"Don't say it."
Percy raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch. He sat in a plastic chair beside the high raised bed-table thing that was placed against the wall farthest away from the door. The room smelt overly clean and the surfaces of the walls were bare except for the average calendar and clock.
"Say what?" he asked innocently.
"Don't."
He smiled smugly and leaned forward, casually resting his chin in his hand, "I really don't know what you're talking about."
Annabeth Chase was lying on top of the bed/table and was trying really hard not to move. Every time she did the wax paper spread out beneath her would crinkle and crack in the most irritating way. The smell of this place was driving her to the brink of insanity, and above all else: she was wrong, and he was right.
She just hated when this happened. It always put her on the awkward side of the situation and him on the triumphant, smug, victory side.
It had only been a short run to the New York U, to pick up a book on famous statutes of Asia, but it had to be pouring and she had had a short patience that day.
But Percy did tell her that she would get sick. His green eyes gleamed, immensely satisfied at her narrowed frustrated gray ones before leaning back in the chair, and turning his smile up to the ceiling in an attempt to hide it.
"By the way."
Annabeth flinched.
"I told you so."
"Shut up, Seaweed Brain."