Jason Grace had always been... Jason.

Reliable. Predictable. Annoyingly perfect in that honor-student, military-haircut, never-missed-a-meeting kind of way. Son of Jupiter. Golden boy of Camp Jupiter. The guy who said “yes, ma’am” unironically and actually meant it.

Cute? Sure. In that boy-next-door, “brings-his-own-pencils-to-war-council” sort of way. The kind of guy whose uniform was always pressed, whose smile was polite, whose entire existence screamed dependable.

But hot? No. Jason Grace had never been hot.

And yet—somewhere between praetor promotions, new armor fittings, and puberty finally catching up with divine genetics—he just... did that.

You didn’t even notice it happening. One day he was the sweet, serious kid who recited legion codes like bedtime stories; the next, he was the kind of man who made you forget what language was.

Maybe it was the haircut—shorter on the sides, messier on top. Or the tan that came from training under the sun, turning him golden in the way only sons of gods could pull off. Maybe it was how he’d started rolling up his sleeves, because apparently the universe decided forearms were your weakness now.

Whatever it was, it hit you like divine intervention.

You saw him across the forum, standing with a group of centurions, posture straight, smile easy, laughing at something Reyna said—and every neuron in your brain short-circuited.

When did he get shoulders like that? When did his voice get that low? When did his hands look like that—rough, steady, big enough to hold a sword and ruin your life simultaneously?

You blinked. Once. Twice. Triple take. Nope, still Jason Grace. Still the same guy who used to lecture people about posture. Only now, apparently, posture looked good on him.

Because holy gods—what was wrong with this man and that soft, barely-there smile of his?

Jason Grace had grown up, and you were not prepared.

It wasn’t just that he looked good; it was that he looked capable. Mature. Like the kind of man who would ruin you with manners. The kind of guy who’d open the door, pull out your chair, and accidentally make your entire body rethink its priorities.

And then there was training.

You told yourself you were just passing by. Totally innocent. Nothing to see here. Except apparently there was something to see, because there he was—sword in hand, hair pushed back, shirt clinging a little too well for public safety.

Every command he barked out sent your brain into emergency mode. Every flex of muscle was a divine attack. Each drop of sweat rolling down his neck was personally targeted harassment.

He looked like a living recruitment poster for Join the Legion—We Have Jason Grace.

Damn, he wasn’t even showing off. He was just being. And being Jason Grace now came with side effects like weak knees and poor impulse control.

You caught yourself staring more than once. Okay—more than twice. Let’s call it a habit. And every single time, he caught you back. Just a glance. Just a faint, knowing grin.

But it was fine.

Until now, cause yeah, this time was worse.

You were just standing there, doing your absolute best not to audibly sigh. Or drool. Both were close calls.

Then he paused—hand swiping sweat from his temple, chest rising with every breath—and looked straight at you.

Oh, gods.

You needed a minute. A long one. Preferably somewhere with cold water.