Part 1: Signed

Annabeth turns the corner into her office with a cup of hot chocolate warm in her hand, and her purse clutched in the other. It's early enough in the morning for the clicking of her heels to echo around the room - it's a satisfying sound, but the lack of bodies only made the building colder than the 40-degree weather usually permitted. She draws her pea coat tighter. Suddenly, she notices the potent stench of vanilla candle wax melting in the air; she has to refrain from scrunching her nose in fear of creating premature wrinkles.

Her assistant, Leo, sits perched behind his computer, absentmindedly tapping his spacebar as he plays the 'no network connection' dinosaur game. Or, that's what Annabeth is guessing. She rolls her eyes, taking a sip of her drink.

At the sight of her, he sweeps a stack of papers into his arms, the gust of wind putting out the candle burning on his desk. "Good morning, Ms. Chase," he says, tripping over his pant leg as he rushes to fall into step beside her. "Boss wanted me to give her feedback back to you. She also made sure to tell me to tell you that your plan for the, um, Gentry mansion was superb."

Annabeth turns to Leo with a raised blonde eyebrow. "Superb? I've never heard my mother compliment any work I've ever done."

Leo shrugs his narrow shoulders, which, dressed in a baggy white button-up, only made him look frailer. "Maybe she's trying something new?"

Annabeth scoffs and sets her drink onto her desk's coaster, shedding her jacket. "I highly doubt that. But thank you, Leo. I appreciate it."

She and Leo had known each other for nearing a decade now - they'd been in the same engineering class her senior year (his sophomore), and she'd always taken a liking to the way he transformed little objects into widgets like he could weld with his fingers. It was hardly a surprise to her when he interviewed for a position there four years ago; he scored the job and quickly worked his way up in the company. In all honesty, she felt wrong calling him her "assistant," as she didn't think she was of that much importance in the company, and he definitely deserved a higher title for the work he did. She unofficially labeled him her "creative partner," which better fit him anyway.

Leo, the tips of his elvish ears pink, places the papers onto Annabeth's desk before he ducks his head. "Of course, Anna- er, Ms. Chase."

Annabeth sits down in her leather office chair and crosses one leg over the other. "Leo, we've been friends since high school. Please, call me Annabeth. I'm not my mother."

A small, cheeky grin spreads onto Leo's face, and he leans one hand onto her desk. Annabeth narrows her eyes at him, and he immediately pulls it away. "Thanks, Beth."

"It's Annabeth, or you die."

Leo's eyes widen, but his apologies are quickly cut off by Annabeth's laughter. She reaches under her desk to turn on her computer. "Right," Leo says, slinking back toward his space in the corner of the room. "Annabeth. Got it."

Annabeth refrains from doing finger guns as she reaches over to take another sip of her hot chocolate; her mother recently went on her yearly Noel Diet Tirade in the office, and this year, that meant banning caffeine in the office. Annabeth didn't see how that benefitted anybody - her employees were zombies by 2 o'clock if they hadn't had the mind to down two tall Americanos before they clocked in. Annabeth, who quit cold turkey about a month ago, was slowly replacing her addiction with hot chocolate, and she may have gained a pound or two, but she was convincing herself she got the same amount of energy from both drinks.

Walking into her local Starbucks every morning was torture.

Annabeth is sketching in one of her notebooks when there's a knock on her door frame. Annabeth glances up to see Jason Grace, her mother's favorite employee, sporting a Santa hat atop his bright blond hair, smiling wide like it wasn't 8 in the morning. He steps into her office, smoothing the front of his tie. "Merry Christmas to my two favorite coworkers," he says, reaching over Leo's computer monitor to offer a fist bump. Leo, whose head is only being held up by his hand, accepts - the caffeine withdrawal had hit him harder than Annabeth. "How are you guys?"

"Tired," Leo responds through a yawn as Annabeth sticks her pencil into the top of her bun. The sketch is not at all to scale, but it helped her generate the final ideas on her current project. When Athena assigned her to do the blueprints for the Jupiter Homeless Center in Queens, she had gotten the basics down easily: sturdy foundation, several floors, a hearth-styled heating system that would provide a homey feel. Construction for the site began almost three months ago, and was set to open by Christmas day.

Seeing as this was Annabeth's first big project she got to personally oversee, Athena was practically breathing down her neck about every last detail.

