Born To Die

We go to Westport

We pulled into Westport, Connecticut, a town that looked like it belonged on the cover of a quaint postcard, with its charming streets and peaceful atmosphere. But the tension in the car made it feel anything but peaceful. Luke had barely spoken all day, and now I knew why. As we turned down a quiet street and pulled up in front of an old, slightly worn house, everything clicked into place.

This was Luke's home.

I glanced at Thalia, who was sitting beside me, her usual snark replaced with a kind of curious unease. Annabeth, as usual, sat quietly, watching everything with those sharp, gray eyes of hers. None of us really knew what to expect, but one thing was clear: Luke wasn't excited to be here.

The house looked like it had seen better days. The paint was chipped, the lawn was overgrown, and the curtains in the windows were drawn tight, like they were trying to shut out the world. Luke stared at the house for a long moment before finally getting out of the car. Thalia and I exchanged a look and followed him.

Luke knocked on the door, but before he could even lower his hand, it swung open. His mother stood in the doorway, her face lighting up in a strange, too-bright smile. She had the same brown hair as Luke, though hers was frazzled, sticking out at odd angles. Her eyes were wide and a little unfocused, like she was seeing something we couldn't.

"Luke, honey! You're home!" she exclaimed, pulling him into an awkward hug. Luke didn't return it, just stood there, stiff, while his mother fussed over him.

"Hey, Mom," Luke said, his voice tight. He glanced back at us. "Uh, these are my friends, Thalia, Annabeth, and Isla."

She turned her bright, overly eager smile on us. "Oh, of course! Come in, come in! I made cookies. They're a little overdone, but still good, I think!"

As we stepped inside, the smell of burnt cookies hit us immediately. The house was cluttered, papers and old magazines stacked in piles, a few dishes left on the counters, and the faint smell of smoke hanging in the air. It was clear that Luke's mom wasn't entirely... together.

"Make yourselves at home!" she called from the kitchen. "I'll get those cookies."

Luke stood awkwardly in the living room, his hands shoved into his pockets, not saying a word. Thalia gave him a sympathetic look, but even she didn't know what to say. Annabeth clung close to me, her eyes darting around, taking everything in.

Then I felt it. A shift in the room, like the air suddenly got heavier. And there, lounging on the arm of the couch, as if he'd been there the whole time, was a man—dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt, but with an aura that screamed, "I don't belong here." His presence was too sharp, too... godly.

Hermes.

He grinned when he saw us, that charming, mischievous smile that could probably talk its way out of anything. "Well, well, well. Look who's come home," he said, his voice light but tinged with something deeper. His eyes flicked to Luke. "You've been keeping busy, I see."

Luke tensed, his fists clenching at his sides. "What are you doing here, Hermes?"

Hermes shrugged, completely unfazed by Luke's cold reception. "Can't a father check in on his son?"

"Since when have you ever done that?" Luke's voice was sharp, filled with a bitterness that none of us had heard from him before. He took a step closer to Hermes, his jaw tight. "You don't care. You never have."

Hermes sighed, his grin faltering for just a second, though the glint in his eyes never left. "That's not true, Luke. I do care. You know how things are. I have responsibilities."

Luke let out a bitter laugh. "Responsibilities? Is that what you call leaving your son to take care of everything while his mother loses her mind?"

There it was. The crack in the perfect godly facade. For a moment, Hermes' expression darkened, but he quickly masked it with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I did what I had to do. It's complicated—"