After Tartarus, they cling to each other more than ever.
It's easy for people to see—in the way they shift their bodies in synch, the way they scan a room until they're sure the other person is nearby, the way they hook their arms around each other and pull tight, like simply holding hands isn't enough.
Annabeth notices that when they're not holding hands, Percy stuffs his into his hoodie pockets. She knows that they're clenched into fists under the fabric.
Percy notices that Annabeth doesn't like to be out at night because she doesn't like to see the stars. They remind her of things—not that she's necessarily trying to forget those things.
But it's too painful, at least right now.
So they resolve to talking to each other at night to chase the darkness away. And the thing is, they figured they knew each other after years of quests, after saving the world multiple times. But each night they uncover new things, peel back the layers of each other bit by bit, as they learn to cope with the world they thought they understood.
They call it their support group, jokingly, because they know that the only way to get the support they need is with each other. No one else understands how they feel, how they sometimes wake up in the middle of the night wondering if what they're seeing is real or if it's an illusion and they're still in Tartarus.
No one understands how they crave each other's touch but also fear it, like if they use kisses to soothe trembling hands and short breaths then their relationship will be consumed by physical needs and nothing more.
So they talk.
Percy learns that Annabeth talks more in the mornings, like the words come easier with the start of a fresh day.
Annabeth learns that Percy smiles with everything—his mouth, his eyes, his entire body.
Slowly, day after day, it becomes more real.
They're alive.
They see morning every day.
And on the days that feel darker, they have each other to bring the light back.