Jason hovers over Annabeth's computer screen and clears his throat. Annabeth blows a stray chunk of hair from her cheek. "Isn't it too early for 'Merry Christmas'?" she says, clicking her nails against her notepad. "It's barely December."

Jason pushes up his glasses and leans against her desk, and Annabeth could smell his pine-scented cologne from the chair she's reclining into. "Which is exactly why Merry Christmas is a perfectly valid greeting."

And from the looks outside of Annabeth's office window, all of New York would have to agree - lights were strung up on most, if not every surrounding building, and wreaths adorned the doors of every such establishment. She glares holes into the side of her holiday Starbucks cup.

.

"I guess," she says, moving to her computer and subconsciously hovering her mouse over the refresh button on her G-mail page. "Though, I believe Happy Holidays is the more politically correct term."

Jason turns a stark shade of bubble gum pink, and Annabeth rubs her ruby red lips together. "Oh. Yeah. I remember Piper telling me that."

"Forever the woke queen we don't deserve," Leo pipes up from the corner, raising his fist in the air. Annabeth's almost convinced he was sleeptalking. "Give her a kiss for me, won't you?"

Jason only turns more scarlet, and he squints at Leo before turning back to Annabeth. "Whatever. That's not what I came here for. I was being a little nosy when I was in Athena's office this morning, and I wanted to ask you if you saw what she commented about on your latest print of the homeless center."

Annabeth, grimacing, nods her head. From her mother, it wasn't the worst note she'd ever gotten - once, when she was first starting out, she'd gotten a big red X marked through her suggestions for an apartment complex. But what could Annabeth do with "I want to see more?" See more what?

"What about it?" Annabeth asks, massaging her temple. "Could you crack her code?"

Jason makes a face, and Annabeth can feel the dread in her stomach beginning to set - or maybe it was the hot chocolate. Jason was often blunt in his delivery, so his reluctance worried her. "Kind of. She had written something similar on one of my projects, and after the longest guessing game of my life, I think she meant that she wants to see more… personality or uniqueness added into it."

Annabeth arches both of her eyebrows, and he shrugs. Of all the bullshit she's gotten from her mother over the last six years of working at the Olympic Architecture Firm, Athena decided she wanted Annabeth to put more personality into a building that was due to open in a month? Had the woman finally lost it? She means, with the coffee ban, the idea wasn't unlikely.

"Couldn't she have said that instead of going all Tyra Banks vague on us?"

Jason twirls one of Annabeth's pens between his fingers, but Annabeth didn't have the mind to reprimand him for it. "She's your mother, Annabeth. You should talk to her."

With that, he leaves her office, Santa hat slightly lopsided on his head. Leo snores loudly at his desk, drooling onto his keyboard.

It's several minutes later when she realizes he still had the pen in his hand. Part of her wants to think that it was some sort of clever ruse to steal her stationary, but she knew Jason better than that.

Annabeth had poured everything she had into Jupiter - she couldn't take six months of work back and spit something back out before Christmas.

Suddenly, she wants to join Leo in that nap.

Annabeth arrives at her home sometime past 8 pm, and she immediately rips off her stupidly high red heels. The dress code her mother set for the office was ridiculous - the pencil skirt molded to her thighs was constricting enough, but to add heels to injury only made her want to strip the moment she stepped foot in her house.

Which she did.

The warmth of the shower runs over the curves of her body, soothing her qualms towards her mother in the back of her mind and clearing the sinuses she could feel beginning to clog up in the New York winter. Annabeth loathed the cold weather - born in California, she preferred the rays of sunshine caressing her skin to the harsh when that chapped her lips the moment she stepped outside.

The winter almost always meant cold season for her. She had stocked up on Vitamin C to prevent it the best she could.

The steam curls from her curtains. As she massages shampoo into her hair, a small part of her begins to image they're her lover's hands and not her own. She kids herself, of course. As a 28-year-old woman with a demanding, competitive job, she had no time for the allure of romance. She reckons that it would be nice, and nobody wanted to be alone for the holidays, but the idea was unrealistic.

But the thought still teases her.

She had her own hoodies to keep her warm.

She steps out of the shower and onto her plush bath mat, tugging a towel around her figure. She picks up her phone on her counter as she waits for the conditioner to set in her hair; her notifications are barren, aside from a few Pinterest notifications and an email from some petition website. At one point, she'd considered downloading some dating app, but she lived in Manhattan, New York. Any guy around was gross, and if they weren't gross, they were taken.

