You had always been the smart one. The hand that shot up before the teacher even finished the question. The kid who corrected pronunciation. Who reminded the class about homework like it was a civic duty. You liked being right. You liked knowing things. And Percy— Percy was chaos with sea-green eyes and ink-stained fingers, constantly forgetting assignments, constantly skating by on instinct and luck.

At first, you’d tried to help him. Then you’d started correcting him. Then you’d started doing it sharper. Smarter. Meaner. Somewhere along the way, your intelligence stopped being something you shared and started being something you weaponized.

And Percy hated feeling stupid. Especially around you. Especially when you made it obvious. You didn’t even notice how often you sighed when he spoke. How often you tilted your chin up when you corrected him. How often you let the words “Obviously” and “If you’d been paying attention” slip out like reflex.

You thought you were better. And part of you wanted him to know it. The argument had started over something small. It always did. Maybe he’d misremembered a myth. Maybe he’d interrupted you. Maybe you’d corrected him in front of someone else. Now you were both standing too close, voices raised, heat sparking between you like friction.

Percy’s shoulders were squared, jaw tight, hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to throw something—but wouldn’t. You stood straighter. Chin lifted. Arms crossed. Your expression wasn’t angry. It was unimpressed.

That was worse. Percy ran a hand through his hair in frustration, pacing once before turning back to you. His face was flushed—not embarrassed. Hurt. You didn’t soften. You tilted your head slightly, eyebrows raised, like you were waiting for him to catch up. Waiting for him to understand something you already did.

The space between you felt electric. Not romantic. Not warm. Competitive. Percy’s eyes flashed—sea-green and stormy—and for a second he looked like he might actually walk away. You held his gaze. Unblinking. Because you weren’t going to back down. And neither was he. Two kids too proud to admit they were both scared of being the lesser one. The wind shifted. Silence dropped heavy between you. And neither of you moved first.