The lock clicked shut and the sound got swallowed by the hum of the air conditioner, a low mechanical drone that was the only thing in the room that wasn't breathing hard. Percy's hands found Annabeth's waist and pressed her back against the door, the wood solid and warm through her thin shirt, and she laughed — a breathless, surprised sound that cut through the salt air hanging in the dim room.
"We made it," she said, her voice rough around the edges.
"We made it."
Her fingers tangled in his sun-streaked hair, pulling his head down toward hers, and he went without resistance. The kiss was salt and heat and the taste of the ocean they'd left behind at the beach, her lips parted and hungry against his, and he felt her body arch into him like she was trying to close a distance that was already nothing at all. The city hummed below them, a distant blur of lights through the curtains that didn't quite close, leaving a seam of Miami gold cutting across the room.
The stripe of sun fell across the rumpled sheets near the window. Still made. Untouched. A bed they hadn't even looked at yet.
Percy's hands slid up her waist, thumbs brushing the underside of her ribs through the fabric of her shirt, and she made a small sound against his mouth that he felt in his chest. He kissed down her neck, tasting salt and sunscreen, the damp heat of her skin against his lips, and she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders through his t-shirt.
"Percy."
His name in her mouth like that — breathless, half-broken — did something to him. He pressed harder against her, one hand sliding into the hair at the nape of her neck, tilting her head back to give him more of the long line of her throat. She tasted like the beach, like the ocean spray that had clung to them all day, like the coconut sunscreen she'd smeared on her shoulders that morning while he'd pretended not to watch.
"You're going to leave a mark," she said, but she wasn't pulling away. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling his head down to hers again, and the kiss this time was deeper, slower, like they had all the time in the world instead of a war waiting for them back at Camp Half-Blood.
The world outside the room disappeared. There was no prophecy hanging over their heads, no titan army gathering in the shadows, no quest with their names written in it. There was just this — the press of her body against his, the taste of salt on her skin, the way she said his name like it meant something.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. The Miami sun cut a line across her face, catching the gold in her blonde curls, and her stormy gray eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. She bit her lip — that tell she never seemed to notice, the one that drove him insane — and he watched her throat move as she swallowed.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing." He thumbed the corner of her mouth, feeling the warmth of her skin. "Just — you're beautiful."
She rolled her eyes, but there was no bite in it. "Smooth, Seaweed Brain."
"I mean it."
Something shifted in her face. The walls she'd spent years building — the ones that made her Wise Girl, the strategist, the one who always had a plan — they crumbled in the dim light of the hotel room. She looked at him like he was the only thing in the world worth looking at, and it hit him somewhere deep in his chest, a feeling that had nothing to do with the heat building between them.
She kissed him again, softer this time, and her hands slid down his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "I know you mean it," she said against his lips. "That's the problem."
He didn't ask what she meant. He didn't want to break the moment with words. He kissed her instead, deeper, and his hands found the hem of her shirt, thumbs brushing the bare skin of her waist. She shivered under his touch, her breath catching, and he felt a surge of something that wasn't quite confidence — more like a desperate need to be closer, to feel more of her, to prove that this was real and not some dream he'd wake from on the deck of the Argo II.
She pulled back, breathless, and looked around the room like she was seeing it for the first time. The dresser against the wall. The bed, still made, glowing in the stripe of Miami sun. The window with its gap in the curtains, the skyline a glittering blur beyond the glass.
"We should —" she started, and then she laughed, a low, throaty sound. "We should probably sit down or something."
"Or something."
Her eyes met his, and there was a challenge in them, bright and sharp as a blade. "The bed's right there."
"I know."
"But you're not moving."
"Neither are you."
She laughed again, and it was the best sound he'd heard all day — better than the ocean, better than the distant city hum. She pushed off the door, and for a second he thought they were heading for the bed, but she walked past him instead, her fingers trailing across his chest as she went, and she stopped at the dresser. She turned to face him, her back against the edge of it, and raised an eyebrow.
