belonging and intrusion, of being trusted with something private, of being allowed to stand in the heart of someone’s memory.
The room was hushed except for the hum of the heater and the muffled sound of running water behind the bathroom door. Annabeth moved slowly, her bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor as though she were intruding on something sacred.
Her fingers trailed over the shelves first—spines of books bent and faded, others newer, tucked in among them. Some had pressed petals between the pages, peeking out like whispers caught in paper. She touched one absentmindedly, and the delicate edge crumbled slightly under her fingertip.
The wardrobe caught her eye next. The door was ajar from when Percy had pulled clothes out for her. Inside, neatly folded stacks of shirts, sweaters, pants—things that spoke of order and care. But on the upper shelf, tucked into the corner, was a stack of worn folders. She hesitated only a moment before reaching up and sliding one down.
It was heavier than expected, the kind of weight that carried not only paper but memories. She sat back on the bed, balancing it on her lap, and opened it.
Photographs slipped free, falling gently into her lap. She picked them up one by one.
Percy as a teenager, his hair a little longer, his smile sheepish and almost shy. Percy with Grover — his arm around his shoulder, both grinning in front of what looked like a schoolyard. Their mother beside them in another photo, laughing with her head tilted back, eyes crinkling at the corners.
She turned back to the folder. Beneath the pictures, there were papers. Sheet music, some hand-scribbled, some neatly printed. Scattered lyrics filled margins, lines scratched out and rewritten. The handwriting was careful, sometimes hurried, sometimes drifting into loops when a phrase clearly carried him away.
One page in particular slid free. A song, she supposed, considering the music sheets, but it could also be a poem—unfinished, maybe, but whole enough to hum. She couldn’t help herself. She lifted it closer, the corners creased from handling, and her eyes traced the words written softly.
this old heart, washed out and torn apart
through the glass, gardens of wilted art
time took its toll, and yet you saw in it some life
and stood before the gates to all I hide
heart, be still; bury my name in the ash
love, you will be the one myth I make last
monsters we dream are just memory
and we’ll make it out alive
monsters I see
are far, and you’re here
and I’ll give you all my life.
Annabeth’s lips parted. A small, helpless smile rose to her face, unbidden. Sweet, she thought. A little raw, unpolished in the way that made it honest. The kind of words someone might never show the world but needed to put down anyway, to pin a feeling into permanence.
She held the paper closer, her chest warming despite herself. She could almost imagine him hunched over this very table, pen in hand, furrowed brow, scribbling a phrase, scratching it out, trying again.
But then— her smile faltered.
Her gaze snagged not on the words, but the letters themselves. The slope of them. The deliberate way the lines curved and connected. The exact way certain letters hooked at their ends, almost too neat to be casual.
Her breath caught.
She knew that handwriting.
The bouquets. The little cards tucked among the flowers. The same careful script that had carried sweet words, meanings of blossoms, encouragement she hadn’t dared believe was truly meant for her.
It was his.
Percy’s.
The paper trembled in her hand, her pulse thundering in her ears as realization settled like something both too heavy and too delicate to hold. Annabeth’s chest ached, her stomach coiled tight. The heater’s warmth pressed against her skin, but she felt cold, every nerve alight with panic and disbelief.
Because, all of a sudden, she knew.
And she couldn’t unknow it now.
The paper in her hands felt heavier than it should, as though the ink itself carried the weight of revelation. She wanted to drop it, to push it away, to undo the recognition that had just broken through her like lightning through a still sky—but her fingers refused to let go. Her mind ran in frantic circles, chasing explanations that dissolved the moment they formed.
Had it been him all along? Every letter, every line, every gentle fold of paper she had tucked away, every word that had made her feel seen in ways she had never confessed aloud—him?
The thought left Annabeth dizzy, the room swaying around her like she’d been caught in a sudden tide.
Her heart stuttered between warmth and terror. A part of her wanted to glow with the knowledge, to treasure it, to believe that his hands, his heart, had carried all that tenderness toward her; but another part recoiled in shock, unsettled by the nearness of the truth, by the quiet intimacy of it finally revealed. She hadn’t been ready for the mask to slip. She hadn’t prepared herself for the sender to step out of the shadows of mystery and into his shape, his face, despite her hoping.
Because dreams could be so terribly scary when they were outside one’s head.
The bathroom door opened, then, and her breath snapped silent in her chest. She didn’t move, not when she heard the shuffle of fabric, not when the faint scent of soap and dampness drifted into the room, not when his steps pressed softly against the floorboards. She could tell without looking that he had changed—clothes loose, hair still wet, his presence suddenly so real, so near it was unbearable.
She kept her eyes fixed on the page, though she wasn’t reading anymore. The lyrics blurred, swimming with her own reflection in the sheen of the paper. Her grip tightened, crinkling the edges.
He crossed the room with a quiet that felt deliberate, unhurried, like he wasn’t aware of the storm inside her. And then the bed dipped under his weight. The shift of air brushed her skin, a reminder that he was right there, close enough that if she looked up, she’d see him.
But she couldn’t. Not yet.
Annabeth’s ears picked out every detail: the faint exhale he let out, the creak of the mattress springs, the stillness that followed. He wasn’t speaking, comfortable in the silence, and neither was she. The silence grew thick between them, dense with all the words unsaid, until she thought it might crush her.
Her throat was tight, her chest constricted. She could feel her pulse everywhere—her temples, her fingertips, even in the fragile paper pressed against her palm. She knew she had to say something, but when her lips parted, the words faltered, trembling into the air.
“You…” her voice caught, shaky, but she pushed on, softer, raw. “You’re the one. The one who’s been sending them.”
The confession trembled in the air, fragile and undeniable, waiting to either shatter or be held.
Percy stopped moving, and the only noise was the rain falling outside.
The silence stretched, so long and so absolute that Annabeth felt every second crawl against her skin. He sat frozen beside her, the warmth of his presence palpable, yet he seemed carved out of stone, unwilling or unable to bridge the space between them.
Finally, she turned toward him, her hands trembling around the paper. Her voice came out sharper than she intended, cracking with nerves.
“You’re going to deny it?” she asked.
His chest rose with a deep, steadying breath. For a heartbeat, she swore he might retreat behind some half-truth, might hide himself the way he always had. But when he spoke, his words were soft, stripped of defenses.
“No,” he said, calm and collected in all ways his own chest wasn’t right then. His gaze didn’t falter. “There’s no point in lying to you.”
Her throat tightened. The paper shook in her hands, crinkling slightly with the tremor of her grip. The simplicity of his answer undid her, tugged at every thread of doubt she had knotted into herself.
“You sent them,” she whispered, as though saying it aloud might make it less impossible. Her eyes searched his face for even the smallest flicker of contradiction, but he only sat there, quiet and sure. “All of them?”
“Yes,” he nodded once, slow, deliberate. “Every single one.”
The floor seemed to tilt beneath her. Butterflies erupted in her stomach, frantic and dizzying, their wings brushing against her ribs as if they had been waiting for this moment to break free. Her chest felt warm, fluttery, a spark catching and spreading, and yet she couldn’t control the shock running alongside it. The two feelings clashed in her like a storm—hope unfurling wildly, disbelief anchoring her down.
