The gym smelled like sweat and rubber soles. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the sound of sneakers on hardwood echoed off the high walls. We were at a school in some nowhere town—just two more fake names on the roster. We’d been here a few months. Long enough to get drawn into the routine. Long enough that Peter talked me into joining the basketball team with him.

  We weren’t supposed to be standing out. That was the rule.

  Keep a low profile. Blend in. Don’t draw attention.

  But Peter had never been great at following rules—especially when someone challenged him.

  It was a warm Friday evening, and the gym was packed for the city’s local school league playoffs. Peter and I had joined the team mostly to kill time and stay out of trouble. No one knew what we were—just that we were fast, good with coordination drills, and showed up early to every practice.

  The first half of the game had been close. Tight defense. Quick passes. Nothing flashy. We played like normal teenagers, even if we weren’t.

  Then one of the opposing players—some tall guy with a too-smug grin and elbow-heavy defense—shoved Peter on a rebound and muttered something about orphans thinking they could play with real athletes.

  Peter’s head whipped around so fast I thought his neck might snap. He didn’t say anything. Just clenched his jaw, tightened his fists, and walked to the bench at halftime like he was coiled wire.

  I followed, already knowing what was coming.

  “You heard that guy?” Peter said under his breath as we reached the bench.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Ignore it.”

  Peter shook his head. “Let’s show them.”

  I raised a brow. “Show them what?”

  He gave me that look—mischief and fire and challenge wrapped into one. “How fast we can really move. Just for a bit. We’re not using anything big. Just a little edge. You in?”

  I hesitated. We weren’t supposed to.

  But the spark in his eyes tugged something loose in my chest. A part of me wanted to feel free too—just for one game. One moment. To stop pretending we were less than we were.

  “Fine,” I said, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “But when Coach asks how you hit a three-pointer from half court with your eyes closed, that’s on you.”

  The second half started. And we turned it on.

  Not all the way. Not enough to draw suspicion. Just enough to move a little quicker, time our jumps better, sense the next play before it happened.

  I stole a pass before it even left the guy’s hands. Peter dribbled through a triple team like they weren’t even there. Our teammates started glancing at us like we’d suddenly become something else. And maybe we had.

  It wasn’t about showing off—it was about remembering what it felt like to move like ourselves. To stop hiding.

  It was easy after that. Peter used his instincts for victory to move perfectly, always in the right place, always making the right shot or pass. I amplified the wind just enough to make our movements smooth and sharp. We didn’t go overboard. Just enough to show off. Just enough to feel something again.

  And gods, it felt good.

  The other team started getting flustered. Shots missed. Passes went wild. Peter fed on it, his eyes glowing with that strategic fire I’d seen a hundred times in battle and training. Except this time, it was just a game. Just us.

  Peter was laughing by the time the final whistle blew and we were up by thirty.

  The other team looked stunned. And that smug guy? He couldn’t even meet Peter’s eyes.

  After we shook hands and walked off the court, I glanced sideways at him.

  “You’re the most competitive person I’ve ever met,” I muttered.

  Peter just smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

  And in that moment, under the fluorescent lights and the echo of cheers, I didn’t feel like a fugitive. I didn’t feel like a son of a Titan, or a weapon hiding in plain sight.

  I just felt… like a kid. Playing ball with his best friend.

  And that was enough.

  After we ate, the conversation drifted off, and we returned to training.

  I sat cross-legged in the grass beneath the tree again, the same spot where we’d started earlier. Damian and Peter settled beside me and Xandor—Damian there to guide me through the process again, Peter curious about how my abilities worked and how they might be used to help the others. Phoenix and Bay had moved farther off, sparring lightly in the clearing, their movements quick and focused.

  Xandor lowered himself beside me without a word, his posture calm and open.

  “Ready to fix it?” Damian asked, his tone light but expectant.

  I nodded and closed my eyes, slipping once more into Xandor’s mind.

  Finding the changed memories was easier this time. The silver-haired version of myself lingered at the edges of each moment, slightly out of place now that I knew it didn’t belong. One by one, I gently shifted each memory back, repainting gold over silver like brushing warmth back into the past.

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  When I pulled out, Xandor blinked slowly, then met my gaze with a steady look.

  “You fixed it,” he said. “It’s gold again. Thank you.”

  “I meant to mess with it,” I whispered, guilt tugging at the edge of my voice. “I just… didn’t think about what it would confuse you.”

  “Hey, I volunteered for this.” he replied. “You’re training. And you need to be able to do this, to help the others.”

  Then he added, softer, “I trust you, Zoe. With my mind. All of it.”

  His words hit me like a warm breeze. Steady. Certain.

  I stared at him, at the silver glint in his eyes under the fading sunlight, and felt the echo of every memory I’d seen. The weight of his protectiveness. The respect in his gaze. The quiet way he’d always watched over me.

  I’d gone into his mind to change something simple… but I came out seeing him clearer than I ever had before.

  And maybe… just maybe… I finally understood what I felt for him. It wasn’t just comfort or trust—it was something deeper. Something real. I felt for him. And it was becoming something more.

  We kept training, each round bringing something new. I stayed in Xandor’s mind, tracing memories, testing how quickly I could find the ones I needed. Peter, always the strategist, finally asked the question I’d been avoiding.

  “How are you going to do this in a real battle?” he said. “They’re not going to sit quietly while you dig around their thoughts. And even if they did—you might not find what you need in time.”

  He was right. So we made it harder.

  Xandor started blocking me. Intentionally hiding memories I was supposed to find. He buried them deep, behind shields of noise and false thoughts, and I had to learn to focus, to isolate, to dig.

  It took time. I got frustrated. I failed.

  But eventually, I started to find them anyway.

  Then we took it a step further. We started sparring.