"Well?"
He crossed the room in three steps, and she was already reaching for him, pulling him in by the front of his shirt. He kissed her hard, and she made a sound against his mouth that was almost a laugh, almost a moan, something in between that sent heat pooling low in his gut. His hands found her waist, and he lifted her onto the dresser without thinking, her legs wrapping around him instinctively, pulling him closer.
The dresser creaked under her weight, a cheap hotel thing that wobbled slightly, but neither of them cared. Her thighs locked around his waist, her heels digging into his lower back, and she pulled him in until there was nothing between them but fabric and heat. She kissed him like she was drowning and he was air, her fingers buried in his hair, pulling him down, down, down.
He braced his hands on either side of her on the dresser, the wood cool under his palms, and she arched into him, her body molded against his. The world outside the room disappeared — the city, the war, the prophecy, all of it — and there was only her. Only the taste of salt on her lips, the warmth of her skin under his hands, the way she gasped his name when he kissed down her neck again, slower this time, dragging his lips over her pulse point.
"Percy." Her voice was thin, almost a whisper. "The bed — we should —"
"Shut up," he murmured against her skin, and she laughed, breathless, her nails raking down his back.
"You can't tell me to shut up."
"I just did."
"You're impossible."
"You like it."
She pulled his head up by the hair, forcing him to meet her eyes, and for a long moment neither of them spoke. Her stormy gray eyes were dark, almost silver in the dim light, and he could see the pulse beating in her throat. She was beautiful like this — flushed, breathless, her walls down — and he wanted to memorize every detail of it.
"I do," she said finally, quietly. "I really do."
He kissed her again, and it was softer than before, slower, like they had all the time in the world. Her legs tightened around him, pulling him closer, and he felt the heat of her through their clothes, a promise of something more. The dresser creaked again, and she laughed against his mouth.
"This thing's going to collapse."
"Then we'll move."
"To the bed?"
"Wherever you want."
She pulled back, just enough to look at him, and there was something in her eyes he couldn't quite name — something raw and unguarded that made his chest ache. She reached up and touched his face, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw, and he leaned into her touch like a plant seeking sun.
"I want this," she said. "I want you. I've wanted this for —" She shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "For a while."
"Yeah." His voice came out rough. "Me too."
She kissed him again, slower, deeper, and he lost himself in her. Her fingers found the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath, her palms flat against his stomach, and he felt the warmth of her touch like a brand. She traced the lines of his muscles, the scar on his side from a fight he didn't want to think about, and she made a small sound of sympathy against his mouth.
"You've got so many scars," she murmured.
"Part of the job."
"I know." She kissed him again, softer. "I just — I hate that you have to keep getting them."
"I'd get a hundred more if it meant keeping you safe."
She pulled back, her eyes shining, and she looked at him like he'd said something profound instead of the obvious. "You're such an idiot," she said, but her voice was thick.
"Your idiot."
"Yeah." She smiled, a real smile, bright and warm. "My idiot."
She kissed him again, and this time it was different — hungrier, more desperate, like she was trying to tell him something she couldn't put into words. Her hands slid into his hair, pulling him closer, and her legs tightened around him, rocking her hips against his. He groaned against her mouth, his hands sliding down her back, gripping her thighs, pulling her closer.
The dresser creaked again, louder this time, and she laughed, breaking the kiss.
"Okay, seriously," she said, breathless. "This thing is going to break."
"Then we'll buy them a new one."
"Percy."
"What? I'm rich. Well — my mom's not, but —"
She kissed him to shut him up, and he let her. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling his head down, and he braced one hand on the dresser, the other sliding up her thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin through her shorts. She gasped against his mouth, her hips bucking into his hand, and he felt the heat of her through the fabric.
"Percy." His name was a breath, a plea, something broken and desperate. "Please."
He didn't know what she was asking for, but he wanted to give it to her. He kissed down her neck again, slower this time, dragging his lips over her collarbone, and she arched into him, her head falling back, a low moan escaping her lips. The city hummed below them, the air conditioner droned, and the world outside the room disappeared.
