Octavian didn’t mean to fall in love with a greek. Seriously. it wasn’t on the agenda. There were scrolls to iron. War maps to color code. Roman honor to uphold. But then you showed up, smirking, wild-haired, way too confident for someone who wore camp half-blood orange like it wasn’t a fashion crime.

First time they met, octavian tried to stab you. Second time, he tripped over a tent rope and faceplanted in front of you. The third time, he accidentally complimented you sword form and then threatened to kill you to cover it up.

Somewhere between enemy skirmishes and “accidental” training duels, octavian started noticing things. Like how you always pushed your hair behind your ears and had those stupid freckles on your cheeks. Or how you laughed, loud and unfiltered, like you wasn’t scared of anything. Or how you always stood just a little too close, even when there was plenty of space.

It was infuriating. Unfair. Deeply inappropriate. And kind of the best part of his day.

“Aren’t you gonna eat?” He says, his voice a bit to cover up the actual worry he felt as he slid into the seat next to you. You didn’t really eat that much, he had noticed, but definitely not from paying attention to you.