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Annabeth Chase was going to murder Percy Jackson.
Not in a dramatic, sword-through-the-gut way. No, that would be too quick, too merciful. She was thinking something slower. Something that involved him tripping over his own untied shoelaces while carrying a stack of her architecture textbooks, or maybe getting trapped in the tiny bathroom of this creaky New York City bus with the door that never quite latched.
Because right now, as the bus lurched through Midtown traffic, he was snoring.
On her shoulder.
His blond head had lolled sideways approximately ten minutes ago, right after he'd spent the previous twenty insisting he was "fine," "wide awake," and "not even a little bit sleepy, Wise Girl, I could run a marathon right now."
Lies. All of them. He'd crashed the second the bus hit a pothole and the overhead lights dimmed to that sickly yellow glow that made everyone look like they'd just escaped a zombie apocalypse.
Annabeth stared down at him, arms crossed tightly over her hoodie (his, technically, since she'd stolen it from his bunk last summer and he'd never asked for it back). His blue eyes were hidden behind closed lids, lashes fanning out against freckled cheeks flushed from the bus's faulty heater. Curly blond hair stuck up at weird angles, one strand perpetually flopping over his forehead no matter how many times she pushed it away. His mouth was parted just enough for soft, rhythmic snores to puff against the crook of her neck in warm, annoyingly endearing puffs that made her skin tingle in a way she refused to examine too closely.
Gods, he was heavy. Not in a bad way, (Percy was all lean muscle from years of sword fighting and ocean wrestling) but his shoulder pressed solidly into hers, his arm draped loose across her lap like she was his personal pillow. One long leg stretched out into the aisle, his beat-up sneakers nearly tripping the conductor when he shuffled by earlier.
The bus jolted again, brakes squealing as it crawled past a snarl of taxis. Annabeth braced a hand on the seat in front of them to keep from sliding and to keep Percy's head from bouncing off her collarbone. He mumbled something incoherent, nuzzled deeper into her shoulder, and sighed like he'd just found nirvana.
"You're ridiculous," she whispered, but there was no heat in it. Her fingers twitched, itching to trace the shell of his ear or smooth that stubborn hair strand. She settled for adjusting his beanie instead, tugging it down properly over his ears because New York February had teeth, and she wasn't letting her boyfriend freeze even if he was currently auditioning for World's Worst Bus Companion.
Her boyfriend.
Gods. Even after months of it being official: after stolen kisses in the Big House fields, after holding hands through Tartarus flashbacks, after he'd grinned that stupid lopsided grin and said you're it for me, Annabeth, always - the word still landed like a warm stone in her chest.
Boyfriend. Percy's hand in hers during capture the flag. Percy's laugh echoing off her cabin walls during late night strategy sessions. Percy's steady heartbeat under her palm when nightmares yanked her awake at 3 a.m.
She loved him. She loved him. The kind of love that made her want to both throttle him and build entire cities around protecting that dumb, heroic heart of his.
But right now? Throttling was winning.
The bus groaned to a stop at another light. A woman in the row ahead argued loudly into her phone about some delayed delivery "No, Karen, I said organic kale, not kale chips, do I look like a rabbit to you?", while two kids in the back kicked the seats in rhythmic rebellion.
Annabeth's thigh burned from holding the awkward angle, her notebook (half filled with sketches) was digging into her hip from inside her bag, which was wedged against her side.
They'd been on this stupid route for forty five minutes already, stuck in rush hour hell because Percy had insisted on the "scenic route" after their date at that hole-in-the-wall diner with the best pizza in Manhattan.
Scenic, he'd called it. More like a mobile torture chamber.
Percy shifted in his sleep, mumbling again. "...blueberries... don't eat the kraken..."
Annabeth bit her lip to stifle a laugh.
Of course, even unconscious, his brain defaulted to food fights and sea monsters. She glanced around, no one was paying attention, thank the gods and let her hand drift to his hair. Just one stroke. Soft as always, despite the salt water tang that never quite left him.
Why does he have to be so... him?
Her mind spun off on its own tangent, the way it always did when Percy was involved. Annabeth Chase, daughter of Athena, architect-in-training, could map out a ten-year demigod defense plan in her sleep.
But Percy? He turned her brain into a labyrinth of what ifs and whys and gods, I love yous that looped endlessly.
Why did his snores sound like the ocean waves she'd grown up dreaming about? Why did the weight of his head on her shoulder feel like the safest anchor in a storm? Why did every trivial moment with him, like this endless bus ride - feel like something she wanted to catalog, blueprint, keep forever?
She'd spent her life chasing permanence. Running from her family at seven, scraping by on the streets with Luke and Thalia, building walls around her heart higher than any Trojan fortress.
Stability was a myth, she'd told herself. Love was a liability. People left. Gods abandoned. Mortals broke.
Then Percy Jackson tumbled into her life, all messy blond hair, sea blue eyes, that infuriating grin that said I got this even when the world was ending.
He'd seen her - really seen her, not as Athena's perfect daughter or the camp's golden strategist, but as Annabeth.
The girl who hated thunderstorms, the one who sketched impossible cities at 2 a.m. because sleep was for people without nightmares, the one who melted a little every time he called her Wise Girl like it was the highest compliment in the world.