There was only her. Only the taste of salt on her skin, the warmth of her body against his, the way she gasped his name like it was a prayer. He wanted to stay here forever, in this moment, with her wrapped around him and the world held at bay.
The dresser creaked, and she laughed, breathless. "We really —"
"I know." He kissed her, soft and quick. "The bed."
"The bed."
But neither of them moved. Her legs were still locked around his waist, her fingers still buried in his hair, and the dim room was full of the sound of their breathing, the hum of the city, the promise of everything still to come.
Her fingers tightened in his hair, and for a second he thought she was going to pull him back to the dresser, back to the creaking wood and the desperate press of her body against his. But then she shifted, her legs unlocking from around his waist, and she slid off the edge of the dresser, her feet landing soft on the cheap carpet.
She didn't say anything. She just took his hand, her fingers weaving through his, and pulled him toward the bed.
The stripe of Miami sun fell across the rumpled white sheets, and she stopped at the edge of it, turning to face him. The light caught the gold in her curls, turned her stormy gray eyes almost amber, and he could see the pulse beating hard in her throat. She was nervous. He could tell by the way she bit her lip, the way her fingers tightened around his, the way she couldn't quite meet his eyes for more than a second.
But she didn't let go of his hand.
"Okay," she said, more to herself than to him. "Okay."
"Annabeth—"
"Don't." She looked up at him, and there was something fierce in her eyes, something almost defiant. "Don't ask me if I'm sure. I've been sure for—" She shook her head. "I've been sure for a long time. I just—"
She stopped, and he watched her throat move as she swallowed. Her fingers tightened around his, knuckles going white.
"I just want you to know," she said, her voice softer now, "that this isn't—this isn't nothing to me. It's not just—" She gestured vaguely at the bed, at the room, at everything they were about to do. "I don't want you to think this is just some—some thing to get out of the way before the war."
His chest ached. He lifted his free hand, cupped her jaw, and she leaned into his touch like she'd been waiting for it.
"I know," he said. "I know it's not."
She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face like she was looking for something, some sign that he understood, that he felt the same weight pressing down on this moment. And then she nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement, and she reached for the hem of her shirt.
She pulled it over her head, and the world stopped.
The sun cut across her skin, catching the curve of her shoulders, the dip of her collarbone, the rise of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her bikini top. She was golden, sun-kissed from their days on the beach, and he could see the faint line where her tan ended, the pale skin beneath. She dropped the shirt on the floor, and her hands went to the clasp of her bikini top, and he watched her fingers fumble with it, watched her bite her lip in concentration.
"Help me with this," she said, and her voice was rough, almost embarrassed.
His hands were shaking as he reached for her, his fingers brushing the warm skin of her back as he found the clasp. It came undone easily, too easily, and the fabric slipped, and she caught it against her chest with one arm, looking at him with something that was almost shy.
And then she let it fall.
Her breasts were perfect — full and round, her nipples already tight from the cool air of the hotel room. The sun caught them, gilded them, and he couldn't breathe. He couldn't do anything but stare at her, at the girl he'd known for years, the girl who'd saved his life more times than he could count, standing in front of him in nothing but her shorts, her chest bare and beautiful and completely, utterly his to touch.
"Percy." Her voice was a whisper. "You're staring."
"I can't help it." His voice came out hoarse. "You're—" He shook his head, searching for the word. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
She laughed, a breathless sound, and there was a flush spreading across her chest, up her neck. "You're such a dork."
"Your dork."
"Yeah." Her smile softened. "My dork."
She stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and her hands found the hem of his shirt. She pulled it up, and he raised his arms, letting her strip it off him, and then her palms were flat against his chest, warm and sure, tracing the lines of his muscles, the scars she'd kissed earlier.
"So many scars," she murmured again, her fingers tracing the one on his side. "You're like a map."
"A map to where?"