Her lips parted, searching for something solid to cling to.
“Why?” she breathed, barely more than a question, her voice trembling with equal parts fear and wonder.
Percy let out a quick exhale, sharp but light, almost a laugh. His shoulders eased, and a wide, incredulous smile pulled across his face, as though she had just asked the most absurd question in the world. He leaned slightly forward, eyes bright despite the dim glow of the room.
“Why?” he echoed, shaking his head with disbelief, as though he couldn’t fathom what she didn’t already know. “Annabeth… how could it have ever been anyone else?”
The words landed between them, heavy and bright all at once, unraveling the last shreds of doubt she’d clung to.
“It—” Percy began, his voice uneven at first, as though the words had to fight their way out of him. He drew in a breath, eyes dropping to his hands, fingers twisting together in his lap. “The first ones were just as a thank you. For that first day at the window,” he told her, and a smile stretched across his face—so kind it made something in Annabeth ache. But his eyes didn’t dare meet hers; it was as if a confession like this needed distance, as though looking at her directly might shatter the courage it took to say it aloud.
Annabeth’s chest tightened, her heart thudding painfully against her ribs. That first day. She remembered it now — him standing there, quiet, almost like a shadow, and yet there had been a gentleness in his gaze, a stillness that had lingered with her longer than she wanted to admit.
“It made sense,” Percy continued, “since I could never have the nerve to talk to you face-to-face,” he laughed softly, a breath more than a sound, and his shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “And then I just— I saw you taking them home. I saw you—” Percy faltered, and this time his voice softened until it was almost a whisper. “You smiled. And I just…” He exhaled and let the silence carry the weight of it. His hand lifted, then fell again, a gesture incomplete. “I liked being the reason for it, somehow.”
Her lips parted, but no words came. He rushed to fill the quiet, a nervous laugh tumbling out of him, shaky but earnest.
“And then we kept ‘talking’ through the windows, and I—” His laugh deepened, lighter this time, as if even now the memory brought warmth to him. “I just wanted to give you something nice.”
Her throat tightened, a lump she couldn’t quite swallow back. She blinked rapidly, searching for something to hold onto, and finally managed to breathe.
“Bouquets and more bouquets of flowers?”
At that, he looked at her at last. Really looked—his gaze steady, almost boyish in its sincerity. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, so soft it could have been carved out of the very air.
“I am a florist,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious, unshakable truth in the world.
Annabeth huffed, an incredulous smile slipping through even as tears burned at the corners of her eyes. She shook her head, letting out a quiet, disbelieving laugh that caught on the edge of a sob. The warmth in her chest swelled, colliding with her confusion, her disbelief, her fragile joy.
But then her brow furrowed again, a thought clawing its way past the haze of emotions.
“But— we never even talked,” she said, her voice breaking on the word. “You never—you saw me with the flowers. You—the notes, I—” She faltered, shaking her head as if the pieces couldn’t possibly fit together, as if she had missed something vital.
Then the realization struck her, sudden and sharp. Her breath caught.
“They have meanings,” she whispered.
Percy’s expression softened in recognition, as though he had been waiting for her to arrive at that truth.
“Flowers have meanings,” she repeated, firmer this time, her gaze snapping to his face as if the world had just shifted under her feet. “All of them—every single one you sent me—”
The words tumbled over themselves, her voice trembling, but she couldn’t stop. The memories surged: armfuls of petals in her arms, notes she had folded into books, words she had reread when the nights felt too long. She thought of the Maiden’s Blush roses, the violets, the lilacs—all with meanings she had half-noticed, half-dismissed, never daring to believe they might have been deliberate.
Her heart hammered as the room tilted, as if every bouquet she had ever received suddenly bloomed inside her all at once.
She searched his face, desperate, overwhelmed, needing him to confirm what her chest already knew.
“Had a meaning, yes,” he confirmed anyway.
Annabeth’s eyes left his face, and she looked at the sheet still in her hand, and then around for a second. Then, she looked up at Percy, finding his gaze again.
“What was it?” she asked, and Percy frowned, tilting his head. “The meanings. What were they?”
Percy frowned at her question, tilting his head slightly, like the answer should have been obvious. But when he parted his lips to speak, no words came. His breath hitched, his mouth closed again, and he looked away. For a moment, Annabeth thought she had pushed too far.
And then, suddenly, the absurdity of her own question struck her. Her heart lurched, shame prickling at her chest. What was she even asking? How could anyone—especially someone who had sent so many bouquets—be expected to remember all of them, each stem, each carefully chosen bloom? It was ridiculous.
She blinked hard, trying to backpedal, to find words to cover up her foolishness, but before she could, Percy shifted. Without a word, he stood.
Her eyes followed him as he crossed the small cabin, his shoulders tense, his movements sure but unhurried. He stopped at a narrow bench pushed against the wall, and only then did she notice what sat there. A vase. A plain, glass vase—but inside, not one flower repeated the other.
Her breath caught.
Because she knew them.
Every single one.
Every flower she had ever received from him was there. Collected. Gathered. Preserved. Like a catalog of secrets, a testimony of meanings he had once only dared to send in silence.
Annabeth’s chest ached with a sudden, uncontrollable pressure.
He carried the vase back, careful with it as though it were the most fragile thing in the room. When he reached the small table, the one littered with sheet music and memories she had just been rifling through, he placed the vase down with reverence. Then he turned, circling around her where she stood frozen, and stopped at her side.
She turned to face him, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears, watching his profile as he breathed in deep. She saw the way he steadied himself, as if gathering courage wasn’t just necessary—it was sacred.
And then, with a hand that shook only faintly, Percy reached into the vase.
He pulled out a stem of flax first, its delicate blue petals catching in the lamplight, almost trembling in his hand. He held it carefully, then set it down gently on the table before her.
“Flax,” he murmured, his voice soft, steady. His gaze flicked to hers, and for the first time tonight, he held it without looking away. “It means ‘I feel your kindness.’”
Annabeth’s throat closed. She looked down at the flower, her vision blurring at the edges, then back at him. The meaning took her back to the first flowers, to the context of it all — it made sense. It had been making sense from the very, very beginning, and she had not known. She had not spoken the language that was being spoken to her; she had not understood a single thing that had been said.
His hand went back into the vase, slower this time, fingers parting the stems until he drew another forward. He pulled free an oak geranium, its leaves deep green, its flowers small but radiant. He lifted it between them, then placed it gently beside the flax.
“And oak geranium,” he continued, his voice even quieter now. He hesitated, as if the words might burn him on their way out, but he said them anyway. “It means…” he took a breath. “‘Lady, deign to smile.’”
Annabeth’s breath stuttered, her chest aching as something between a laugh and a sob broke free from her lips. Her hands hovered above the flowers but didn’t touch them, too reverent, too afraid of what it would mean. Of what they did mean.
She couldn’t speak, so she just looked at the florist, eyes wide, heart hammering, as if he had just broken open a door she hadn’t even realized was locked.
Percy, for his part, didn’t move either. He stood close, too close, his hands empty now but trembling slightly at his sides, his face open, unguarded, as if laying down every meaning he had kept hidden was the most dangerous thing he had ever done.