  Wind roared around me, his staff sweeping through the air with precision, and I tried to fly, dodge, focus—while still diving into his head.

  It was chaos.

  He knocked me out of the sky more than once. Sent me sprawling onto the grass with a grunt and a bruised hip. But I kept getting up.

  Because eventually—I did it.

  I got in. Mid-air. Mid-swing. My body reacting on instinct, my mind slipping past his defenses.

  And when I landed on my feet instead of my ass, I turned to see him smiling.

  “Now that,” Xandor said, catching his breath, “was impressive.”

  But I wasn’t done.

  I stayed in his mind a little longer this time. And I noticed something—Xandor was struggling to concentrate, too.

  As I skimmed through his thoughts, I didn’t make any changes—I wasn’t ready for that again. But I did something else. I started tossing memories to the front of his mind, testing how easily I could throw him off.

  Sometimes it worked. I’d bring forward flashes of old battles, moments of high tension, and it would throw off his rhythm just enough to make him stumble. But then I found something else.

  A memory. Recent.

  We were in the truck bed after the escape. Stars above us, my wings wrapped around both of us like a blanket. I’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, and he hadn’t moved all night.

  But while I slept, he hadn’t. Not much.

  The memory flickered through his mind in vivid detail. The way the stars had stretched wide across the sky above us. How the night air had been cool, but not cold. How my wing had curled over him instinctively, and how he hadn’t wanted to move—even when his back started to ache—because he was afraid he’d wake me. He’d watched the stars most of the night, lost in thought, replaying everything that had happened. But through all the chaos, all the grief, it was that one moment of stillness that stayed with him. Safe. Quiet. Real.

  He’d never felt that kind of peace before. Not since the compound. And he hadn’t known how much he missed it until he felt it again.

  And now, as I pushed that memory forward, I felt all of it through him.

  Xandor froze mid-swing. The staff dropped a few inches. I felt the echo of that night—the warmth, the exhaustion, the safety—and it stunned us both.

  I stopped too. Hovering a few feet away, wings still flared. My breath caught in my throat.

  Neither of us said anything.

  But I knew, in that moment, he remembered exactly what I did. And it mattered.

  Because I could feel the weight of it. Not just the memory, but what it meant to him—that night of quiet, of peace, of choosing stillness with me when everything else was chaos. And now I knew the truth:

  That moment hadn’t just mattered to me.

  It had mattered to him, too. Enough to stay with him, enough to anchor him in everything we were fighting for. And maybe that was when it clicked—how deep my feelings had started to go. Because the second I saw how much he treasured that moment, I knew.

  I was falling for him.

  And the thought didn’t scare me.

  Xandor collected himself and finally stepped back. “Time for a break,” he said, his voice a little rougher than usual.

  Damian flashed me a knowing smile, then tugged Peter by the arm and wandered over to Bay and Phoenix, giving us space.

  Xandor turned and started walking, and I followed.

  Once we were far enough from the others, tucked behind a stand of trees, he stopped and turned to face me.

  “That,” he said with a crooked grin, “was a dirty trick.”

  I laughed quietly, but guilt crept in. “I didn’t mean to mess with your head like that. I was just trying to see what—”

  He stepped closer, cutting off my ramble. I went quiet.

  His eyes searched mine, and I suddenly felt the weight of every memory I’d seen. The way he saw me. The way I felt about him. And for a second, the space between us thinned.

  “I’ve seen so much of you,” I whispered, voice trembling slightly. “Would you… would you like to see something of mine?”

  He blinked. “You mean…?”

  I nodded. “A memory. Just one. Since I’ve seen so many of yours.”

  The moment stretched between us—charged, full of everything we weren’t saying.

  “I’d like that,” he said.

  I reached into his mind again, but this time, instead of searching for one of his memories, I gently pushed one of my own forward—something deeply personal. The night I had contacted him telepathically and saw him cloaked in starlight. I let him feel it through me—the way the wind had bent around him, the way the stars had gathered like old friends answering a call. I showed him what I had seen: not just a boy wielding power, but something transcendent.

  For years, I had thought of him as my friend, the steady one who always looked out for me, the quiet older boy with a soft voice and steady hands. My anchor in the skies. But that night on the rooftop, that moment had changed something. That boy had grown into something fierce and breathtaking, something that drew the stars themselves.

  And through the memory, I let him feel what I had felt—awed, humbled, and undeniably drawn to him. It wasn’t just the power. It was him. All of him.

  I pulled out of his mind slowly, the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding slipping free. Xandor exhaled at the same time, steadying himself. Then, without hesitation, he leaned in closer. Our foreheads nearly touched, the air between us charged and still. I looked into his eyes—and the stars were there, alive and swimming, like galaxies stirring in silver.

  We were so close. And for one heartbeat, I thought we might close the space between us entirely. His hand brushed mine, and my breath caught. My wings shifted slightly, drawn to the warmth between us, like they remembered something I hadn’t let myself feel until now. I had shown him a memory of the night he became starlight—and now he stood before me, close enough to touch, and somehow more real than ever.

  But we both stopped. At the same time.

  Because this wasn’t the moment.

  Not yet.

  Not when our friends were still out there. Not when Olympus was still in danger.

  “We’ll come back to this,” I whispered, stepping back.

  His smile was small but real, but it reached his eyes—the kind of smile that felt like a promise. “Yeah. We will.” His voice was quiet but certain, like he wasn’t just answering me—he was making a vow. And somehow, with the stars still whispering between us, I believed him.

  And as we stood there, starlight still humming in the silence between us, a quiet hope bloomed in my chest—that maybe, just maybe, when this was all over, when Olympus was safe and our friends were free, we might get to choose each other. Not because we had to. Not because the world needed us to fight. But simply because we wanted to. Without fear. Without weight. Just us.