"To you." She looked up at him, and her eyes were dark, hungry. "I want to read every line."
She pushed him backward, and he went, stumbling until his knees hit the edge of the bed and he fell back onto the sheets. The sun was warm on his skin, the rumpled fabric rough against his back, and she was above him, her blonde curls falling around her face, her gray eyes burning with something he'd never seen before.
She crawled up the bed, straddling his hips, and the heat of her settled over him like a brand. She was still wearing her shorts, still covered, but he could feel the warmth of her through the fabric, the press of her against him, and he was already hard, already aching.
She leaned down, her hair brushing his chest, and she kissed him — slow, deep, thorough. Her lips parted against his, her tongue sliding into his mouth, and he groaned, his hands finding her hips, gripping the soft skin above her shorts.
She rocked against him, a slow, deliberate grind, and he felt the heat of her through their clothes, the friction building. She pulled back, breathless, her lips swollen, and she looked down at him with something that was almost a challenge.
"I want to try something," she said.
"Anything."
She smiled, a wicked little smile, and she slid off him, down the bed, her hands trailing across his stomach as she went. She settled between his legs, her fingers finding the button of his shorts, and she looked up at him, her gray eyes dark and intent.
"Tell me if it's good," she said, and she pulled his shorts down.
His cock sprang free, hard and aching, and she wrapped her fingers around it, a soft, experimental grip that made him hiss through his teeth. She stroked him once, twice, learning the feel of him, and then she leaned down and took him into her mouth.
He saw stars.
Her mouth was hot and wet, her tongue flat against the underside of his cock, and she took him deep, deeper than he expected, her hand working the base in a rhythm she was still figuring out. She pulled back, her lips slick with spit, and she looked up at him, watching his face as she took him again, this time slower, deeper, her throat opening to take him.
"Fuck," he breathed, his hands finding her hair. "Annabeth—"
She hummed around him, a low, satisfied sound that vibrated through his entire body, and he felt his hips buck, pushing deeper into her mouth. She took it, her throat relaxing, and she looked up at him with those stormy gray eyes, and he was gone.
She worked him with her mouth, her hand, her tongue, learning him in a way no one else ever had. She pulled off with a wet sound, her lips swollen, spit trailing from her mouth to his cock, and she stroked him, slow and deliberate, watching him come apart under her hands.
"Like that?" she asked, her voice rough.
"Yeah." His voice was barely a whisper. "God, yeah."
She smiled, and she took him again, deeper this time, her nose brushing his skin, her throat working around him. He felt the pressure building, the heat coiling low in his gut, and he tried to warn her, tried to pull back, but she held him there, her fingers digging into his hips, and she took everything he had.
He came with a groan, his hands fisting in her hair, his body arching off the bed, and she swallowed around him, her throat milking him dry. She pulled off slowly, her lips slick, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking up at him with a satisfied smile.
"Wow," she said.
"Yeah." He was still trying to catch his breath. "Wow."
She crawled up his body, her lips trailing across his stomach, his chest, his neck, and she kissed him, and he tasted himself on her tongue, salty and intimate. She settled on top of him, her thighs straddling his hips, and she was still wearing her shorts, still covered, but he could feel the heat of her, the dampness of her through the fabric.
"Your turn," she said.
He flipped them, pinning her beneath him, and she laughed, a breathless, surprised sound. He kissed down her neck, her collarbone, the soft swell of her breasts, and she arched into him, her fingers tangling in his hair.
"Percy—"
"Shh." He kissed lower, over her ribs, her stomach, the dip of her hip. "Let me."
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her shorts, and she lifted her hips, letting him pull them down. He tossed them aside, and then she was bare beneath him, her skin golden in the Miami sun, her curls dark and damp at the junction of her thighs.
He looked at her, at all of her, and he wanted to memorize every inch.
"You're staring again," she whispered.
"I told you. I can't help it."
