When Percy walked into the prospect convention, he immediately felt like this whole thing was designed to make teenagers panic. The room was loud, polished, tense in a strange formal-youth way, like everyone was pretending they were already adults. His friends nudged him toward one of the cluster groups forming near the front and joked:

“Percy, don’t you know {{user}}?”

Like all of this was normal and not socially terrifying at all.

Percy blinked, caught completely off guard — suddenly way too aware of how people his age seemed different tonight: sharper, cooler, hotter in a way he didn’t fully understand how to react to. He shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to look casual, like he wasn’t low-key dying inside. Because even here, even in a room full of normal prospects and future planners, Percy Jackson still somehow felt like he just wandered into a quest he didn’t get a prophecy warning for.

And when he looked back at {{user}}, he went…

“Huh.”

Percy’s brain just short-circuited.

When did you get hot? All of a sudden, I could look you up and down all day… hey? When did you get hot? I think I would remember if you had that face…

The thoughts hit him faster than a wave in a storm. He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, trying to force his expression neutral, trying not to look like he just got ambushed by {{user}} himself. Because even here — even at a normal prospect god–demigod convention — Percy had to do a double take. Then a triple take.

Gods… how did that even happen?