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"Good morning, dear," Paul says, kissing his wife's cheek. He scans the shack, eyes sharp—there's a certain lack of golden hair and mischievous smiles among the early eaters that makes him tilt his head. "…Where's Percy?"
"Oh, you know," Sally grins. She raises her eyebrows, tilting her head to the east. "'Repairs.'"
"Oho," Paul says, a little too loud and energetic, "Coward no more, hmm?"
Wink. "Good influence in the home, one might say."
"Glad to be of service."
She hands him a tray of smoothies. "Here, to make the heart gladder."
He squints. "I feel like this was a set up."
"And you would be right. Love you!"
Paul rolls his eyes, playful and sweet as he lifts the tray. "No good deed unpunished!"
"So…what do you wanna do today?"
(He's staring at her.)
(She feels her skin warm from more than just the sun, and it is purely, objectively, happily because he's staring at her.)
"Chill day," Annabeth says, glancing sideways at him. He's a mirror of her: Body in a hammock, cozy in the semi-shade, one arm lazily hanging in the gap between their spaces. Every now and then their fingers brush past each other, and every now and then she smiles a little too hard and starts laughing, because this is what the last six years of her life has led to, and it is, as Thalia says, delightful.
Percy's grin is immediate—soft, crinkled eyes and his own little laugh to match. "Good. You deserve it."
"Mmm. Do I?" she says, teasing.
He forgoes reminding her that she deserves the world, just this once. "You just won gold. Again. You deserve it."
"What're you gonna tell Luke?"
"Board repairs, duh."
"Not about my day off, Seaweed Brain," Annabeth laughs, swinging a little closer and intertwining their pinkies. "This." She clears her throat, suddenly and surprisingly nervous. "Us."
Percy snorts. "I already told him."
Annabeth blinks. "What? When?"
"Grover took a picture when we were lounging at low tide," he says, pulling out his phone and scrolling. "It was too good not to share."
She takes the phone when it's offered, and when she sees the first picture of the set, surprise gives way to that gentle feeling of swirling love in her gut.
It's unreasonably perfect.
Percy's gazing at her like she's done something wonderful—she remembers this moment, and she knows all she did was say his curls were out of whack—and they're intertwined in that relaxed sort of way, where the ocean could pull them out and neither of them would care. Her right hand is in his hair, and when she swipes over, she's greeted by her own adoring gaze aimed at her—gasp!—boyfriend.
(They'd spun slowly, now and then kicking at the ocean to fight the current, and Grover had reaped the benefits of their makeshift lazy Susan.)
"I'm surprised he didn't call you," Annabeth laughs. "Or me."
"Thalia's probably had him running around all morning," Percy grins. He adjusts himself so he can reach over with his whole hand, relishing in the feeling of Annabeth's waffled in his.
She shakes her head. "Other way around. Everyone wants a class or interview with the champion's coach. Bet they're already working on getting Paul's school some PR, too."
Ahem. "What about Paul's stepsons' awesome custom boards?"
"So you asked me out for financial gain?"
"No, I asked you out because I've been in love with you since we were fifteen."
"Dang," Annabeth whistles. "Only fifteen?"
Percy shrugs. "…Fourteen, but don't tell Tyson he won that bet."
"I am a million-percent telling Tyson he won that bet."
"Snitches get stitches!"
"Um, I already have stitches, and Tyson's why I didn't need more."
"…Fine, tell him, see if I care," Percy pouts, letting her hand go and looking to the sky.
Annabeth rolls, hopping off her hammock and slumping lazily over his chest, her face at his chin. She pokes his cheek. "Dooo you?"
He's, obviously, trying not to crack. "Hmph."
"Percy," she coos, inching her way closer to his lips, "are you mad at me?"
His cheeks hurt—they're red, he's trying not to smile, and if she moves any closer he might actually combust. "Annabeth."
"Yes?"
"Did you change your shampoo?"
"Yes. You noticed?"
"Duh. I notice everything."
Snort.
"…I notice everything now."
"Okay, but—" Poke. "—are you mad at me?"
"…No." He risks a glance down, and it's a mistake. A disastrous mistake.
Her braids are free like waterfalls, curls down her shoulders and two braids tickling his chin. She's grinning like she's won (she has), and he's struck dumb at the way her eyes rest on his, like they're anchored on shore and not interested in ever setting sail again. The finger poking him is still there on his cheek, resting now with others, the little rings she always wears when she's not surfing in their usual spots.
(One is, of course, new; he'd gifted it yesterday, post-win and alone in the moonlight, dark waves doing nothing to tamp down his excitement when she'd kissed him right back.
It's a simple thing, plain except for the etched Wise Girl on the inside of the band, and she'd loved it enough to fiddle with it more than the others.)
Percy knows he's breathing, but it's slow, halting. "Hey," he says, just loud enough to hear over the gentle wind.
"Hey," Annabeth says right back, throat dry.
"I think you're really pretty."
"Okay."
A beat.
"…Are you gonna kiss me now?"
"So bossy," Percy murmurs, but she's right.
And when he pulls her up, laughs, and holds her face, when her hand on his cheek plays with hair on his nape, and when they fall to the ground because the hammock is not rated for two people, it's pretty clear:
She's always been right.