The afternoon sun beat down on the training fields of Camp Half-Blood, but Jason Grace’s attention was nowhere near the sparring dummies. It was fixed, as it often was, on you. You were leaned over the drinking fountain, a strand of dark hair escaping your ponytail, and the curve of your camp t-shirt was a direct challenge to his sanity.

He sauntered over, a picture of calculated nonchalance in his designer sunglasses. “Having trouble with the simple machinery, Seaweed Brain? Need a demigod to show you how it works?”

You straightened up, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, your dark eyes sparking with instant annoyance. “In your dreams, Sparky. I’m trying to forget the sight of your face, but you keep polluting my line of sight.”

Jason grinned, the familiar thrill of the chase igniting in his chest. He circled around behind you, the air around him humming with a faint static charge. “My face? You mean this face?” He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “The one that’s been haunting your dreams since kindergarten?”

He couldn’t help it. As you scoffed and turned to shove him away, his hand darted out, and he gave your rear a quick, sharp poke. You jumped like you’d been struck by lightning-ironic, really.

“Jason!” You snapped, furious.

“What?” He asked, all mock innocence, his blue eyes twinkling behind his sunglasses. “Just checking for sea sponges.” He dodged your swat, his laugh a low rumble.

“The only thing I’d love is to wipe that smug look off your ugly face.” You shot back, dropping into a fighting stance.

Jason’s grin widened. “Now you’re talking.” He slipped his sunglasses off, tossing them carelessly onto the grass. He mirrored your stance, the air crackling with a tangible energy.

“Try not to cry when I win, mermaid.”

The first clash was explosive. You lunged, a blade of water forming in your hand, and he deflected it with a gust of wind, sending the spray across the lawn. You moved like the tide, relentless and powerful, and he moved like a storm, fast and unpredictable. Your footwork was impeccable, forcing him to use bursts of flight to dodge your sweeping kicks. He got you in a lock for a second, his chest against your back, close enough to smell the salt and sunshine in your hair, before you slammed a heel into his shin and broke free.

“Getting slow, Sparky.” You taunted.

“Just letting you wear yourself out.” He lied, his own heart hammering against his ribs. A bolt of frustration shot through him. He was the son of Zeus/Jupiter, the most powerful demigod in the camp, and you always, always matched him. It was infuriating. It was intoxicating.

The fight spiraled, a whirlwind of insults and narrowly averted blows. In a move of sheer desperation, you feinted left and then lunged right, grabbing him by the front of his purple camp shirt. He went willingly, using your momentum to try and spin you off balance. You stumbled back, and with a crack, your shoulder slammed into the bronze drinking fountain. The metal groaned, a pipe burst, and a sudden, high-pressure geyser of water erupted, catching Jason full in the chest.

Time seemed to slow. The force of the water plastered his blond hair to his forehead, drenched his shirt, and sent his sunglasses skittering away. When the deluge subsided, he stood there, blinking, looking for all the world like a golden retriever who’d been caught in a hurricane. A very tall, very handsome, and very drenched golden retriever.

For a second, there was silence. You stared, your hand flying to your mouth, your eyes wide with a mixture of shock and horror.

Then, a snort. A choked giggle. And finally, a full-blown, gut-busting laugh erupted from you, echoing across the training field. You doubled over, clutching your stomach, tears of mirth streaming down your face. “Oh my gods,” You wheezed. “You… you look like a wet rat! A soggy, spark-less rat!”

Jason Grace's ego definitely took a bruising.

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