He lowered his head, and he kissed the inside of her thigh, and she shuddered. He kissed higher, his lips trailing over her skin, and she gasped when he reached the heat of her, when his tongue found her for the first time.
She tasted like salt and honey, like everything he'd ever wanted. He licked her slowly, learning her, and her hips bucked against his mouth, her fingers fisting in his hair.
"Percy—" His name was a broken plea. "Please—"
He didn't know what she was asking for, but he wanted to give it to her. He pressed his tongue deeper, found the bundle of nerves at the top of her slit, and she cried out, her thighs clamping around his head. He worked her with his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, until she was shaking, until she was sobbing his name, and then she came apart, her body arching off the bed, a long, low moan tearing from her throat.
He crawled up her body, kissing her, letting her taste herself on his lips, and she pulled him close, her legs wrapping around his waist.
"I want you inside me," she whispered. "I want—I want all of you."
He reached for his shorts, for the condom he'd shoved in his pocket hours ago, but she stopped him, her hand on his wrist.
"No." Her voice was soft, but sure. "I want to feel you. All of you."
He looked at her, at the trust in her eyes, at the raw, unguarded want, and he couldn't say no. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her slick heat, and she looked up at him, her gray eyes dark, her lips parted.
"Do it," she whispered. "Please."
He pushed inside her, and she gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders. She was so tight, so hot, and he stilled, giving her time to adjust, but she shook her head, her hips rocking against his.
"Don't stop," she breathed. "Don't you dare stop."
He thrust deeper, and she moaned, her head falling back, her body arching into his. He moved inside her, slow at first, learning the rhythm of her, the way she clenched around him, the way she gasped his name when he hit just the right angle.
"Faster," she demanded, and he obeyed.
The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard knocking against the wall, and the Miami sun cut across their bodies, gilding their skin with gold. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, and she kissed him, hard and hungry, swallowing his groan as he thrust into her.
"You feel—" He couldn't find the words. "Fuck, Annabeth—"
"I know." She was breathless, her voice broken. "I know. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He didn't. He drove into her, harder, faster, and she met him thrust for thrust, her nails raking down his back. He could feel the pressure building again, the heat coiling low in his gut, and he could see it in her eyes too, the same desperate need.
"I'm close," she gasped. "Percy, I'm—"
"Me too." He buried his face in her neck, breathing her in. "Come with me. Please."
She cried out, her body clenching around him, and he followed her over the edge, spilling inside her with a groan that tasted like the sea. He collapsed on top of her, his forehead pressed to hers, their breath mingling in the warm, salt-tinged air.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The air conditioner hummed. The city hummed. And she was warm beneath him, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back.
"Well," she said finally, her voice soft and rough. "That was—"
"Yeah." He lifted his head, looked at her, at the flush on her cheeks, the satisfied smile curving her lips. "It was."
She laughed, a low, throaty sound, and she pulled him down for another kiss, soft and slow. When she pulled back, her gray eyes were bright, and there was something new in them, something that hadn't been there before.
"We should probably clean up," she said.
"Probably." He didn't move. "But I'm not done looking at you yet."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, and she didn't push him away. The sun cut across the rumpled sheets, and the war was still waiting, and the prophecy was still hanging over their heads, but for now, there was only this — the two of them, tangled together, the taste of salt and each other on their lips.
And the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again.
She shifted beneath him, and he felt the slick heat of her still wrapped around him, softening but present, a reminder that he was still inside her. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, and she smiled, that real smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
"You're heavy," she said, but her legs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper, making him feel the aftershock of her clenching around him.
"Sorry." He made to move, to roll off, but she held him there.
"Don't." Her voice was soft. "Not yet. Just—stay."
He stayed. He lowered his weight onto his forearms, cradling her head in his hands, and he kissed her, slow and thorough, tasting himself on her tongue, tasting the salt and the sea and the something that was purely Annabeth. She kissed him back like she was memorizing him, her fingers sliding into his hair, holding him there.