Annabeth couldn’t find her breath, but Percy did not stop, almost as if her silence gave him permission to keep pulling truth out of petals.
He reached into the vase again, careful, reverent, and drew out two stems at once. He set them down gently between the flax and the oak geranium, arranging them side by side.
“Pansies,” he said, his voice steady now, though his fingers still trembled faintly as he brushed a leaf back into place. “They mean ‘think of me,’” his eyes softened as he looked at the second flower in his hand. “And nigella. That one means ‘you puzzle me.’”
Annabeth’s chest tightened. Think of me. You puzzle me. She remembered that bouquet, tucked into her arms on a gray morning, when she had felt frayed at the edges. She had thought it pretty, but vague — gentle colors, unassuming. But hearing him say it now made her heart tumble inside her chest.
Her lips parted, but nothing came out. She didn’t need to say it — he knew.
Percy reached for the plants again. This time, he pulled an iris, purple and elegant, its petals arching like painted silk. He placed it carefully in the growing arrangement.
“Iris,” he murmured. “It means ‘message.’”
Then he drew another, smaller flower, a cluster of bluebells so delicate they almost looked unreal in the lamplight. He held it longer, turning it slightly in his hand before laying it beside the iris.
“And bluebells,” he added softly. “They mean ‘I will be constant.’”
Her hand rose to her chest without her realizing, pressing against the erratic thrum of her heart. Constant. He had been — he had always been. Even when she hadn’t realized what the constancy meant, or that it was even something happening.
Her vision blurred again, but she blinked quickly, unwilling to lose even a fragment of what he was saying.
Percy reached once more, and this time he hesitated before pulling a bloom free. His lips quirked faintly, as if embarrassed, and he smoothed a thumb over the icy-pale petals before speaking.
“Ice plants,” he said slowly, his eyes flicking to her face as if to gauge her reaction. “They mean…”
“Your looks freeze me,” she cut in, her voice thin, breathless. Her cheeks warmed as the memory clawed its way back — the day outside the café, the first time their words had crossed in person, the awkwardness, the way she had nearly dropped the bouquet. “I remember. That was—” she broke off, shaking her head, overwhelmed. “That was when we first talked face-to-face.”
Percy’s smile softened into something quiet, luminous.
“Yes,” he whispered, his tone thick with warmth, “it was.”
Her throat ached with everything she was trying to keep from walking past it towards her lips.
He didn’t push it further. Instead, he reached again, pulling two more stems — white pinks, their ruffled edges delicate, paired with the richer bloom of Austrian roses, soft and layered. He held them together in one hand, and when he spoke, it was almost reverent.
“White pinks,” he said, his gaze fixed on the flower before he placed it down. “They mean ‘thou art fair,’” his lips curved slightly as he laid the rose beside it. “And Austrian roses. ‘Thou art all that is lovely.’”
His voice lingered on that last word — lovely — as if it was too much for him to say outright to her face. His smile was small, private, but it lit his features with an honesty that pressed like a hand against her ribs.
Annabeth’s lungs burned. Each meaning pressed closer, tightening around her chest until she felt she might burst. Her breath came shallow, uneven, and her eyes stung as she stared at the little gathering of flowers between them.
It was too much. Too much beauty, too much care. Too much of him, here, all at once.
Her hands hovered uselessly at her sides, her lips parting, closing, parting again, as her heartbeat tripped into something almost unbearable. She had thought she knew what these bouquets had been — small kindnesses, distant gifts. But here he was, unfolding them one by one, turning them into a confession so rich, so impossible, her whole body felt dizzy with it.
Percy didn’t seem to notice her unraveling. Or maybe he did, but he kept moving, his hands steady now, his voice growing surer, as though each flower gave him courage to go on.
Percy’s hand hovered over the vase again, and Annabeth watched him, entranced. Every movement was careful, deliberate, as if he were unfolding a story she had only glimpsed through petals before.
He reached first for a fern, its delicate fronds curling lightly.
“Fern,” he said softly, almost as if the word itself held reverence. “Means fascination.”
Annabeth’s chest fluttered. Fascination. That’s what I felt the first time I saw him, she thought, a rush of memory pressing her heart into her ribs.
Next, he drew a daffodil, its sunny yellow a stark contrast to the soft greens around it. He held it up gently.
“Daffodil,” he said, and there was the faintest smile tugging at his lips, “means chivalry,” Annabeth blinked, caught in the echo of that playful conversation weeks ago about chivalry not being dead. She remembered teasing him — and here it was, a bloom echoing the joke and the truth all at once.
He picked up a fennel next, its feathery leaves delicate in his hand.
“Fennel means strength,” he whispered. His gaze flicked to her briefly, shy and uncertain, as though the word itself was meant as much for her as it was for him.
Percy’s fingers lingered on a jonquil. His voice softened even further:
“Jonquil. ‘I desire the return of affection,’” his eyes caught hers and held them, almost pleading. Annabeth’s stomach churned with remembered butterflies — the ones that had begun months ago, around the time of those first stolen moments together.
He reached for a black mulberry, dark against the lighter blooms, and laid it down gently.
“I will not survive you,” he murmured, so quiet that she could barely hear. It was raw, earnest, and made her chest ache as though she had swallowed too much sunlight.
The next bloom was a bachelor’s button, fragile and blue.
“Hope in love,” he said, softer still. His voice cracked a fraction, betraying him. Annabeth’s fingers curled against her knees, a flutter of warmth and fear and something unnamed pressing against her heart.
Then sweet alyssum, its tiny clustered flowers almost shy in appearance.
“Worth beyond beauty,” he said, and she blinked, breath catching. Every word was a window into something he had felt silently all this time.
A moonflower followed, its pale petals luminous in the dim cabin light.
“Blossoming in dark times,” he whispered. His hand lingered on it a second longer, and Annabeth realized just how many nights he must have spent thinking of her, imagining this moment, the way she might receive his words.
He chose a dogwood next.
“Am I indifferent to you?” he said, almost a question to himself as much as to her. The honesty in his voice made Annabeth’s throat constrict.
She wouldn’t even point out the odd meaning of so many flowers, that were complete sentences and declarations and compliments, but it made something sharp stab her heartstrings that Percy would’ve chosen those. She wasn’t sure of when they were sent, but it was probably around the time she had told him about getting flowers from an unnamed someone — and, perhaps, because she never went after the meanings of the flowers, he had believed…
Oh, gods above, around and below.
What a colorful mess.
Percy seemed unfazed by her sudden lost gaze, eyes trained on the flowers with the same tenderness, she noticed now, that he looked at her. Annabeth blinked back to reality, and then came a Maiden’s Blush rose in his grip — a very, very pretty flower that made her stomach flip inside her body when she first saw the arrangement —, and her heart skipped yet another beat.
“If you do love me, you will find me out,” the words fell gently, like petals landing on still water, and oh.
Bullseye, apparently.
She had not looked too deep into it, and if all his expectations laid on Annabeth figuring out the flowers’ meanings, then it would’ve broken his heart that she never asked. Because he was the one to tell her what flowers mean and— well, it should’ve made sense long before. He always knew the meanings of the flowers she received and asked him about, but not all flowers that she pointed and asked about.