And somehow, against all logic, he'd stayed. Through quests, through betrayals, through Tartarus. He'd chosen her, over and over, in the smallest ways: saving her the last blue cookie, holding her hand during panic attacks, whispering I've got you when her father's voice echoed in her head calling her a disappointment.
Now here they were. Established. Real. His head on her shoulder, her heart in his hands.
The bus lurched forward, then braked hard. Percy's head slipped; Annabeth caught it instinctively, cupping the back of his skull with one palm.
He sighed contentedly, like she'd just handed him Excalibur.
"You're impossible," she muttered, but her thumb traced a slow circle on his neck anyway. Warm skin, faint stubble - gods, when had he started needing to shave more? When had he gone from scrawny twelve year old camper to this man who made her knees weak with a single look?
Her mind raced ahead, as it always did. What if they had this forever? Not just stolen moments on buses or camp dates, but real life.
A tiny apartment in New Rome, sunlight streaming through windows she'd designed herself. Percy attempting (and failing) to cook breakfast, blue batter everywhere, laughing as she salvaged it with precise measurements. Nights tangled in sheets, his fingers in her braids, her head on his chest listening to that steady thump-thump that drowned out the world's chaos. Vacations to beaches where he could swim for hours and she'd build sandcastles with physics-defying towers. Arguments over stupid things, like whether his sea blue hoodies clashed with her gray sweaters and makeup kisses that tasted like salt and home.
Slow down, Annabeth.
But she couldn't. Her brain didn't work that way.
Every scenario branched into ten more: kids with his eyes and her curls, a dog that matched his chaotic energy, a library wall to wall with books they'd argue over annotating. Percy growing into those broad shoulders, silver threading his blond hair, still calling her Wise Girl with that same awe. Her, older, sharper, leaning on him during the rare moments her plans failed. Them, together, building something unbreakable.
The thought terrified her as much as it thrilled her. What if she ruined it? What if she planned too much, loved too fiercely, pushed him away with her endless need to fix everything? Percy never made her feel like a project, but old habits died hard. Her father's voice whispered in her skull: You're too intense, Annie. Too much.
Percy mumbled again, "Ann'beth... no, the cookies are mine..." His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer in his sleep. Like even dreaming, he knew where she was. Needed her there.
Not too much, she thought fiercely. Not for him.
The bus rattled over a manhole cover, lights flickering. Annabeth's free hand found his, lacing their fingers together on her lap. Calluses from Riptide's hilt rough against her smoother palms, marks of battles they'd survived together. His thumb, even asleep, stroked over her knuckles once, twice. Automatic. Instinctual.
Gods, I love you.
She wanted to shake him awake, kiss him stupid right here amid the kale arguments and seat kickers.
Tell him every rambling thought: how he'd rewired her entire worldview, how mundane moments like this were her favorite quests, how she was already mentally designing their first shared space (loft bed for efficiency, ocean-view window for him, hidden desk nook for her).
But he was peaceful like this - rare for Percy, who carried the world's weight on those shoulders even when he pretended not to. So she let him sleep. Let her mind ramble instead.
What if this bus never stopped? What if they stayed suspended in this yellow-lit limbo forever? Her sketching impossible futures in her head, him snoring softly against her, the city blurring past like a dream. No monsters. No prophecies. Just them.
She imagined kissing his temple, whispering wake up, Seaweed Brain, watching those blue eyes flutter open, hazy and fond. "Did I miss anything?" he'd ask, voice gravelly from sleep. She'd tease him, "Only your dignity" and he'd grin, pull her in for a proper kiss, bus be damned.
Her heart ached with how badly she wanted that. How full it felt already, even without it.
The bus slowed at their stop, finally. Annabeth nudged him gently. "Percy. Hey. We're here."
He stirred, blinking slowly, blue eyes unfocused as they found her face. "Mm? Annabeth?"
"Yeah. You drooled on me." Lie. But worth it for the blush creeping up his neck.
"Did not," he mumbled, but didn't lift his head. Nuzzled closer instead. "Five more minutes. Best pillow ever."
She snorted, shoving his shoulder lightly. "Flattery won't save you from carrying my bag uphill."
He cracked one eye open, grin sleepy and devastating. "Challenge accepted. But only if I get another shoulder nap later."
"Deal," she said, because how could she not?
He sat up slowly, stretching with a yawn that showed off the line of his neck - focus, Annabeth - then grabbed her bag before she could protest. They shuffled off the bus into biting cold, his arm slinging around her shoulders immediately, pulling her into his side.
"You were thinking loud again," he said as they walked, breath fogging the air. "What's up?"
She glanced up, caught by how the streetlights haloed his blond hair. "Just... stuff."
"Future stuff?" He knew her too well.
Her mind flashed through all the dragged-out trivialities she'd spun: bus rides, shared hoodies, blue pancakes, forever. "Yeah. The good kind."
He squeezed her shoulder. "Me too."
Simple. Steady. Percy.
She leaned into him, letting the city lights blur. No need to ramble it all out loud, not yet. He already knew.
They had time.