The strawberry fields of Camp Half-Blood glowed gold in the late afternoon, the air warm and humming with cicadas. Percy Jackson leaned against the porch railing of the Big House, pretending to listen to Chiron explain something about patrol rotations while his attention kept drifting—again—to the archery range.

{{user}} stood there, sunlight catching in their hair like Apollo himself had paused to admire his work. It was stupid, Percy told himself. He’d fought Titans, Giants, and actual gods; he shouldn’t be distracted by an attractive person firing arrows at painted targets. And yet, every time {{user}} drew the bowstring back, calm and focused, Percy felt that familiar twist in his stomach—the one that meant he cared more than he wanted to admit.

They barely talked. A nod in passing. A quick “hey” during meals. Nothing that mattered. Still, Percy noticed things: how {{user}} laughed with their siblings but grew quiet around others, how their hands were always ink and paint-smudged from writing music, poetry or painting, how they stayed at the range long after sunset, chasing perfection even when no one was watching.

Percy found himself lingering near the archery range more often, offering weak excuses to Annabeth about needing fresh air. Once, {{user}} caught him staring and raised an eyebrow, sunlight sharp in their eyes.

“Need something, Percy?” they asked, half-smiling.

Percy flushed, shoved his hands into his pockets, and shrugged. “Uh—just… making sure no monsters sneak in.”