Of course, he knew. Because he was talking to her, about her and hoping for them.
Percy followed with a lupine, tall and vibrant, paired with ambrosia.
“Lupine and ambrosia. Together… uh, together they mean ‘I’m imagining my love returned’,” his voice was tentative, shy, and his eyes flicked to hers as though searching for a signal, any sign, that she could understand the depth behind his careful arrangement.
Finally, he reached the last flowers. With hands that now trembled slightly, he held the osier and the lilac.
“And these… together, they mean if I am honest, I’ve fallen in love,” his voice was so low, so fragile, that Annabeth could barely hear it. She leaned in without realizing, drawn closer by the simple, devastating truth. “But you know that.”
She felt her breath hitch, her chest tightening with each new bloom. Her heart hammered, her fingers curled against her thighs, and a warm, jittery thrill spread from the base of her spine to the tips of her fingers. Her eyes glimmered, shimmering with disbelief, joy, and awe. Every flower, every carefully chosen stem, was a confession—layered, painstaking, and impossible to ignore.
Percy’s posture shifted; he grew smaller in her perception, shyly retreating into himself even as he hovered so close. His hands, so used to handling flowers with ease, now trembled as he adjusted stems, tucked one here, nudged another there. Every movement was shy, deliberate, almost painfully earnest.
Annabeth could only stare. She felt like she might burst. The cabin, the heater, the warmth of his presence — it all melded into a cocoon around them, a space where everything unsaid and long-awaited was now uttered through blooms, meanings, and heartbeats.
And in that suspended moment, Annabeth realized she didn’t need words anymore. The flowers, the order, the care, the shyness — it was all enough. Each petal, each carefully selected meaning, spoke more than any sentence could.
Her hands twitched, wanting to reach for him, but she froze, overwhelmed, breathless. His shyness, his quiet confession, pressed against her chest in a way that made the world tilt, and she let herself sit in it, lost in the delicate, devastating, undeniable truth: he had fallen in love, and somehow, impossibly, she had known it all along — now confirmed in the most beautiful, painstaking way.
There was a pause in the small cabin, the only sound being the soft hum of the heater and the faint rustle of leaves brushing against the windows. Percy’s hands moved with deliberate care, arranging the flowers in the vase, petals brushing against petals, stems clicking softly against glass. He avoided her gaze, as if the truth of what had just been confessed made looking at her too fragile, too revealing.
Annabeth’s chest tightened. She had been holding back, letting the shock and awe of the revelations ripple through her. But the silence stretched long, heavy, and she couldn’t help it. The words tumbled out before she could stop them.
“Why did they stop?” she asked softly, and even to herself, the sound of her voice startled her.
Percy froze, hand midway through tucking a stem into place. Slowly, he turned his face toward her, but not his eyes, keeping them fixed on the flowers.
“What?” he asked, voice cautious, almost fragile.
“Why did you stop sending flowers? If… if you’ve…” Her voice cracked on the last word, fear and hope twisting inside her. Annabeth swallowed, her throat tight. She couldn’t say fallen in love — the words felt too daring, too terrifying — but she could ask this much. “Why did they stop?”
For a moment, Percy pressed his lips together, silent. The room seemed to shrink, the heater’s warmth barely touching the icy swirl of tension between them. Then he let out a soft huff, a sound almost like a sigh, heavy with emotion.
“Annabeth, you—” he stopped, gathering himself. “You… when you went to the café that day and asked me what they meant… you—when I told you, you seemed so scared,” his voice caught. “You ran away, and you didn’t even know it was me. And there was so much fear in your eyes, and you—” he trailed off, the weight of the memory pressing on his chest.
Annabeth flinched at the honesty in his tone, at the tremor that had crept into his words. She opened her mouth to protest, to say she hadn’t meant to, but the confession in his voice was too raw, too fragile.
“You ran,” he continued, voice softer now, almost a whisper. “And I didn’t know how to… I didn’t know if I should reach for you, or if I should wait. I wanted to keep sending them, every bouquet, every note, but I wanted to give you time, space, to understand… and to maybe let you see me, without scaring you,” his hands hovered over the vase, trembling slightly as he adjusted the last of the flowers.
Percy finally lifted his eyes, meeting hers, and for the first time since she had confronted him, he looked directly at her. There was no playfulness now, no teasing—only the vulnerable, steady honesty she had glimpsed in those flowers, magnified.
“And I shouldn’t have… I should have been braver, perhaps. But every time I saw you with the flowers… I couldn’t help myself. I wanted you to know, Annabeth. That you mattered. That you—” his voice wavered slightly, “you mean everything.”
The words hit her like sunlight through a storm. Her breath caught, and her chest constricted, not with fear, but with awe, with an aching, dizzying sort of happiness. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even look away. Her eyes glistened, trembling, and the warmth in her chest flared, spreading through her limbs, leaving her tingling, light-headed.
Percy took a careful step closer, still keeping his hands near the vase as if the flowers themselves were shields.
“I wanted you to see it… all of it. Every flower. Every note. Every meaning. Not just as a gift, but as a truth I couldn’t say aloud in the moment,” he said softly, voice breaking, and his shoulders slumped a little, the vulnerability raw and human. “That I’m still terrified to.”
Annabeth’s lips parted, finally finding a whisper of words.
“All this… for me?” she breathed, the disbelief and wonder coiling inside her like a storm.
“Yes,” he said simply, shaking his head with a small, sheepish smile. “Who else could it be for, Annabeth?”
Annabeth’s chest was pounding so hard she could hear it over the soft hum of the heater and the quiet shuffle of Percy moving toward her. Her mind was a whirlwind, every thought spinning faster than she could catch it. He loves me? All of this… for me? Her brain screamed as adrenaline shot through her veins, each heartbeat slamming into the next. And then — suddenly — she moved.
Her hand shot out, snatching the umbrella that had been leaning by the door, the metal cold against her fingers. Her legs carried her forward, past him, before Percy could even form a thought. She felt the warmth of the cabin fading behind her, replaced by a rush of stormy air and the thrill of motion. She didn’t glance back; she couldn’t. Every nerve in her body demanded movement, demanded action, demanded… she didn’t even know what.
Percy froze for a heartbeat, mouth slightly open, a shallow intake of breath catching in his chest. His eyes widened. She was bolting. Again.
“Annabeth—wait!” he shouted, but even to his own ears, it sounded desperate, hollow. He ran a hand through his hair, flustered, frustrated, and then realized with sinking certainty: he couldn’t stop her by standing there. He had lost her.
She burst through the cabin door into the rain, the umbrella awkwardly opening as the wind snagged it. Droplets plastered her hair to her forehead, clung to the edges of her damp coat, and stung her cheeks, but she hardly noticed. Her mind was too full of chaos, too full of him and what he had just said.
Percy’s voice pierced through the roar of rain, muffled by the thunder rolling over the rooftops of the café and the small garden.
“Annabeth!”