She was married to her work, she tells herself.

It was a rocky relationship.

Deciding to work with her mother fresh out of college, at the ripe age of 22, seemed like a good idea at first - she was basically guaranteed job security for the rest of her life in a profession she loved. She made friends, her mom provided a guiding hand, and while the need to prove herself was arguably more prevalent now her mom was her boss, she found the challenge rewarding. But as the years came and went, and as she poured herself into every project she was given, Annabeth began to feel drained. She struggled to get out of bed knowing she had a full day of nonstop work and no caffeine to run on (though, if she was running on minimum sleep, 5-hour Energies were her best friend.) She still loved architecture, and the appeal of seeing something she created being put into the physical world was still a great feeling.

But being crushed under the heel of her mother's boot sucked the joy out of her.

Happy Holidays indeed.

After Annabeth finishes combing out her blonde curls, she dresses in her warmest pajamas before she slips down to the mailroom. As someone with their name on several plans of the New York scene, her mailbox was the only thing getting any sort of action these days. It was often flooded with letters from possible clients, or bills, or her paycheck every few weeks, or, more recently, Christmas catalogs from various department stores; today was hardly any different. She flips her through her letters carelessly, mentally discarding the irrelevant ones and taking extra note of the Bath and Body Works coupons, when she suddenly comes upon a Christmas card.

Now, Annabeth wasn't a stranger to Christmas cards - her father made it a point to send her one of him and her twin brothers every year, but the picture of them was often stoic and professional, like one used for a business ID. Her brothers wore coordinating green and red sweaters, and his dad wore a part deep into his graying hair. Even the text that reads "Merry Christmas from the Chase Family" was a boring cursive.

But the card she holds between her fingers isn't from her family. In fact, the two people in the picture don't resemble her at all.

Her thumb runs over the faces of the smiling pair. One was an older woman with ash brown hair and wrinkled blue eyes, and the other was a man she guessed would be about her age, with messy black hair swept under a pair of reindeer antlers, his green eyes sparkling under the glow of the sun reflected off the snow underneath his feet. Between the two is a large black dog with a shiny red ball on its nose. Across the top, scrawled in what looked like Sharpie paint marker, was "Happy Holidays from the Jackson Clan!" along with some sticker snowmen and Christmas ornaments.

This wasn't the first time she'd received a card from this family.

Nor was it the second - this was the third straight year a card from the Jacksons had made its way into her mailbox, and to be honest, she secretly hoped they'd send her another. She presumed the two were mother and son - they had the same shape to their eyes, the same curve in their nose - and their closeness brought warmth to Annabeth's heart.

(Though Annabeth was physically close to her mother, she didn't feel any sort of connectedness - their relationship didn't extend past professional anymore.)

They were the only surprises she got for Christmas these days.

The first time she'd been sent a card, she'd written it off as an accident - there were plenty of times someone else's mail turned up in her inbox, but she found that it had been addressed to her apartment, and there was no name of who the real receiver was supposed to be.

She let the card sit on her coffee table and felt guilty for withholding someone else's holiday wish.

The second year, Annabeth thought the card a coincidence. Maybe their receiver had given them the wrong address or hadn't expressed concern when they were presumably the only person in their groups of friends/family to not receive a card. It was a shame, too. Last year's card was especially adorable, as it featured the mother-son duo racing in sleds down a snowy hill. Only feeling like a creep later, Annabeth stuck that one on her refrigerator. There was something about how the man's eyes alit with childlike wonder that made her grin.

But the third year, Annabeth thought, the third year was fate.

Annabeth didn't know if she actually entirely believed in fate or destiny - she prided herself in coming up with her own plan for her life and not becoming a prisoner to a predestined path. But it was the romantic in her that wanted to believe there was a reason she kept receiving cards from the Jacksons.

Percy struggled to keep his students under control with the semester break coming up, and while he wasn't one to raise his voice, he quickly realized nobody could possibly hear what he had to say over the noise.

Five years of teaching really helped him nail his disapproving head shake.

"Thank you," he says to his newly quiet class, who all avoided looking anywhere but him. "When I'm up here teaching, I expect respect. I'll give the same to you guys when you give it to me, alright?"

With their heads slumped, they all murmur varying degrees of "Yes, Mr. Jackson." Austin, the self-proclaimed class clown, simply blew air loudly from his nose, which, at this point, Percy would accept - that was some teenagers' way of silently surrendering.

