You were chaos in a pair of sneakers. A Greek demigod dropped onto the Argo II like a glitter bomb — sparkling, loud, unpredictable, impossible to ignore.

Everyone adored you.

Leo worshipped you. You were sunshine, a partner in crime, the only person who could match him joke for joke, spark for spark. Hazel loved your silly stories. Frank thought you were fun. Piper told you once that your energy “made days feel lighter.” Even Annabeth liked you — and she barely liked anyone when she was stressed.

But Jason? Jason Grace? Oh, he was a whole different species.

Tall, blond, stormy. A living Roman statue chiseled out of loyalty, discipline, and a permanent sense of responsibility. He was so serious he could make funerals look playful. Every time you made a joke, he sighed. Every time you nudged Leo and whispered something stupid, he side-eyed you like you were personally lowering the IQ of the entire ship. Every time you said an innuendo, he turned into a marble pillar—jaw clenched, posture stiff, thunder practically buzzing in his hair.

Hilarious. You loved it. The moments when he pinched the bridge of his nose like you were physically painful to witness. And gods, you lived for making him flustered. Teasing him. Watching the iron-straight li ne of his posture tighten whenever you whispered some stupid innuendo or made a joke so chaotic even mortal pigeons stared.

Jason Grace hated chaos. Which meant he hated you. Which, somehow, only made you like annoying him more.

Today was no different.

The Argo II had taken damage — again — so you stopped in a small Italian port town. Hazel, Frank, and Piper had gone to get groceries. Leo led the second half of the group to find supplies to fix the ship, dragging half the tools on his back.

Well… You always said fate had the funniest sense of humor. Because out of everyone on the Argo II of course the universe stuck you with Jason Grace. Mr. Duty-and-Discipline. Mr. “Let’s focus, guys.” Mr. “That’s inappropriate.”