Her legs carried her forward, weaving around the tables the café had set out in the garden, her umbrella bobbing like a small, struggling sail. She could hear him behind her, crashing through puddles, swearing under his breath, but her focus narrowed to a single point — a flash of color through the storm.
There, partially hidden in the wet darkness, was the bush. Red roses, vibrant against the gray night, their petals slick with rain. Her chest heaved, her breath misting in the cold night air, and she stopped short at the edge of the bush. Something compelled her toward it, an instinct, a sudden need she didn’t understand.
“Annabeth!” Percy’s voice was closer now, panic threading through it. She caught the sound of splashing water and realized he had thrown caution to the wind, sprinting barefoot across wet cobblestones, the umbrella he hadn’t bothered to take clutched in one hand. “Please—wait, don’t—don’t do this!”
She pressed a hand to her chest as she reached the bush, the cold iron tang of the rain still dripping from the umbrella onto her sleeve. Her head spun, thoughts colliding. What am I doing? What is happening? How could someone—
The red petals gleamed in the stormlight, and the scent, faint but unmistakable, hit her. Roses. His roses. The bouquet he had once sent, carefully chosen, hand-tied with meanings she had almost memorized. She knelt slightly, brushing her fingers over the wet leaves and petals, the weight of her emotions pressing down, mingling with the adrenaline still pulsing in her veins.
Annabeth’s fingers trembled as they grazed the petals, the rain dripping from her hair and sleeves onto the muddy ground below. Each drop of water mingled with the warmth of her racing pulse, and the heady scent of the roses was almost dizzying. She squeezed the pair of scissors she had stolen just then from his table, the metal cold and slick with rain, and knelt a little closer to the bush, her hands shaking—not from the cold, but from the surge of emotion she could no longer contain.
Her chest felt tight, as though it had been folded into itself, and her thoughts collided in a chaotic jumble. All of it. Every flower, every note, every meaning… he did this for me? Her fingers tightened around the scissors, careful not to crush the petals. She inhaled sharply, trying to steady herself.
With a decisive cut, she severed one single bloom — a red rose, the deepest, most vivid red she had ever seen (perhaps she was just insane), petals shining with rain and Annabeth ultimately ignoring the thorns, because they didn’t matter. She held it carefully, almost reverently, letting the water drip down her wrist and onto the ground. The world around her seemed to shrink until it existed only as the rose in her hands and the pounding of her heart.
The storm raged harder now, the wind tugging at her wet braid, whipping raindrops into her eyes. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision and focus. The rose was pressed close to her chest as if it could contain her racing thoughts and the ache in her chest all at once.
Her mind was a torrent of disbelief, hope, fear, and exhilaration. Every step was fueled by a single thought: I need him to know. Her breaths came in ragged pulls, and her stomach swirled with butterflies she could no longer deny. She wasn’t even sure why she had chosen this rose — instinct? A feeling? A silent plea? — but she held it up, heart hammering, as though it could speak the words she couldn’t find.
“Annabeth!” he called again, and she could barely hear his heavy steps as he got closer. “Annabeth, please! You– please, I– You don’t have to see my face ever again, you don’t have to even– to even remember me,” he yelled over the noise of water, and each word seemed to break his heart more and more. “But just– stay here tonight. For safety, and I’ll– I’ll sleep in the shop, but don’t—”
Suddenly, she got up, and turned around to face him. Percy stopped talking, a bit too terrified of her — the umbrella had been half useless, considering the state of the pants she was wearing now, and her braids seemed even wetter. Annabeth had wide eyes as she stared at him, and she raised something close to his face.
She was anxious, and it took him a bit to understand what it was, so close she held it to his nose and with so much water falling from the sky.
It was a rose.
A red rose.
Percy frowned, completely confused.
“Annabeth, wh—” he began.
“What does it mean?” she yelled over the pouring rain.
“What?!” he yelled back.
“What does it mean?!” she repeated. “A red rose. What does it mean?”
It took him a few seconds to even process the request, and his heart — his aching, bleeding, shattered heart — was hammering against his ribs.
“A red ro—” he shook his head. “Why are you asking me this?”
“Percy!” she called, and shook the rose closer to him. His front was covered by the umbrella, and his back was being hit by the water — he was already drenched, so physical purposes were useless, but it was easier to listen to Annabeth like that. “What does it mean?” she repeated.
He sighed, tilted his head to both sides as if considering and then admitting defeat, and closed his eyes.
“Love,” he said. “Deep love and devotion.”
The words hit her like lightning, sending a shiver through her drenched body, mingling with the warmth that suddenly bloomed in her chest. The rose in her hand felt heavier, alive with meaning, and she blinked through the rain, staring at him as if seeing him for the first time, even though she had known him for weeks. Her breath caught in her throat, and the storm around them — the rain, the wind, the darkened sky — faded into a blur of red petals, racing hearts, and the impossible clarity of the truth finally spoken aloud.
Annabeth’s hand, trembling slightly in the rain, held the red rose tightly. She lifted it toward Percy, and then, almost instinctively, she let her fingers brush against his. He froze. His mind was spinning, her eyes locked on his with a steady intensity that made everything else — the storm, the water running down their faces, the cold air—fade into background noise.
She nodded once, faintly, almost imperceptibly, but enough to convey the affirmation.
“Yeah,” she said softly, a reply to the meaning he gave her, her voice barely rising above the downpour.
Percy’s heart skipped a beat with the innuendo she was offering. His eyebrows rose, a crease forming in the middle of his forehead as he tried to process her gesture. She wanted him to hold the rose. The rose. The symbol of her acknowledgment, her trust, her heart open in front of him. And yet, he was utterly lost in her gaze, unable to do anything but stare.
“You—what do you mean?” His voice was rough, cracking as it carried across the rain, swallowed almost immediately by the storm. His pulse hammered in his ears, and the umbrella, useless in the torrent, did nothing to protect him.
Annabeth didn’t answer immediately. She only raised her gaze higher, meeting his eyes with unwavering clarity. There was something daring in her stance now, a quiet insistence that seemed to tether him to the moment. The air between them pulsed with tension, anticipation, and an unspoken agreement.
He glanced down at the rose in his hand, then back at her. The petals glistened with rain, dripping onto his fingers and the ground below. His chest heaved as a wave of understanding, of surrender, and of longing washed over him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in his throat. She wasn’t asking for anything with words—she had already given him everything in that look, in that small, determined nod and a rose.
A single flower.
And then, with the suddenness of someone who had waited too long and could bear the ache of restraint no longer, he lurches forward. The world seemed to condense into that single, wet, electric moment. His lips found hers — hard, desperate, and wet — and the taste of rain and determination filled the space between them.
Annabeth’s hands instinctively clutched at him, fingers tangling in his drenched coat, welcoming him, welcoming the inevitability of the kiss she had been unknowingly waiting for. The rose slipped from Percy’s fingers, tumbling into the puddle at their feet, petals slowly dispersing in the rainwater. The umbrella fell from Annabeth’s hand, spinning away and leaving them utterly exposed to the storm.
There was no thought of cold, of wet clothes, of shivering limbs. There was only the press of lips, the mingling of breaths, the electric pulse that traveled from her stomach to her chest, and then outwards until it seemed as though every inch of her body was blooming. The butterflies in her stomach — the nervous, jittery, aching kind — unraveled, scattering themselves across the garden of her heart, finding their place in every corner, every petal, every pulse.