With a small smile, he continues his review of marine ecosystems until the bell rings, in which he dismisses his class with a wave of his hand as he sinks into his desk chair. He rubs his palm over his face, suddenly feeling ten years older than his 29 years already made him feel. Though Percy truly loved teaching, even he was beginning to feel the "I wanna get the hell out of here" blues.

He glances up at the clock on his wall.

It was only the third period of the day.

Which was his conference period, luckily, or he might've absolutely lost it. The time frame between Thanksgiving Break and Christmas was the worst - he couldn't start and finish a new unit in two weeks, but it was too early to get into full test review. He'd only done the ecosystem lecture in case one of his supervisors walked in, or he'd otherwise have given them a study hall.

All Percy knew was he couldn't wait until the break.

He's about to stand when a stray student enters his classroom, clutching a notebook in her hand.

"Hey, Miranda," Percy says, sinking back down into his chair. He holds back a sigh. "What's up?"

Miranda's cheeks color as she approached his desk, tucking a chunk of light brown hair behind her ear. " I, uh," she says, putting her notebook down, "I finished last night's assignment. You didn't ask for it, and I didn't want to be that person that, like, reminds you during class, so I thought I'd just bring it to you now."

He mentally smacks his forehead. He knew he would forget something; while trying to quiet his class, he completely forgot about the assignment from last night. He slides her open notebook towards him.

"Oh, gosh, thanks. I guess everyone's a little off this time of year, huh?" He looks up at her with a smile. She lets out a nervous laugh as he marks a check on her notebook.

"Yeah. This is the hardest part of the year. Especially since I'm taking half a dozen AP classes."

Percy nods his head in agreement, and he slides over to his laptop to open up the grade book. "For sure." He scrolls to find her name. "And since you were the only student to turn the homework in today, I'll even give you a few extra points on the quiz tomorrow."

Miranda's face brightens. "Really? Thanks so much, Mr. Jackson."

"Of course. Have a good day, alright?"

"You too!" She backs towards the door, half tripping over her own shoe, and her face is bright red as she scurries out of his room.

"Kids get ten times worse by the semester's end," notes Ms. Dare, a fellow colleague, as he lowers himself onto the loveseat in the teachers' lounge. "They don't want to do any work, and I don't blame them for checking out, but like c'mon: it's an art class. You literally don't have to think about it. My Art 1 students, anyway."

Percy brings a hot mug of coffee to his lips and tries not to make a face as it sears his tongue. You'd think with all the coffee he drank, he would have learned to wait, but this cup of joe was the only thing keeping him going at this point. As a teacher, caffeine was his lifeblood.

He runs his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Yeah," he says with a slight lisp. "I guess it differs with grade-level too. My juniors have been slacking on their assignments hard, but a lot of them have a physics project due, so I'm cutting a little slack. I know I hated having a dozen projects due at once."

Ms. Dare purses her lips and nods her head as she picks a curly strand of red hair out of her many beaded necklaces. Over the past five years of working at Goode Academy, Rachel Dare had become a good friend of his, because she was young and kind, and she always had paint streaked across her forehead like Simba. Her students thought she was off her rocker (she definitely gave off a Professor Trelawney vibe, with the crystal ball in the corner of her room and palm line charts taped up onto her desk), but she was fun. The kids in his class loved her.

And for some time, Percy had thought he might've had... feelings of love for her as well.

It wasn't anything serious, of course; things would get weird if they ever ended on bad terms, but Percy had a crush on her for a solid year before he found out she was taking an oath to remain celibate for some reason she explained to him. He respected that. It crushed him at first, though. Their chaste kisses as they sat alone together in his classroom grading assignments and the lingering touches when she visited him during his conference period were over.

But it was in the past, and it didn't bother him anymore. He's pretty sure. Besides, they're good friends now, and Percy didn't want anything to ruin that.

"Oh, I did too."

Her emerald green eyes sparkled like the freckles on her face. Percy raises his mug to her and takes another drink.

"You know," Rachel says, smirking with purple lips, "I heard some junior girls in my class talking about you."

Percy squints his eyes. "Saying what? They don't hate me, do they? That's like, kind of a fear of mine."

"Oh, no, nothing like that. In fact, I think it's the complete opposite."

The smirk stays on her face, and for emphasis, she waggles her eyebrows. Percy only squints harder. "Meaning..."

