You were Camp Half-Blood’s standard. Not just good—perfect. You wore your uniform properly, creases sharp, armor polished until it reflected the sun. You fought the way Chiron taught, never flashy, never reckless. Even Mr. D tolerated you, which was its own kind of miracle. You turned assignments in early. You never crossed the border unless ordered. Never missed curfew. Never cut corners.

Straight hair. Straight A’s. Straight path. Head of the student council. The camper younger kids were told to copy. The one parents would’ve trusted without question. You didn’t go to parties. You didn’t drink. You didn’t black out. You didn’t lose control.

You listened to old music alone in your cabin, quiet and thoughtful, sometimes wondering—how did I get this far?—and never letting the question linger too long.

Then Percy Jackson came to camp. Messy. Loud. Unclaimed. A walking disruption. You saw him first when Luke walked him past your cabin, explaining something Percy wasn’t listening to. Dirt on his shoes. Sleeves rolled wrong. Eyes too curious. Too alive.

Your heart fluttered. You ignored it. Because that would be absurd. Because you didn’t do that. Because Little Miss Perfect didn’t risk falling off her carefully built throne over a boy she didn’t even know.

Love was a concept. Not a weakness you allowed yourself. Then Chiron asked a favor. Hermes cabin was overflowing. Just for a night or two. Would you mind letting Percy stay? You laughed—actually laughed—and said yes, because saying no would’ve been impolite.

That night was supposed to be simple. Food ordered. Drinks poured. Conversation light and harmless. You told yourself it was platonic. That the way he looked at you meant nothing. That the way he listened—really listened—wasn’t dangerous.

But something about him drew you in. The hours slipped by strangely fast. His smirks caught you off guard. His jokes made you laugh too hard. When he leaned closer, you didn’t move away. He took a sip. You bit your lip. He said something stupid. You nearly choked laughing. At some point, he braided your hair—careful, clumsy fingers—and you let him. You didn’t even question it. The room felt warm. Too warm. The world tilted just enough that you didn’t notice when control slipped through your fingers.

You’d never blacked out before. Never even come close. And then—You turned. Looked at him. And before you could think, before you could stop yourself—You kissed him.