His arms wrapped around her, anchoring her to him as if the rain and the storm could sweep them away at any moment. And yet, they remained. Her lips met his with the same intensity, answering his, weaving her breath with his, her heart echoing the rhythm he had unknowingly been keeping since the first glance, the first bouquet.
The world beyond the garden ceased to exist. The café, the cabin, the city, the rain — they all dissolved into insignificance. There was only this, only the two of them drenched, entwined, the storm outside a mere whisper compared to the tempest they had finally allowed themselves to feel.
The butterflies in her stomach unleashed, making all the way up to the garden Percy had, blossom by blossom, planted in her heart.
Finally, when the kiss broke, it was not abrupt, but slow, lingering, as if neither dared to release the other completely. Their foreheads rested together, breath mingling, water dripping from their hair and faces, hearts hammering in perfect, synchronized chaos.
This time, it was urgent and tender all at once. Annabeth’s fingers threaded into the damp cuirls at the nape of Percy’s neck, feeling the warmth of his skin through the wet fabric of his collar. She clung to him, letting herself be grounded in him, letting every pulse and flutter of her heart be mirrored in his. Percy’s arms wrapped around her waist, pressing her close, holding her steady as if afraid the world would try to steal her away. They kissed and kissed, over and over, until a thunderclap shook the night, loud and startling, forcing them apart just enough to gulp in air, their breaths mingling with the rain, misting around their faces.
“C’mon,” Percy said, his voice ragged but full of a warmth she hadn’t realized she’d been craving. He took her hand, fingers intertwining, and guided her through the slick garden path, the rain slicking cobblestones and pooling in tiny streams around their boots. Each step was careful, slow — he didn’t want her to slip, didn’t want to break this fragile, perfect bubble that had formed around them.
The path to the small cabin behind the café was lined with flowerbeds, rain-heavy and fragrant, and the scent of wet earth and petals mingled with the storm in a way that made Annabeth’s chest flutter with a dizzying, light-headed joy. They crossed the garden, both soaked, the umbrella abandoned in the chaos, and finally reached the cabin. Percy’s hand remained firm around hers, grounding her as she let herself sink into the doorway.
Inside, warmth immediately wrapped around them. The heater’s soft hum welcomed them, dry air enveloping their drenched forms. The smell of the wooden cabin, the faint perfume of flowers left from his careful arrangements, and the cozy familiarity of books and shelves filled the space. Percy stepped inside first, guiding her in with gentle insistence, until they were fully out of the rain.
He reached to close the door behind them, but froze mid-motion.
“The rose!” he exclaimed, his hand lingering in the air. “I—” he moved to open the door again, reaching for the wet blossom lying forgotten outside.
Annabeth stopped him. Before he could pull the door open, she placed a hand on his chest, steadying him, and pressed her body close, so close that her nose brushed his.
“I can remind you of the meaning,” she whispered, warm and soft, her voice quiet but unwavering.
Percy’s breath hitched, a sharp, startled inhale, his eyes wide as he absorbed her words.
“And… what does it mean?” he asked, his voice hoarse, fragile, like he was afraid of breaking if he heard her answer.
Annabeth smiled, a tender, luminous smile that seemed to light the dim cabin in its own way. Her hand remained pressed against his chest, her body pressed into him, and for the first time, they were more than wet, more than cold, more than anyone else’s expectations.
“I love you,” she said, her words soft but resonant, carrying every heartbeat and tremble she had felt, every moment of longing that had threaded through months of stolen glances and quiet understanding.
Percy exhaled sharply, a rush of relief, awe, and exhilaration flooding him all at once. He lowered his head and kissed her again, this time slow, soft, and infinitely gentle. The desperation of the stormy kiss was replaced with something deliberate, something tender — every brush of his lips, every tilt of her head, every whisper of breath between them spoke of care, of devotion, of love found and acknowledged.
Annabeth wrapped her arms around him, clutching the fabric of his soaked coat, letting herself sink into the warmth and certainty of him. She could feel his pulse against hers, steadying her, connecting them, and a shiver of pure contentment ran through her spine. This kiss, slow, kind, and unwavering, was different. It wasn’t stolen or urgent; it was right. It was the kind of touch that left a mark not on the skin, but on the heart.
Finally, they broke apart, only enough to look at each other. Rainwater dripped from their hair, onto the wooden floor, and the cabin’s heater fogged up the air between them. Percy cupped her cheeks, his thumbs brushing lightly over her wet skin.
“I… I’ve wanted to tell you for so long,” he murmured, voice low, reverent. “All of it. Every single bouquet, every note. I wanted it to mean something for you, for us.”
Annabeth pulled back just slightly, resting her forehead against his chest, letting herself breathe in the warmth and the soft, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. A small, tearful smile appeared on her lips.
“I’m sorry I didn’t speak your language,” she murmured, voice trembling with both laughter and emotion. “But… next time, do sign the notes. I—It’ll be much easier to fall in love with only one person if I know they’re one person alone.”
Percy tilted his head back, a small, smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You fell for me twice?” His tone carried a teasing edge, light enough to make her laugh despite herself, but soft underneath, full of warmth and pride.
Annabeth’s eyes fluttered down for a moment, then back up to meet his, and she let out a breathy, defeated sigh.
“Yeah,” she admitted, her voice low and vulnerable. “Which is why I was so—so afraid. You could break my heart twice.”
The words hung between them, fragile, delicate, and raw. Percy leaned down, capturing her lips again with his, this time slow and lingering. His kiss was confident, yet careful, as if he were guarding her heart with every touch. Her eyes fluttered shut, lips parting slightly, and she let herself melt against him.
“Uh-uh,” he whispered against her lips, pulling back just enough to look at her, his forehead resting against hers. “Hearts don’t break around here.”
Annabeth’s lips curved into a soft, incredulous smile against his.
“No?” she asked, her voice teasing but still shy, still vulnerable.
“No,” he said, voice firm yet gentle. He brushed a wet few baby hairs from her forehead, his fingers lingering at her cheek. “Not ours.”
A shiver ran down her spine as she looked up at him, emotions swirling in her chest — relief, longing, joy, disbelief, and love all tangled together. She couldn’t help but smile again, her hands clutching the front of his soaked coat.
“You really mean that?” she whispered.
“I do,” he replied simply, letting the words sink in as he pressed another gentle kiss to her temple, then the corner of her mouth. “I mean every flower.”
Annabeth tilted her head, catching his lips in a soft, questioning kiss of her own. It was tender, searching, and full of the weight of months of longing and unspoken feelings. Percy’s hands slid to her waist, holding her close, grounding her in the moment, and she felt herself trembling, not from cold, but from the sheer intensity of being seen, understood, and loved.
Percy shivered slightly, the dampness of the rain clinging to him, and Annabeth’s hands immediately went to his shoulders, brushing lightly over the wet fabric.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, a touch embarrassed, “for running off like that… and in the rain.”
He shook his head, a soft laugh escaping him despite the chill.