Rachel rolls her eyes and sits up and twirls a piece of hair around her finger. "Do you have Mr. Jackson?" She puts on a higher-pitched voice. "He's like, the cutest ever. I just wanna like, touch his hair. And his butt. Have you seen his butt in those pants?"

Percy's face goes pink, and Rachel giggled, putting her hands back into her lap. He burrows into his seat.

"Oh. That's... embarrassing."

"I know. Imagine being there to hear it."

Percy slides back up in his chair, leaning forward. "They do realize I'm over ten years older than them, right?"

Rachel checks her watch and goes to stand. The third period was almost over, so Percy follows suit. "They realize, but they don't acknowledge it. That's the "allure," I guess. You're one of the younger few in the school, and you're a good teacher. Compared to like, Mrs. Dodds, you're practically a god to these kids. A father figure to some. We live in New York, Percy, and a lot of these kids don't even have dads. I guess they kind of mix up that feeling of being protected with attraction."

Downing the rest of his coffee, he places his mug in the sink and considers her words. He knew how it felt to grow up without a father figure in his life; by the time he actually had one, he was already 17-years-old. It was a goal for him to appear as a confidant for them.

But it didn't stop him from feeling uncomfortable that he knew that some of his students were attracted to him. It made him feel gross. They were kids.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," he says, shoving a hand into his pocket. "I also don't wanna know who said that, but I think I might know who said that."

"And your guess is probably right, but I don't blame them." She leans around the back of him, letting out a low whistle. "You do have a cute butt."

Percy makes a conscious effort not to turn his back to his next class.

Was the semester over yet?

Annabeth let the letter sit on her desk for three days before she sent it.

Well, she had Leo send it. She knew she wouldn't even make it to the post office.

She didn't know why she was so scared to send it off. She hadn't said anything weird or offensive; if it came off as anything, it was probably creepy. But she never had this much anonymity when she addressed strangers. They didn't have any sort of personal contact; she didn't know their names, and she had only signed her initials; they were communicating the old-fashioned way.

Which made it both more exciting and nerve-wracking.

"How's your project going?" asks her friend Piper one day as they're waiting for their food to arrive.

"Which project?"

"The homeless shelter. Jason said it's coming along great, but he's also Jason."

Annabeth shakes her head and produces a small smile, twirling the straw in her water. "It's... fine. It's a shelter, alright, and it's a nice one. But... I don't know. Every since Mother pointed it out, it just feels like a building. Not a home."

Piper wrinkles her pierced nose, stroking the end of one of her braids. Piper worked at the animal shelter on Annabeth's block, so she was often coated in dog hair (which is why Annabeth bought her a lint roller for Christmas), but today, she had time to change before she met Annabeth for lunch. Her white blouse contrasts with her dark skin.

"You know, I could give you some ideas. I was in and out of shelters my entire life, and most of them felt like a prison. So I could definitely tell you what not to do."

When Annabeth met Piper, she'd been on the edge of aging out of the foster care system - she'd been in and out of it since her father passed away. To try to save up for an apartment, Piper had taken a job at Annabeth's favorite Mexican restaurant. Annabeth had gone in every day to order the tacos (she was hungry and consistent), Piper had interacted with her well enough to have them ready before Annabeth even arrived.

Obviously, they became fast friends.

Annabeth never felt sorry for Piper, and Piper appreciated that - she had hated the looks the homeless shelter attendees gave her when she needed a bed for the night. Annabeth didn't feel sorry that she was poor - she did anything she could to help her, which was way better than pity.

If Annabeth had anyone to consult over the project, Piper was her girl.

Piper offers a smile as the waiter comes over with their food. He sets a kale salad in front of Piper, and a basket of chili cheese fries in front of Annabeth. Her stomach grumbles.

It's been a stressful week, alright?

"I'll definitely take you up on that," Annabeth says, wiping cheese of the corner of her mouth. "Maybe that perspective will help."

She continues to gorge herself, sighing with every bite. With her mother's insane diet plans, every cheat day Annabeth could get was very much appreciated - maybe too appreciated. Piper stifles a giggle as she drizzles a vinaigrette over her leafy vegetables.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Greatly." Her words are stifled by the amount of food in her mouth.

It's been over a decade since she and Piper became friends, and with her, Annabeth could feel herself finally let go. She could never eat like this in front of anyone, not her coworkers, not her other friends, and especially not Athena Chase. For 17 years, Annabeth had to eat with a napkin in her lap and back completely straight. They had spoons specifically for soup. It drove Annabeth insane, not even being allowed to eat a chicken wing correctly.