The sun had shifted, the stripe of Miami gold crawling up the wall, and the room was getting dimmer, the air conditioner humming its low, constant song. He could hear the city below them, distant and indifferent, and it felt like a world away.
She broke the kiss first, her eyes searching his face. "What are you thinking?"
"That I don't want to move." He brushed a curl off her forehead. "That I could stay here forever."
"That's a long time."
"I've got nowhere else to be."
She laughed, but it was quiet, almost sad. "The war—"
"Is not in this room." He kissed her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth. "I don't want it in this room."
She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back, and he felt her soften beneath him, the tension draining out of her body. He felt himself stir inside her, a flicker of heat, and she felt it too, her breath catching.
"Already?" she asked, a hint of a smile in her voice.
"Can you blame me?" He rocked his hips, a slow, deliberate grind, and she gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "You feel—you feel like—"
"Like what?"
"Like home." He said it before he could stop himself, and he felt her still beneath him, her eyes going wide. "I mean—"
"No." She pulled his face down to hers, kissing him hard. "Don't take it back. Don't ever take it back."
He didn't. He kissed her back, and he moved inside her, slow and deep, and she arched into him, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. He could feel himself hardening again, the heat building, and she could feel it too, her hips rocking against his in a rhythm that was already familiar.
"I want—" She broke off, gasping as he thrust deeper. "I want to try something."
"Anything."
She pushed at his chest, and he rolled off her, landing on his back in the rumpled sheets. She rose above him, her blonde curls falling around her face, her skin golden in the fading light, and she looked at him with something that was almost shy.
"I want to be on top," she said. "I want to—I want to control it."
He nodded, his throat dry. "Okay."
She straddled him, her thighs on either side of his hips, and she reached down, wrapping her fingers around his cock, guiding him to her entrance. She was slick, still wet from before, and she sank down onto him with a slow, shuddering breath, her head falling back, her lips parted.
"Fuck," she breathed. "You feel—you feel so—"
"Yeah." His hands found her hips, gripping the soft skin. "Yeah."
She started to move, a slow, experimental roll of her hips, and he watched her, watched the way her breasts moved with the rhythm, the way her eyes fluttered closed, the way she bit her lip in concentration. She was beautiful like this, in control, taking what she wanted, and he wanted to give her everything.
"Is this—" She opened her eyes, looking down at him. "Is this good?"
"Better than good." He thrust up into her, and she gasped, her nails digging into his chest. "You're—you're perfect."
She smiled, a slow, wicked smile, and she leaned forward, her breasts brushing his chest, her lips at his ear. "I want to feel you come inside me again," she whispered. "I want to feel you fill me up."
He groaned, his hands tightening on her hips, and she rode him harder, faster, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He could feel the pressure building again, the heat coiling low in his gut, and he could see it in her eyes too, the same desperate need.
"I'm close," she gasped. "Percy, I'm—"
"Me too." He sat up, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close. "Come with me. Please."
She cried out, her body clenching around him, and he followed her over the edge, spilling inside her with a groan that was almost a sob. He held her there, his forehead pressed to hers, their breath mingling, and he felt her trembling in his arms.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The air conditioner hummed. The city hummed. And she was warm against him, her heart beating against his chest.
She pulled back, just enough to look at him, and her eyes were bright, almost wet. "Percy—"
"I know." He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. "I know."
She kissed him, soft and slow, and then she slid off him, lying beside him in the rumpled sheets. She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest, and he let her, watching the light shift across the ceiling, the city humming below them.
"We should probably clean up," she said finally, her voice soft.
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, and she didn't push him away. The sun had sunk lower, the stripe of gold fading to amber, and the room was full of shadows and the smell of salt and sex and something that felt like hope.
"I want to try something," she said again, and there was a different note in her voice this time, something almost shy.
"Anything."
She sat up, and she looked at him for a long moment, her gray eyes searching his face. And then she slid down the bed, settling between his legs, and she wrapped her fingers around his cock, still slick from her, and she leaned down and took him into her mouth.