“It’s okay,” he said, voice low and amused. “Really. No harm done,” he pressed a brief kiss to her temple, warm and grounding, and it sent a small shiver through her as well. “But… we’ll have to change again,” he reminded gently, tugging slightly at his wet collar. “Before we freeze completely.”
Annabeth’s lips curved into a small, teasing smile, and before she could respond, he leaned forward and stole another quick, wet kiss. The kind that made her knees feel weak and her heartbeat spiked all over again. Pulling back, he gave her a small grin, then, with a quiet sigh, walked over to the wardrobe. He opened it carefully, like a man handling fragile treasure, and reached for neatly folded clothes he had set aside.
Annabeth stayed where she was, watching him with wide eyes, her hair still damp from the rain and sticking to the sides of her face. He handed her a soft, long-sleeved sweater and a pair of warm pants.
“For you,” he said simply, and she took them, fingers brushing against his as she held them.
Unable to resist, she leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips.
“Is this… real?” she whispered softly, a little breathless, voice trembling between hope and disbelief.
He chuckled, low and warm, shaking his head gently.
“It is,” he said, brushing a wet curl of hair from his face. “So is the cold, so… we need to change before we start catching pneumonia. My mom and Grover would kill me.”
Annabeth laughed softly, a quiet, shaky sound, and nodded. She retreated toward the small bathroom, closing the door behind her. The sound of the rain outside was muffled, but she could still hear Percy moving in the cabin, folding and sorting clothes quietly.
She stared at herself in the mirror for a long moment, heart still fluttering. A smile reached her face — a silly thing, a stupid one — and Annabeth breathed in deeply, carefully, and exhaled in a long breath.
A second later, she was rummaging around the drawers in search of something that she wasn’t sure she would find in there, but at least she knew there was one in the bedroom. Her hands were careful and she didn’t look at anything longer than necessary to catalogue what it was, moving to the following drawer.
In the third drawer, she found it.
“Percy?” she called, and heard an inquiring noise from the bedroom. “Can I use the pair of scissors?”
Upon his affirmative response, Annabeth took the blades from the drawer and shook her head so the braids she wore would fall more evenly around her shoulders. The purple was darker, now that it was soaking wet, and she took the first braid to cut off the extensions.
Her hair had bothered her all day (the color and the pattern and just everything) and she wasn’t about to let a single thing bother her anymore after her heart leapt so eagerly inside her chest.
It was quick work to cut all the extensions, and even quicker work to undo the braids (they hadn’t been so thin this time, and Annabeth was used to having them and taking them off quite often). One by one, the curls of her hair fell free, cascading down her back. The brown caught the soft light of the heater. The hair pooled around her head like a living shadow, long and flowing, soft to the touch.
She ran her hands through it, marveling at how heavy and alive it felt. A quiet, tender smile touched her lips as she caught herself in the mirror, seeing not just her reflection but the woman she felt growing inside herself — the one who could, finally, let herself feel fully, without walls or hesitation.
When she stepped back out of the bathroom, the room seemed warmer somehow, not just from the heater. Percy was on the bed, sitting cross-legged, looking as if he had been waiting but had no words to bridge the moment. The sight of her hair down, wet and dripping slightly from the storm outside, took his breath away. His lips parted, and he seemed to forget how to speak entirely, eyes widening just enough for Annabeth to see the awe, the wonder, and the tenderness in them.
Annabeth’s breath caught in her throat, noticing his silence and the way his eyes lingered on her, as if memorizing her. She stepped closer, heels clicking softly against the wooden floor, and the heater hummed behind them, a soft background to the quiet intimacy of the room. She couldn’t help but smile at the expression frozen on his face — it was exactly the kind of unguarded vulnerability she had been falling for all along.
Percy finally found his voice, but it was small, almost reverent.
“Annabeth…” he murmured, and she felt the weight of his gaze, the depth of his awe. “Your hair…” his voice broke off as if the words themselves weren’t enough, and his fingers twitched, aching to reach out, to touch, but not wanting to rush.
Annabeth tilted her head slightly, smiling softly, her eyes glimmering with wetness from the earlier rain.
“Do you like it?” she teased lightly, though her voice carried the same tremor as before.
He swallowed hard, shaking his head with a small, incredulous smile.
“Like it? Annabeth,” he whispered, his chest rising and falling quickly. His hands finally moved, slow and careful, reaching for hers, brushing away a wet curl from her cheek. “How are you this beautiful?”
She leaned forward, letting her forehead rest against his, heart hammering, chest pressed to his own.
The cabin felt impossibly small, warm, safe, and yet the world outside — the storm, the rain, the chaotic night — felt impossibly vast. And in that room, with hair cascading to her shoulders, hearts pounding in sync, and breaths coming in shared, tremulous waves, they held onto each other, finding solace, safety, and something far more fragile and beautiful than the storm ever could threaten.
Annabeth stepped closer to the bed, her hair brushing against her back in wet, heavy curls. She felt a little vulnerable, soaked from the rain and suddenly aware of how intimate the moment had become. Her hands shook slightly as she reached up, and Percy noticed immediately. With a quiet, soft smile, he reached into the small basket on the table.
“Here,” he said gently, holding out a simple hair tower. “For your hair… it’ll make it a little easier to rest if you don’t sleep on a wet pillow.”
Annabeth’s fingers closed around it, relief and warmth flooding her at the gesture.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice soft, slightly shaky. She worked carefully to pull her hair into a loose, high twist, grateful for the small comfort he offered. When she looked up, Percy was watching her with a quiet intensity that made her chest flutter.
“Also, I was serious,” he said after a beat, breaking the silence, “when I said I could sleep in the shop. There’s a couch there. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable here, not with— with me, and this new development,” he smiled silly, “ and everything that’s happened tonight. You’ve had a hard day.”
His voice was quiet, careful, full of a consideration that made her heart ache in the best possible way. Annabeth tilted her head, blinking at him through the damp strands of hair.
“Did I?” she asked, her lips curving into a soft, bit teasing smile.
Percy frowned slightly, as if struggling to reconcile the question.
“Well… yes?” he said gently. “You said you—”
She pouted, looking up as if she was trying to remember something, and shook her head softly, as if she failed to recall anything at all.
“I can’t remember a single bad thing about this day,” she interrupted, tilting her head the other way, letting a soft laugh escape her.
Percy stayed still, chest rising and falling, his gaze fixed carefully on her face. He didn’t want to do anything that might make her uncomfortable — he understood, now more than ever, that this night had been overwhelming in more ways than one. He stayed seated on the bed, giving her space, though he could feel her close, her presence filling the small cabin like sunlight through a window.
“I think rainy days might become my favorites from now on,” Percy told her.
Annabeth laughed softly.
“I can get on board with that,” she said. “And thank you, by the way. For helping me on the sidewalk. It was very kind of you.”
Percy shook his head.
“I think it was more like basic human decency, really,” he told her. “Even in my selfishness.”
She frowned.
“Selfishness?”
Percy nodded.
“I was a bit jealous of the rain, really,” he said, brushing his nose against hers.
“Oh?” she inquired. “Of the rain?”
“Hm-mm,” he sonorized. “A petty thing, really.”
