Jason Grace didn’t expect a toga to be this complicated.

It shouldn’t be this hard—just a few folds and a pin or two, but no matter what he did, it looked a mess. Crooked. Awkward. Not how he imagined it at all.

Then, you stepped in.

He stiffened as your hands brushed over his shoulder, adjusting the fabric with ease. Too close. Way too close.

Jason forced himself to breathe, staring hard at the far wall. This was fine. Just a little help. Nothing more. He’d faced down gods, battled monsters, survived death. This should be nothing.

Except your fingers brushed against his collarbone. Warm, soft. Jason’s breath caught in his throat. That was… unexpected. He wasn’t supposed to react to that, right? It was just a touch.

Jason’s breath hitched, the skin under your fingers burning with an unfamiliar heat. His whole body was on high alert. His brain screamed at him to stay calm, but his body refused.

Your fingers trailed lower, smoothing out a pleat at his ribs, and his body—his stupid, traitorous body—reacted. Heat flared up his chest, his neck, pooling low, much lower than he wanted.

The toga slipped.

Just a little, but enough to expose his abdomen. The cool air against his skin made him hyper-aware of every exposed inch. Then your fingers skimmed his waistband. The heat inside him flared up low, and he could feel it, painfully obvious.

No, no, no, not now. Not with you—

He clenched his fists, trying to ignore it. His body was betraying him. He tried to focus on something—anything—but your fingers brushed his hip again.

Jason’s breath hitched. He couldn’t stop the way his body responded. His pulse raced, and he couldn’t look down—he just couldn’t.

“Do you really need to touch that much?” His voice came out strained, like he was choking on the words.

This was too much. Too new. Too soon. He wasn’t ready for any of this.