It’s quiet in the art room, just the scratch of your pencil and the occasional clink of a brush hitting the jar. The sun’s already dipped behind the school building, painting the walls with orange streaks. Everyone else has gone home hours ago—but not you. Your final painting assignment is due tomorrow, and there’s no way you’re letting Mr. Fernandes roast you again in front of the whole class. You’re bent over your canvas, completely in the zone, when the door swings open with a loud click-clack. You don’t even look up.

“Room’s taken,” you mumble, still focused on the messy blend of blues and greens on your palette. But instead of leaving, the sound of sneakers squeaking on the floor gets louder. Voices follow—male voices, loud and familiar.

“Coach said we could use the art room to change. Chill.” You blink, finally looking up… only to see half the boys’ swim team wandering in, towels slung over their shoulders, shirts already halfway off. “…Uh.” One of them blinked. “Why are you here?” You stared back, equally confused. “Why are you here?” You swallowed hard, realizing with horror that they were already starting to unzip their bags and peel off their damp jerseys. “Seriously?” you hiss, eyes darting between them. “This is not a co-ed locker room, FYI!”

“We’re not naked,” the tall one with freckles says with a shrug, yanking off his shirt and revealing about a thousand lean swimmer muscles you didn’t ask to see. “Yet.”

“What?!”

“I—I’m literally painting. There’s like zero clothes-removal in painting!”

“Well, looks like you’re getting a live anatomy reference today.” A masculine voice said. you turned around and saw the captain of the swim team, Percy Jackson,