She laughed.
“And what was the petty thing?”
Percy circled her waist, pressing impossibly closer.
“It was a bit agonizing that the rain got to touch you in a way I could only dream of,” he told her, voice low and husky and making Annabeth’s shivering body have nothing to do with the dampness of her hair or her skin.
Annabeth’s breath caught, her cheeks warming at his words.
“That’s—” she started, laughing nervously, “that’s not fair. How am I supposed to respond to something like that?”
Percy grinned, leaning back just enough to look at her properly, mischief sparking in his eyes.
“You don’t have to respond. You can just let me embarrass myself.”
Her laughter bubbled out, soft and helpless, and she nudged his shoulder lightly with her fingers.
“You’re not embarrassing yourself,” she told him. “You’re actually making this entire thing so much easier.”
“I’m just being honest,” he countered, his smile softening. Then, as if remembering himself, he let his arms loosen around her waist and leaned back a little more, giving her space again. “And still… I should say it one more time. If you’d rather I sleep in the shop, I will. I don’t want you to feel trapped here with me. Not tonight, not ever.”
The sudden shift in tone made her heart squeeze. She looked down at her hands, twisting the towel absently, and then, shyly, she raised her gaze back to his.
“I—” her voice faltered, and her cheeks burned. “Well… I don’t want to kick you out of your own place.”
“You’re not kicking me out,” Percy said immediately, leaning forward again, his expression earnest. “I am offering to leave it to you.”
She swallowed, nerves tightening in her chest, and then—slowly, as if gathering all her courage — she lifted one hand and placed it softly against his chest. His warmth radiated through the fabric of his shirt, steady and grounding. Her voice was small when it finally came out.
“I want to stay with you,” she admitted, blushing furiously.
Percy’s heart skipped, stuttered, then took off like a drum.
“Annabeth—” he began, but she rushed on, eyes wide, words tumbling over each other.
“Not like that—I mean, not that fast— not right now. I don’t want you to think I’m—” She stopped, biting her lip hard, as if she’d said too much already.
Before she could retreat into herself, Percy reached forward, cupping her face gently with one hand, and pressed a kiss to her lips— soft, grounding, stopping her spiral before it could begin. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, his voice low and certain.
“I want so many things with you,” he said, every word wrapped in sincerity. “But the last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable. Ever. So if you want me to stay…” he paused, letting her see the truth in his eyes.
Her breath trembled, and she nodded once, quickly, firmly.
“I do,” she whispered.
And then came his smile—brighter than she had ever seen, a smile that seemed to light up the room, that made her heart thud against her ribs. His hand still cradled her cheek as he whispered.
“You only have to ask.”
Annabeth laughed softly, nerves breaking into something lighter, warmer.
“You make it sound so easy.”
“It is easy,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over her skin, reverent. “With you, it’s easy.”
Their lips met again, a kiss that was slow and lingering, neither rushed nor tentative — simply sweet, the kind of kiss that promised safety and trust. She melted into it, her hand fisting lightly in his shirt as if to keep him close, as if to anchor herself to the moment.
When they finally pulled apart, the room seemed quieter, the storm outside reduced to a soft percussion, almost like music meant just for them. Percy leaned back just slightly, his thumb still brushing along her cheekbone, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Stay,” she whispered, not as a plea, but as a promise.
Percy nodded, her smile trembling as he looked at her lips again, but real.
“I will.”
They settled slowly, cautiously, as if afraid the fragile, glowing moment might shatter if they moved too quickly. Percy pulled the blanket down with one hand, his other still clasping hers, and gestured wordlessly for her to lie down. She hesitated for only a breath — then let herself sink onto the mattress, the softness enveloping her like a sigh.
He slid in beside her, leaving enough space so she wouldn’t feel crowded, yet close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. For a few seconds, they just lay there on their backs, staring up at the wooden ceiling of the cabin, listening to the storm outside. Thunder rumbled, deep and resonant, but it didn’t startle her. Not now. Not when his presence was there, steady as the heartbeat she would soon come to hear.
Slowly, tentatively, Annabeth turned onto her side. The motion was natural, unthinking — her body simply seeking him. Her hand found his chest, and when he tilted his head, his eyes met hers in the half-dark. Something passed between them then, something wordless but infinitely loud: trust, permission, a kind of surrender that was more powerful than any spoken vow.
Percy exhaled softly, the breath warm against her forehead, and he lifted his arm to welcome her closer. She went willingly, resting her head against his chest. It was there that she heard it — the steady thump of his heart, strong and real, anchoring her more securely than any promise ever could.
Thunder cracked again, louder this time, rattling the glass of the window. She didn’t flinch. His hand rubbed slow circles along her back, the motion quieting every trembling thought, every ghost of fear that still tried to rise in her.
Peace. That’s what it felt like. A rare, delicate peace that she hadn’t realized she’d been craving her entire life. The storm outside raged on, but inside, the world had stilled.
“Are you comfortable?” Percy asked after a long moment, his voice low, almost uncertain.
Annabeth smiled against his chest.
“More than comfortable.”
He shifted slightly, lowering his chin to press a kiss to the crown of her head. It was such a small gesture, yet it sent a warmth down her spine that no blanket could replicate. She tightened her hand in the fabric of his shirt, keeping him close, as if she feared he might vanish if she let go.
Time moved differently in that cocoon of thunder and rain. Their breathing fell into sync. Her eyelids grew heavy, but her heart refused to let her sleep just yet. Not when she could memorize this—the rhythm of his heart under her ear, the faint scent of rain still clinging to his skin, the way his thumb drew idle patterns over her shoulder as if to remind her, wordlessly, that she was not alone.
New York had never been like this.
New York was noise and rush, deadlines and expectations. A city that demanded more than it ever gave, a place that left no room for pause.
New York was never a city that allowed rest. For Annabeth, it was never a city that allowed distractions, cups of coffee on Wednesdays or flowers that came with no other intention than to make her smile.
“Percy?” she called, and he hummed softly, a sound that vibrated inside his chest as he didn’t open his eyes. His thumb drew circles on her back, and Annabeth smiled. “If you were to send me a bouquet tomorrow,” she smiled, the possibility making her heart race. “Which flowers would it have?”
A beat of silence, long and comfortable and anxious, passed. He didn’t open his eyes, but his grip on her waist was firmer now. When he spoke, she could feel the intensity and the low of his voice against her own body.
“Peach blossoms,” he told her. Then a beat of silence. “Lily of the Valley,” he moved his neck so his lips were now against her head, close to her forehead. “and dahlias.”
Annabeth moved her head, looking up. His lips were now brushing her nose.
“And what would it mean?”
He chuckled.
“This heart,” he began. “And the happiness that has returned,” he moved again, eyes finding hers in the dark. “And me. Are forever thine.”
New York, for her, had never been a city that allowed to love.
But as she rested her head over his chest, with his heart beating steadily beneath her ear and his hand still holding her like she was something precious, Annabeth finally understood that perhaps love didn’t need a city’s permission. It only needed a moment.
And a moment, at times, would turn into forever.
And with the storm softening outside, she finally, quietly, let herself belong to it.