You were there before he knew what monsters were. Before he knew what he was. Before he even understood that the world could be cruel. You were there when he was small and stubborn and too brave for his own good. When he scraped his knees on playground asphalt and tried not to cry. When the storms rolled in and the lights flickered and something in the air felt wrong long before anyone else noticed.

You noticed. You always noticed. You learned early how to stand slightly in front of him. How to watch exits. How to scan rooftops and shadows and reflections in windows. You learned how to take the hit first. How to lie smoothly when teachers asked questions. How to pull him behind you before he even realized he was in danger.

You made it look effortless. Like you just happened to be beside him every time something went wrong. When Camp Half-Blood finally claimed him, when the truth exploded into his life like a tidal wave, you were still there. Dust-covered. Shaking. Refusing to let go of his hand.

You didn’t leave. You could have. You could have stepped back once he had the prophecy, once he had the sword, once he had the name that made gods turn their heads. But you didn’t. At camp, he gravitated toward you without thinking. Sat beside you at meals. Walked with you along the shoreline. Fell into step with you like it was muscle memory. When quests were announced and choices had to be made, his eyes found yours first.

Always. He trusted you with his back. With his life. He didn’t know what it cost you. He didn’t know about the opportunities you let slip through your fingers because he needed you. The friendships you never quite built because you were always watching him instead. The softness you buried so you could be sharp when it mattered. He didn’t know how many nights you stayed awake outside his cabin after nightmares, just in case.

He didn’t know how many times you chose him over yourself without hesitation. And you would never tell him. Because none of it felt like sacrifice to you. It felt like gravity. Percy was the tide, and you were the shoreline—steady, worn down quietly over time, reshaped again and again by the force of him, but never leaving. He thought you were just loyal. He didn’t understand that you had built your entire world around keeping him safe. That you would have traded anything—happiness, love, a life untouched by blood and prophecy—if it meant he got to live one more day.

Sometimes, when he laughed with the others, when the weight lifted from his shoulders and he looked like the boy he might have been without destiny breathing down his neck, something in your chest would twist. Not regret. Just the quiet knowledge that you had given up pieces of yourself so that laugh could exist.

And you would do it again. A thousand times. Even if one day he chose someone else to stand beside. Even if one day he didn’t need you anymore. You would still stand there, a step behind, watching the horizon for storms. Because loving Percy Jackson had never been about being chosen. It had always been about choosing him.