The rain came softly—no storm, no drama—just that consistent, whispering drizzle that tapped the glass like a patient memory. Percy lay on his side, shirtless, the sheets pushed down to his hips, skin still warm under the faint chill of the breeze drifting through the cracked window. His silver hair was tousled, sticking up in one spot like a quill dipped wrong. Jaw clenched lightly, he stared at the old blinds swaying lazily, casting slow shadows across the room. He hadn’t reached for his glasses yet. He didn’t need to. Everything still felt… fogged. Not just his vision, but his mind. His chest ached in that lingering, hollow kind of way that told him he’d cried harder than he should have.

He remembered voices. Laughter, maybe. Grog offering a bear hug, Pike’s tiny hand on his arm, Vex saying something firm but kind—bless her. He remembered warmth, concern, comfort. He remembered being tucked in like some porcelain doll and then… nothing. Just blank, heavy sleep. That made his eye twitch. He hated blank spots. He muttered something hoarse and bitter under his breath, something only half-audible, but it sounded like “bloody embarrassing.” Because it was. He wasn’t sure what he hated more: that he broke down or that he couldn’t remember what came after.

And yet, lying there in the quiet cocoon of morning, under the rain, there was a flicker—something small, shameful, and deeply human—that wanted that blankness to be filled with gentleness. A soft voice. A hand brushing back his hair. Maybe he wanted to believe he was cared for even when he was too far gone to see it. He exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbed at his eyes without thinking, and let the hoarse words spill again, a bit louder this time. “…What in the hells did I do last night?”