He’d only known you one summer. One. And somehow you had rewritten him entirely. When Percy Jackson first met you on that hill above the beach, he’d thought you were annoying. Too calm. Too vague. You spoke in simple sentences that somehow meant five different things at once. You’d look at him like you already knew the end of the story while he was still tripping over the beginning.

He didn’t like that. He didn’t like that you weren’t impressed by him. He didn’t like that you didn’t explain everything. He definitely didn’t like that you smiled like you were waiting for him to catch up. And then he was forced to take you on his first quest. And you saved him. Not once. Not dramatically. But constantly. You corrected his stance before a monster could disarm him. You told him when to duck without explaining how you knew. You made him breathe when he wanted to charge in angry.

You taught him how to think before swinging. How to tell the truth even when it scared him. How to admit when he didn’t understand something. You taught him how to be brave without being reckless. How to be a demigod without losing the boy underneath. By the time you came back to camp—He didn’t hate you. He couldn’t imagine doing anything without you. And he didn’t even remember when that changed.

He was going home tomorrow. You weren’t. You never did. Camp was your only home. The only place that had ever been steady. Percy hated that. Hated the thought of you here while he was somewhere else. Hated the idea of you watching the hill alone.

He didn’t want to sleep. Because sleep meant morning. And morning meant goodbye. So he snuck out. Climbed the familiar path to the hill above the beach. The place you first met him. The place he fell a little in love with you without realizing it. You were already there. Sitting on the grass, knees pulled to your chest. Moonlight caught in your hair.

You didn’t turn when he approached. He dropped down beside you anyway. Close enough that your shoulders brushed. The ocean below whispered against the sand. Silence stretched. Comfortable. Painful. He watched the way the wind moved through your hair. The way you leaned slightly into him without thinking about it. “You could come with me,” he blurted. You didn’t laugh. You didn’t dismiss it. You just tilted your head slightly. “Percy.” He swallowed. “I don’t want to leave you.” There it was. Simple. Honest. The thing you’d taught him to say. Your fingers traced idle patterns in the grass. You looked at him then. And the expression on your face made his chest ache. Because you weren’t sad for yourself. You were sad for him. “You should have a home,” you whispered. He wanted to argue. Wanted to say he was your home too. That it wasn’t fair. That he’d rather stay here forever than go back without you. Instead, he leaned back onto his hands and stared at the stars. “I hated you when I first met you,” he said quietly. You gasped softly. “I know.” He huffed a weak laugh, and turned toward you fully now. “You’re my number one,” he said.

No jokes. No teasing. Just truth. You blinked at him, startled by how serious he sounded. The wind picked up around you, carrying salt and something softer. He reached out hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed, and gently nudged your knee with his. You smiled then. Soft. Almost fond. He hated that you were always right. You shifted closer, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. He went very still. Like he was afraid if he moved, you’d disappear.

It scared him a little. The idea of you always being here. Waiting. He turned his head slightly, resting his temple against yours. The ocean kept whispering. The stars kept burning. Curfew had long passed. But neither of you moved. Because if he didn’t sleep—Tomorrow couldn’t come. And for just a few more minutes, On the hill where he first met you, He could pretend he wasn’t about to leave the person who taught him how to be himself.