Piper shoves a bit of kale into her open mouth. "Good. You need the fuel to brainstorm."

Annabeth swallows. "Yeah." She taps her fork against the edge of her near-empty basket. "Can I tell you something?"

"Of course."

She swallows again but for a different reason this time. "I wrote a letter to a stranger."

Piper's next forkful stops halfway to her mouth. "You what?"

"I wrote a letter to a stranger."

"Okay, yeah, you said that. But like, why?"

Annabeth could feel her face redden, and she bites into another cheese fry. "Well, it's a kinda long story."

Piper checks her watch. "Well, you still got half an hour left of your lunch break."

Annabeth, suddenly feeling ridiculous, realizes she can't back out of telling her. "For the past three years, I've been receiving... Christmas cards from this family. The family is just a mother and son, and they're older - I think the son is probably in his mid-late twenties? And they just look so... happy and full of holiday spirit that I wanted to reach out to them, I guess."

For a few seconds, Piper doesn't respond, and it confirms Annabeth's insanity. But then, the corner of her lip turns up.

"You totally did it because you think the guy is cute."

Annabeth nearly chokes on her saliva. "What? No! I-it's not because of that!"

"You only thought to mention the man and not his mother."

"I was just giving you a gauge of how old they are."

"That's not what your bright red face says. You never blush, Annabeth Chase."

Annabeth huffs. "You... you just caught me off guard."

"You also don't stutter."

"Shut up!"

Having his mail delivered to him was highly inconvenient because almost every time he came home from work, his foot would land directly on the pile.

Or Mrs. O'Leary would get to it.

But she knew better than that.

"Shit," Percy says, picking up the letter on the floor that now had a wet boot print on it.

It had snowed in New York earlier that morning, and while he loved the snow, he hated the traffic that came with it. He lived too close to the school to take the train but too far to walk, and his car was a piece of shit he got from Beckendorf for not even a thousand bucks. Not only did he have to sit in unmoving traffic with a broken AC, but as he puttered down the street, he could feel the ride getting bumpier. He was lucky he even made it home.

Setting the letter on the table next to the door, he sheds his several coats, tossing them over the back of his sofa. His snow boots were heavy, and taking them off his feet was such a relief.

Mrs. O'Leary, who'd been resting on her dog bed by his small box TV, wags her tail at Percy before laying back down. He crouches down and scratches between her ears.

Percy had adopted Mrs. O'Leary about 3 years ago, and she's been the love of his life since. When he visited the shelter, she'd been days out from being put down - since she had been five, nobody wanted an older dog. The moment Percy saw her, he had fallen in love with those big brown eyes, and the two have been inseparable since.

And technically, he wasn't supposed to have a dog in the apartment, but his neighbors were kind enough not to snitch on him.

Percy passes the envelope on his table to enter his small kitchen with only enough space for his fridge and a stovetop. He opens the refrigerator (ducking down because he was much too tall for his own living space) and retrieves his leftover Chinese food, unfolding the box and slurping cold noodles from his fingers.

At almost 30-years-old, Percy had hoped for better than old chow mein and a one-bedroom apartment. When he started college, he'd picture his 30-year-old self with a big house, a wife, a dog, some kids. And well, he accomplished two of those things, if he counted his students as his "kids." Or Mrs. O'Leary.

But in all honesty, Percy doesn't think he would change a thing about he lived his life. Sure, a teacher's salary in Manhattan, New York City wasn't the best (or realistically liveable, for that matter), but teaching was his passion. It made him feel young again, and he knew he'd want to mentor kids like the many mentors he had in his life.

He just wished he had someone to come home to at the end of the day. Somebody that would tell him they were proud that wasn't his mom. Somebody he could cuddle with and, he doesn't know, kiss sometimes.

Because frankly, sloppy dog kisses weren't cutting it.

He'd finished his noodles, taken a shower, and graded several extra credit reviews by the time he remembered the piece of mail he stepped on earlier in the day. At first glance, he was sure it was a rent notice from his landlord, he didn't even bother opening it, and he almost remembered throwing it away.

But as he passes the table into his kitchen again, one thing catches his eye.

The letter is addressed to him, and it has a return address in small, cursive handwriting. The letters of his own address are a little smeared from his bootprint earlier, but he notices that where his name should be, "The Jackson Family" is written.

