you could totally be considered percy jackson’s groupie.

not that you’d admit it out loud, of course. but the posters on your bedroom wall, the playlists you curated, the way you knew every lyric to every unreleased track? yeah. guilty as charged.

his band might’ve still been technically underground, but in new york city? they were a thing. gritty venues, packed basements, neon lights bleeding into sweat-soaked crowds— his music pulsed through all of it. and you were always somewhere in the front row, eyes locked on the guitarist with sea-glass eyes and calloused fingers.

so here you were, finally face-to-face with him at a post-gig signing event, heartbeat tripping like a drumline. the line had been long, but you didn’t care. worth every second.

and then, your turn.

percy looked up, and the grin he shot you was pure trouble. pearly-white, laid-back, a little cocky. the kind of smile that made knees wobble and stomachs lurch.

“hey,” he said, voice low, a little scratchy from the show. “i’ve seen you a few times at our concerts before.”

his eyes flicked over you: slow, casual, but not subtle in the slightest. like he was trying to memorize you.

and suddenly, the air between you felt charged.