You were barely awake when they sent him to you.

Camp Jupiter had been… a lot. New home, new rules, new reality. Roman training that hit like a brick wall. Endless drills. Standards higher than Olympus itself. And you—new, exhausted, constantly fighting sleep like it was your personal Hydra. Even the medics were confused. The augurs muttered. The centurions were torn between frustration and worry.

So they called him.

Jason Grace. Praetor. Legend. Golden boy of Rome.

And a man of two faces.

Everyone adored the flawless version—the warrior standing like a marble statue carved by the gods themselves. Strong jaw, wind-swept blond hair, storm-blue gaze. The strict, disciplined, almost untouchable Jason Grace.

But you…?

You cherished all of him. Especially the version nobody cared to notice.

The one who wore glasses.

The first time he pushed them up the bridge of his nose—shy, a little stiff, undeniably nerdy—you had to look away before your heart did something publicly embarrassing. His glasses softened him, made him look gentle and human. Not the intimidating praetor, but Jason. Quiet, thoughtful, sweetly awkward Jason.

And now that Jason was knocking on the door of the infirmary room where you’d been staying, clearing his throat like you were the one in charge.

“Um… hi,” he said, stepping in with that hesitant smile, like he was unsure if he was allowed to smile at all. The glasses were perched slightly crooked. Fates help you.

You sat up, trying to shake the sleepiness clawing at your ribs. “Sorry— I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t trying to skip training, I swear, I just—”

“No, no,” he said quickly, palms half-raised, voice softening instantly. “You’re not in trouble.”

And gods, he meant it. His tone was calm, warm, almost… tender. Like he was afraid you’d crumble if he spoke too loud.

“They asked me to check on you,” he continued, pulling a chair closer but sitting on the edge of it, a little too formal. “Just to talk. See how you’re adjusting.”

His knee bounced. He glanced at his notes. Adjusted his glasses. Forgot what he was about to say. Looked at you again.

He was—if you allowed yourself to admit it—adorably nervous.

Over you. A new, unskilled girl who couldn’t make it through a morning without nearly falling asleep on her pilum.