Curiously, he tears it open.

A folded, light blue sheet of blue paper flutters to the ground, and he snatches it out of the air before it gets there. He flips it open; it reads:

To the Jackson family,

For the past 3 years, I have received a Christmas card from your family every December. I'm sure this is a mistake, as I don't think I've ever met a "Jackson" in my life, but I just wanted to let you know that they're very much appreciated. In fact, the cards are the only real Christmas presents I get these days. The rational part of me knows that you've simply made an error when writing the receiving address, and I also know that I should have probably let you know sooner, but now felt as good a time as ever. If you stop sending them, I understand.

Happy Holidays,

AC

Percy pauses and scans the letter a few more times.

Then he promptly picks up his phone to call his mom.

Annabeth's overseeing the final construction of the shelter, wearing an orange hardhat, and a pair of black stilettos that crushed her left pinkie toe. Her face remains unmoving, however, as she balances a clipboard on her hip.

It was coming along, in her biased opinion. Nestled on the corner of 14th street, next to the subway stations, and it extended nearly 30 feet into the several. It's blended into the surrounding architecture, so it didn't stand out significantly, but Annabeth could spot the differences easily. In Leo's words, it had that "Annabeth Chase architectural spin thing," partially inspired by 1800s revival of Greek architecture with the stone pillar embedded into the corners of the building and the alternating stone bricks laying as the building foundation, minus their tendency to burn.

Annabeth steps over a pile of rubble and watches as the construction workers lay final bricks at the top of the structure, readjusting her sunglasses before adjusting the straps of her coat.

She's been out there for so long, she felt almost guilty for feeling exhausted - she'd done nothing but stand there and look pretty while Charles Beckendorf and his crew did all the heavy lifting. Standing on pointy little daggers hardly compared to operating hefty, moving machinery.

But it was almost all worth it seeing her creation come to life. It was the best part of the job, and it made her a little emotional. It was like raising a child, except... it was a building, and it wouldn't rely on you physically and financially for 18 years.

A black car pulls into the lot, and before Annabeth could go scold them, Leo steps out from the driver's seat in a puffy ski jacket. He approaches her, clutching a letter in his hand.

"I didn't know you got a new car," Annabeth says, pushing up her sunglasses. "It looks ni-"

"He wrote back," he says, interrupting and looking up at her with an excited glint in his eyes. He presents her the letter, and she takes it. "I don't know why it sent to your work address, but I think your home and work addresses or a little mixed up at the post office. I've come across way too many Spencer's coupons in my time."

Annabeth sends a death glare that could melt the snow on the ground, but trades reveling in the fearful look in his eyes for the paper in her hand. The envelope is a little wrinkled, and the handwriting on the front is a bit sloppy but legible, she guesses.

Percy Jackson.

Glancing back once more to the construction above her, she walks to the edge of the yellow caution tape, running her finger under the glued flap. The paper she pulls out is lined and a little stained.

Why was her heart beating so quickly?

In all honesty, she hadn't been expecting him to write back. She might have expected his mom to write back maybe, or maybe not a response at all, but here it was. In her hands.

It reads:

Dear AC,

Yeah, sorry about that. We've been meaning to send those cards to apt. 415, not 515. But... I'm glad you got some entertainment from them. My mom - who, in case you were wondering, I do not live with, I am 29 and fully independent - was super embarrassed to have given me the wrong address, but the cards didn't really go to waste, so she wasn't too upset. In fact, she was mostly curious as to who the mysterious receiver might be. As am I. Who are you, AC? What's your life like? Why do you not like Christmas? If you were Pandora's box, I would be... well, Pandora, I suppose. I'm being nosy, of course, but getting a random ass letter from a stranger on a Tuesday kind of warrants some answers.

I'd ask to keep the mysterious (and might I ask, subtly romantic) method of letter writing an on-going way of communication between us, but we both live in New York, and modern technology is a thing that exists. Why don't you just email me? I'd give you my number, but again, we are strangers. You could track my information through that or something.

Sincerely,

pjackson18 (at gmail. com)

yeahhh i'm back again w/ the christmas story i (kinda) promised, and it's not a one-shot for once! part 2 will be (hopefully) saturday, and part 3 next wednesday, which is christmas day! and there may be a part 4, but i haven't gotten that far yet haha

until next time! ~ Aja :)