He groaned, his head falling back against the pillow. She was learning him, her tongue tracing the vein on the underside, her hand working the base in a rhythm that was still rough but getting better. She took him deeper, her throat opening, and he felt the heat building again, faster this time.
"Annabeth—" His voice was strained. "You don't have to—"
She pulled off, her lips slick, and she looked up at him. "I want to." She stroked him, slow and deliberate. "I want to taste you. All of you."
She took him again, deeper this time, her nose brushing his skin, and he felt the pressure building, the heat coiling low in his gut. He tried to warn her, tried to pull back, but she held him there, her fingers digging into his hips, and she took everything he had.
He came with a groan, his hands fisting in her hair, and she swallowed around him, her throat milking him dry. She pulled off slowly, her lips slick, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking up at him with a satisfied smile.
"Wow," she said.
"Yeah." He was still trying to catch his breath. "Wow."
She crawled up his body, her lips trailing across his stomach, his chest, his neck, and she kissed him, and he tasted himself on her tongue, salty and intimate. She settled beside him, her head on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin.
"That was—" She started, and then she laughed. "I don't have words."
"Me neither." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "But I'm glad we did it."
"Me too." She was quiet for a moment. "Percy?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad it was you." Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. "I'm glad it was you."
He didn't have words for that. He just held her tighter, his arms wrapping around her, and he let the silence speak for him. The sun had sunk below the horizon, the room full of shadows, and the war was still waiting, and the prophecy was still hanging over their heads, but for now, there was only this — the two of them, tangled together, the taste of salt and each other on their lips.
Her breathing evened out against his chest, slow and deep, and he thought for a moment she'd fallen asleep. Her fingers had gone slack on his skin, her cheek pressed to the hollow of his shoulder, and the weight of her was a comfort he didn't want to lose. He stared at the ceiling, at the shadows moving across it as the city lights flickered to life outside, and he tried to memorize the feel of this — her body soft against his, the faint stickiness between her thighs where he'd spilled, the way the sheets smelled like both of them now.
"You're thinking too loud," she murmured, not opening her eyes.
"Sorry." He ran his hand down her back, over the curve of her spine. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"I wasn't sleeping." She shifted, propping herself up on her elbow to look at him. Her hair was a mess, tangled and curling, and there was a flush still high on her cheeks. "What were you thinking about?"
He almost lied. Almost said nothing, or the war, or some safe deflection. But she was looking at him with those gray eyes, patient and open, and he'd never been able to lie to her anyway. "You. Us. The fact that we're fifteen and we just—" He gestured vaguely at the bed, at the mess of sheets and skin. "And I don't regret it. Not even a little."
"Me neither." She traced a line down his sternum, her nail light against his skin. "I thought I would. I thought it would feel like—I don't know. Like a mistake. Something we'd look back on and wonder why we rushed."
"And?"
"And it doesn't." She met his eyes. "It feels like the only thing that's made sense in months."
He pulled her down, kissing her slow, and she made a small sound against his mouth, her hand sliding up to cup his jaw. When she broke away, she was smiling, that real smile, and she traced the line of his brow, the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips, like she was mapping him by touch.
"I want to try something else," she said, and her voice had that note again — shy, but determined.
"I thought you said you didn't have words."
"I found some." She sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist, and she looked at him with that calculating expression she usually reserved for battle strategy. "I want to—" She bit her lip. "I want to go again. But slower this time. I want to feel every second."
He was already hardening at the thought, at the way she was looking at him like he was a problem she wanted to solve. "I don't think I'm going to say no to that."
She smiled, and then she moved, swinging her leg over his hips so she was straddling him again, but this time she didn't sink down. She hovered, her knees on either side of his thighs, and she reached between them, wrapping her fingers around his cock, slick and half-hard, and she stroked him slowly, deliberately, watching his face.
"I like watching you," she said. "The way your eyes close. The way your jaw goes tight."
"Annabeth—"
"I like knowing I do that to you." She leaned forward, her breasts brushing his chest, and she kissed him, soft and teasing. "I like knowing you're mine."
