Y/n sat on the porch of the Big House, a reed basket of herbs at her elbow, sorting through dried chamomile and yarrow. The curls of steam from her thermos of lemon tea curled up into the afternoon, and the faint thrum of Apollo's cabin—music, always music, drifting from the open windows—hummed in her bones.

A shadow fell across her. Not a monster's. Not a god's.

Just a boy with grease on his hands, a leather toolstrap around his neck, and a smile like he'd just figured out how to make fire from sticks.

Percy appeared at the bottom of the steps, his hair still wet from a swim in the lake, Annabeth at his side with a tablet tucked under her arm.