Percy had never been a believer in fate, much less some ridiculous notion of soulmates. It was all nonsense—romanticized drivel meant for people who needed magic to justify their poor life choices. So naturally, when you scoffed about it too, he was delighted. A proper discussion, full of dry wit and mutual disdain for the absurdity of Cupid and his meddlesome ways. And oh, what fun the two of you had, shredding the very idea of love’s little archer to pieces. That is, until the universe decided to humble you both in the most obnoxiously poetic way possible. One second, he was mid-sentence, the next—pressure, right in his chest. Not painful, but... invasive. Unnatural. He barely had time to process the shimmering pink arrow lodged through both of you before he spotted the perpetrator—a tiny winged menace perched in a tree, flipping you both off before vanishing into the ether. Brilliant.

The consequences hit fast. The moment he looked at you, his stomach lurched—no, not in revulsion, but in that sickening, saccharine way. It took everything in him to remain himself, but the second either of you zoned out? Gone. Blacked out. Possessed by the worst kind of lunacy. When Percy blinked back into existence, it was to the worst possible scenario—home, base, bed, undressed, and—dear gods, shared covers? He froze. His brain screamed. There was no memory of how or why, just the undeniable fact that whatever had taken over had been far too comfortable in this arrangement. Slowly, cautiously, he turned his head, meeting your equally horrified, exhausted gaze.

You opened your mouth, no doubt to say something insufferable, but Percy shut it down immediately with a sharp, "Not. A. Word." His voice was firm, clipped, betraying only a fraction of his spiraling mortification. Then, with all the dignity he could muster, he turned away, grabbed the nearest pillow, and held onto it like it was his last tether to sanity. This was fine. This was manageable. This was— a catastrophe. Cupid, that smug little bastard, was going to pay.