"I've always been yours." He said it without thinking, the words tumbling out, and he felt her still against him, her breath catching. "Since the first time I saw you, with that stupid hat and those gray eyes—I've been yours."
She kissed him harder, almost desperate, and then she pulled back, her eyes bright. "Then let me have you. All of you."
She reached down, guiding him to her entrance, and she sank down slowly, inch by inch, her eyes never leaving his. He felt every ridge of her, every clench of her muscles as she took him deeper, and he gripped her hips, trying to hold still, trying to let her set the pace.
She bottomed out, and she paused there, her forehead pressed to his, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Fuck," she whispered. "You feel even better like this. Slow."
She started to move, a lazy roll of her hips, and he let her, his hands sliding up her back, feeling the play of muscle under her skin. She was in control, and she knew it, and there was something in the way she moved — deliberate, almost reverent — that made his chest ache.
She rode him slow, grinding against him, and he felt the heat building, but it was different this time. It was deeper, more patient, like a tide coming in. She leaned back, her hands braced on his thighs, and he watched her — the arch of her back, the way her breasts moved, the flush spreading down her chest — and he thought he could die happy like this, just watching her.
"Percy." His name on her lips, soft and broken. "I'm—I'm not going to last—"
"Neither am I." He sat up, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close, and he buried his face in her neck, breathing her in. "It's okay. I've got you."
She came with a shuddering gasp, her body clenching around him, and he followed her, spilling inside her with a groan that was almost a prayer. He held her there, his arms wrapped around her, her heart pounding against his chest, and he felt the aftershocks rippling through her, small and delicate.
She pulled back, her eyes wet, and she kissed him, soft and slow. "I love you," she whispered against his lips. "I know we haven't said it, not like that, but I do. I love you, Percy Jackson."
He felt the words land in his chest, heavy and bright, and he kissed her back, his hands cupping her face. "I love you too," he said, his voice rough. "I've loved you for so long I don't remember what it felt like before."
She laughed, a wet, happy sound, and she buried her face in his shoulder, her arms tight around him. "We're a mess," she said. "We're the biggest mess I've ever seen."
"Yeah." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "But we're our mess."
She pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and she smiled at him, that real smile that made his chest ache. "I really do need to clean up now. I'm—" She gestured vaguely. "Everywhere."
"I could carry you."
"You're barely standing yourself." But she was smiling, and she slid off him, wincing slightly as she moved, and he saw the smear of him on her thigh, the evidence of what they'd done. She followed his gaze, and her cheeks flushed, but she didn't look away. "Worth it," she said. "Every second."
He watched her walk to the bathroom, naked and unselfconscious, and he lay back in the rumpled sheets, staring at the ceiling. The room smelled like them — salt and sweat and sex — and he could feel the ghost of her still, the echo of her body against his.
She came back a few minutes later, wrapped in a towel, her hair damp from the sink, and she climbed back into bed beside him, curling into his side. "We should sleep," she said, her voice already soft with exhaustion. "We've got a long drive tomorrow."
"Yeah." He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. "We do."
She was quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest, and he felt her tense, like she was working up to something. "Percy?"
"Yeah?"
"What if—" She stopped, and she started again. "What if something happens? With the war, I mean. What if one of us—"
"Don't." He turned, cupping her face in his hands, making her look at him. "Don't do that. Not tonight. We've got tonight, and we've got tomorrow, and we're going to fight like hell for the day after that. But I'm not going to waste tonight worrying about a future we haven't earned yet."
She stared at him, her gray eyes searching his face, and then she nodded, her shoulders relaxing. "Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
She settled against him, her head on his chest, and he felt her breathing slow, felt her body soften into sleep. He stayed awake a little longer, watching the shadows move across the ceiling, listening to the city hum below them, and he thought about the prophecy, about the weight of the future pressing down on them.
But she was warm in his arms, and she was his, and for now, that was enough.