Chapter Text
The sun climbed lazily over the hill at Camp Half-Blood, washing the training grounds in gold. The morning air smelled faintly of strawberries and salt from the Long Island Sound. It was one of those mornings that begged you to forget monsters, quests, and the weight of the world. For once, Percy thought, maybe the Fates could give him a break.
Except, of course, it wasn’t any ordinary day.
It was his birthday.
His eighteenth birthday.
And Percy was in a mood.
He couldn’t quite explain it. Maybe it was the strange itch in his shoulders, that awareness that eighteen was supposed to feel *different*—like you’d leveled up in the video game of life. Except instead of a sword upgrade or fire-resistance armor, all he really had was a vague sense that everything was about to get harder. College applications. Trying to decide if he wanted to take up Chiron’s offers of helping train younger campers full-time. The constant lurking knowledge that gods rarely let mortals just… grow old peacefully.
But for today, none of that mattered.
Today, Percy had decided he was going to be selfish. Reckless. Happy.
And happiness—Percy decided—looked a lot like Annabeth Chase scowling at him in the courtyard before morning training, wearing her Camp Half-Blood tee with her knife strapped neatly to her side, her hair pulled back in the no-nonsense ponytail that always made her look like she was in charge of every room she walked into.
So naturally, he kissed her.
Not a quick, teasing kiss. Not even the kind of kiss they sometimes shared after surviving something insane and life-threatening. No—Percy Jackson, Son of Poseidon, serial disaster magnet, went all-in.
One moment, Annabeth was rattling off something about how “just because it’s your birthday doesn’t mean you skip drills, Seaweed Brain,” and the next, Percy had closed the distance, catching her mid-sentence in a kiss that left no room for arguments. His hands found her waist automatically, pulling her close, and Annabeth—gods help him—didn’t shove him away. Her arms looped instinctively around his neck, and before Percy really thought about what he was doing, he picked her up off the ground. She gave a sharp, half-surprised squeak that he immediately kissed away.
Her legs wrapped around his waist without her seeming to notice, the way someone holds on in battle, as if letting go wasn’t an option.
Percy grinned against her lips. Oh yeah. He was definitely in a mood.
Around them, the courtyard went a little too quiet. Percy dimly registered the sound of campers muttering—someone wolf-whistled; someone else (probably Connor Stoll) shouted, “Finally!”—but honestly? He didn’t care. Not one bit.
It was his birthday.
Annabeth pulled back just far enough to glare at him, though her cheeks were flushed pink and her lips were… well. Let’s just say Annabeth Chase rarely looked anything less than perfectly composed, and Percy had just broken that streak.
“Seaweed Brain,” she hissed under her breath, her stormy gray eyes flashing. “Put. Me. Down.”
“Nope,” Percy said cheerfully, tightening his hold just slightly as if daring her to wriggle free. “Birthday privileges.”
Her look promised him at least a twenty-minute lecture later, probably involving phrases like *reckless behavior patterns* and *embarrassment in front of younger campers*. But what killed him—what kept that unstoppable grin plastered across his face—was the way her fingers were still knotted into the back of his shirt, not quite letting go, as if letting go would mean she wasn’t just as swept up as he was.
“You’re insufferable,” she said finally, her voice quiet in a way that meant no one else could hear it.
Percy leaned in again, brushing his nose against hers. “And you love it.”
She exhaled—half exasperation, half something else—and for a split second he could feel her heartbeat against his own, faster than usual.
The world was still spinning around them: campers whispering, sparring steel clashing in the distance, the smell of pancakes wafting from the dining pavilion. But Percy didn’t care if the entire Olympian Council showed up right then.
He was eighteen. He was alive. And for once, that was enough.
“Later,” Annabeth said firmly, squeezing the back of his neck just hard enough to remind him who was really in charge. Then, quieter: “But… happy birthday, Percy.”
Percy set her down—slowly, reluctantly—as if gravity itself had suddenly become optional and he was the only one forcing himself back down to earth.
Sure, she was definitely going to kill him later. Probably in a long rant about *dumbing down her reputation* in front of campers. But right then, when Annabeth’s hand lingered a beat too long in his and her smile ghosted across her face when she thought no one was watching—Percy figured it was worth every second.
And as the campers went back to their usual chatter and the world kept moving, Percy Jackson decided that for one perfect day, the Fates could mind their own business.