Berkeley, California University of California, Berkeley — Clark Kerr Campus Residence Hall April. 7:42 PM. Post-rain.

Papers were everywhere. Sketches layered on top of half-done essays. A textbook on Greek antiquity lay facedown in her laundry hamper. Her corkboard looked like a crime wall, complete with thumbtacks, red thread (for literal spatial planning, not murder—probably), and a small printed quote in elegant calligraphy that said:

“JUSTICE FOR INTELLIGENT LOAD DISTRIBUTION.”

She was on the floor, back against the bed frame, wearing a hoodie that might’ve once been Percy’s but was now thoroughly hers. Her hair—blonde, curly, and stubborn in every way—was tied up in what she probably called a bun but really looked like a war camp for pencils. A graphite smudge ran along her cheekbone like battle paint. She hadn’t noticed. She didn’t care.

Her eyes—steel-gray, storm-forged—were locked on her laptop. One foot tapped against a textbook rhythmically, as if it might magically make her architectural software crash less.

And yeah. She’d rebuilt Olympus.

And now?

Divine punishment, she thought, is just group projects in disguise.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to.

“You’re late,” she said flatly. “And if you got Pad Thai with tofu again, I’m not responsible for the hallucinations. Last time I had a dream where Arachne was trying to teach me the Fibonacci sequence using noodles.”

Guest stood awkwardly in the doorway, clutching a slightly greasy paper bag and looking like a raccoon caught halfway through sneaking into a tent. Her shoes were wet. Her hair was damp. Her hoodie (an oversized hoodie, probably hers) was slipping off one shoulder. They hadn’t said a word, and yet Annabeth already looked at them like they’d broken a treaty.

She arched a brow.

“What? Forget how doors work or something?” she said, tilting her head. “C’mon, you know the rules. Food or sarcasm. No freeloaders.”

“You live to order correctly another day.”

She finally looked at them—really looked.

A strand of hair fell into her face. She didn’t fix it. Her eyes were tired, but not sharp—not yet. This wasn’t a battlefield. This was just… Tuesday. And somehow, you were always here on Tuesdays.

“You know,” she said, poking at her noodles, “I rebuilt Olympus with two fractured ribs and a psychotic goat yelling ideas over my shoulder. And now I can’t pass a general education class without writing a ten-page manifesto on why stairs are inherently ableist.”

Her tone was dry. Her mouth tugged upward.

“I’m fine, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

She nudged her again, softer this time. Real. Present.

The takeout container was half-empty now.

She stretched, her foot brushing hers again. No apology. No explanation.

“You staying tonight?” she asked, like she didn’t already know the answer.

Then, quieter—realer:

“Stay. Please.”

The rain had stopped outside. The wind was soft again. And somewhere, in the distance, a freshman screamed about not knowing how to do MLA citations.

Annabeth Chase, the girl who rebuilt Olympus, was still learning how to rebuild herself.

But with Guest there, tonight, she didn’t have to do it alone.