⠀(୨୧) 💭 ׄ ︵͡ EVERLONG | P. JACKSON
﹙🌊﹚ in which：𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈, 𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎.
percy glances over his shoulder, his sneakers swinging loosely from his fingertips as he beckons you forward. sand clings to his calves, damp and sticky from the tide that brushed against his legs earlier. he’s barefoot, naturally.
“shoes are overrated,” he whispers to you, the grin on his face soft and crooked.
you pause, glancing down at your own sneakers, a small frown tugging at your lips. “you’re gonna regret that when you step on a shell.”
“nah,” he just grins wider, that boyish thing, sharp and crooked, and it makes you want to throw something at him. “i’ve got you to save me.”
you bite back a smile, rolling your eyes, your footsteps quickening as you follow him toward the pier.
the two of you walk side by side, skirting the water’s edge, the rhythm of your steps in sync with his. then, a ripple in the water catches your eye, and you tug at his wrist, a little too hard, a little too frantic.
“percy,” you hiss, pulling at his wrist. “what if the naiads catch us?”
“they won’t,” he assures, though his voice dips quieter. “they like me. i think.”
you snort, nudging his arm and arching a brow, “do they?”
he doesn’t answer, just nudges your shoulder with his—casual, easy—and when you stumble just slightly, his fingers find yours without hesitation. he's not even looking at you—like it's nothing, like it's everything. it’s so natural, like he’s done it a thousand times before. your pulse flutters, but you don’t pull away.
the pier looms ahead, weathered wood creaking under your weight as you step onto it. you both settle at the edge, legs dangling above the dark water. percy places his sneakers beside him and leans back on his hands, his damp hair curling at the ends from his earlier dip in the lake.
“your hair’s a mess,” you say before you can stop yourself, the words spilling out too easily.
he tilts his head, giving you a look that’s half exasperation, half something softer. “it’s fine.”
“it’s not.” you’re already reaching over, brushing a stray curl away from his forehead.
he flinches, a soft sound escaping him—“what are you doing?”
“it’s fine,” he mutters again, but he's quieter now, shoulders stiffening as he glances away. his voice cracks on the last word, and you almost laugh, but you don’t.
your fingers move carefully, smoothing the damp strands back into place. he doesn’t flinch this time, doesn’t move away, and when you pull back, his gaze flickers to yours—uncertain, almost shy, like he’s waiting for something, or maybe just hoping.
“better,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.
he doesn’t answer right away. his gaze lingers on your face, steady, like he’s searching for something. and when he speaks again, his voice is nearly a murmur, the words like they weren’t meant for anyone but you.
you nod, and your heart stutters—once, twice, a quiet thrum against your ribs. the night feels heavier now, like something’s shifting beneath the surface, something unsaid hanging in the air between you.
the air between you feels thicker, but not in a bad way. percy shifts closer, his knee bumping against yours by accident, and your breath catches as you pull away, your heart racing for reasons you can’t quite explain.
he glances at you, that small, soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but it’s different now—more knowing. he’s figured something out. maybe it’s not something either of you have said aloud, but he knows. and he knows that you know, too.
“you’re cold,” he says quietly, noticing the goosebumps on your arms and the chill in your skin.
“i know,” you reply, lips twitching into a small smile. “it’s not a big deal.”
without saying anything, percy takes your hand in his, the warmth of his skin seeping into your cold fingers. he blows a soft breath onto your palm, like he’s trying to warm you up, or maybe just hold on to the moment. his fingertips are a little sticky from the sugary condensation of the soda he was drinking earlier, but the action is endearing nonetheless.
his hands are rough and worn from years of harsh training, with a small callus between his middle and index finger. you notice the little things— like the tiny scar on his thumb, the worn and uneven edge of his nails. he looks at you, eyes soft and serious, like he’s still trying to figure out the mess of this moment, the mess of you.
you don’t break the silence.
then, as if to test the waters, his knee nudges yours again—this time on purpose. his touch is warm, solid, and you don’t move away. you don’t need to. not this time.
©valsverse — do not steal, edit, or repost my works. plagiarism is prohibited.
