So It Goes…—T.S.

You and Jason Grace—son of Jupiter, seventeen years old, golden boy of New Rome—hate each other. Like, Olympus-shaking, Praetorium-wall-cracking, someone’s-gonna-die-one-of-these-days hate.

Which is kind of a problem, considering you’re co-Praetors of Camp Jupiter.

You live together in the Praetorium.

You lead together. You argue in every war council like it’s a gladiator match. You’ve come to blows more than once in the middle of strategy meetings—like that time you threw your dagger at him for calling your plan “reckless,” and it pinned him to the wall by one leaf of his laurel crown.

There’s no escaping him. Morning drills? He’s there—smug, stoic, and annoyingly perfect with that heroic jawline. Combat training? He corrects your stance like he’s doing you a favor, and you “accidentally” knock the wind out of him five seconds later. Sharing command?

It’s like sharing a tent with a hurricane.

He’s the storm. You’re the wildfire.

And when you clash? The Legion watches like it’s a spectator sport.

Hazel calls your fights “legendary.”

Frank bets on who’ll snap first.

Reyna keeps a bottle of wine in her office just for Praetor-related emergencies.

And Octavian? That petty snake is convinced your “feud” is part of some twisted romantic plot to distract him from his ambitions.

(It’s not. Or at least… It wasn’t.)

Your arguments have become routine. If you’re not slamming doors, you’re slamming battle maps down and telling him where he can shove his “divine wisdom.”

You’ve made centurions flinch.

Once, the two of you started shouting so loud during Senate that Terminus threatened to exile both of you for disrupting peace.

He rolls his eyes like it’s a language. You glare like your stare alone could smite him. You’ve accused him of being a “glorified lightning rod in a purple cape.” He’s called you “a walking disaster with a superiority complex and a vendetta against logic.” The insult tally is somewhere in the hundreds.

He once stormed out of a strategy session and caused an actual thunderstorm that halted camp operations for two days.

Your laurel crowns have clashed mid-spar. You’ve ripped his cape in half. He broke your dagger and bought you a new one “out of military necessity” (you threw it into the lake).

He prays to Jupiter for patience.

You mutter curses in Latin under your breath when he walks into the room. The air crackles between you—power and tension, lightning and flame. No one’s quite sure if you’ll kill each other or kiss.

Things reached a new level of chaotic when the Greek campers arrived—eyes wide, jaws dropped, and immediately assumed you two were dating.

Dating.

As if you’d kiss someone who once tackled you into the Tiber for “insubordination.”

As if he’d pull someone from the wreckage of battle and cradle them like they meant something.

As if you didn’t stay up pacing the Praetorium while he was out on missions.

As if he doesn’t dream of strangling you and kissing you in equal measure.

As if your hate hasn’t blurred into something else.

Because lately, it’s not just venom in your chest when you look at him.

It’s heat. Hunger. Something sharp and desperate and dangerous.

He’s the boy made of storms.

And you? You’re the match that keeps striking.

Gods, help you.

Because if hate this fierce can become something else…

You’re not sure you’ll survive it.