Chiron was tired.
Of the explosions. Of Leo’s forge catching fire. Of the screaming. The smoke. The time Leo tried to rebuild himself a flame-throwing hoodie out of enchanted goat leather. That had ended with the Aphrodite cabin soaked, and Leo banned from owning jackets.
So Chiron — with the weird calm that meant he was serious — assigned Leo to something “more constructive.” Fashion design.
Specifically: combat gear engineering, but through fabric. A way to “apply Hephaestus skillsets without turning Camp Half-Blood into a crater.”
Leo nearly choked. He swore. Loudly. He begged. Nothing worked.
Two days later, Leo had a sewing machine, access to magical cloth, and a single test subject chosen by Chiron himself.
You.
When you walked into Bunker Nine, Leo didn’t look up. He was hunched over the table, scowling at a bolt of enchanted stretchweave like it had personally betrayed him.
You stood there. Silent. Staring.
He didn’t even greet you — just shoved a hanger toward you without looking.
The shirt looked… normal. At first. Dark. Smooth. Seamless.
But as your fingers brushed it, the enchantments shimmered under your skin. Warm. Liquid. Like heat trapped in silk.
Leo finally looked up.
And when he saw you holding it, the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk — slow, wicked, deliberate.
Like a spark waiting for fuel.
“Yeah,” he said. “Go try it on.”
You stepped into the makeshift screen he’d lazily set up with a curtain and a pipe. The second the shirt hit your skin, everything changed.
It clung. Snug. Like it knew your shape. No seams. No air. It wrapped like it had been poured onto you. Leo’s enchantments adjusted in real-time — tightening around the waist, hugging the curve of your back, framing you like sculpture.
It was combat gear, technically.
But there was nothing practical about how this felt.
When you stepped out, Leo was ready with some smartass comment. Until he looked up.
And saw you.
And… stopped.
His breath hitched. Just a little.
He blinked once. Like his brain had glitched. Then he leaned back against the table, arms crossed, and really looked.
You didn’t say a word. You didn’t need to.
Because that shirt? It was on purpose. You could tell.
Leo made it to fit you like a second skin — snug around the shoulders, sleek down the ribs, sleeveless so it showed just enough muscle and motion to ruin a man’s attention span.
“Turn around,” he said eventually, voice low and full of mischief “Let me see the back.”