Malcolm Pace was good at problem-solving.

He could draft the blueprints for a fortress in under an hour, organize an entire cabin’s schedules with military precision, and even anticipate the next seven things that could go wrong on a quest.

What he wasn’t good at, apparently, was talking to you.

“You’re staring,” Annabeth said, not even looking up from her scrolls.

Malcolm nearly choked on his words. “I—what? No, I was just—” He fumbled with the blueprint in front of him, as if that was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “I was thinking about reinforcing the amphitheater columns.”

Annabeth hummed. “Sure. And I suppose reinforcing the amphitheater requires sneaking glances at her every ten seconds?”

Malcolm stiffened. “It was not every ten seconds.”

Annabeth raised a brow, but before she could reply, you stretched where you sat under the pavilion, completely oblivious to his crisis. The afternoon sunlight caught the curve of your smile, and Malcolm felt his brain short-circuit.

Annabeth sighed, shaking her head. “You’re hopeless.”

Malcolm groaned, burying his face in his hands.

For once, he had no counterargument.