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Rose hasn't ever had a proper relationship, but she doesn't think this is normal for nineteen year olds. "You're good together," she says.
Annabeth's boyfriend grins. "I'd hope so," he says, slinging an arm around Annabeth's shoulder. "We'ver known each other since we were, what, eleven?"
"Twelve, seaweed brain," Annabeth says, but she doesn't shrug his arm off even as she leans forward over their project.
Later, Rose watches them in the kitchen of their tiny apartment. They move like that one Greek myth - a figure with four arms and four legs and muffled laughter. She watches them, and aches.