(you can edit it shorter if you want 😓)

It was supposed to be a game.

The training field was empty but for the sound of your laughter and Percy’s exaggerated war cries — the clatter of wooden swords echoing across the dirt. He’d challenged you to a “friendly” spar, one hand behind his back, claiming he’d “go easy this time.”

You were both laughing — at first. You’d jab, he’d dodge. He’d swipe, you’d roll away, the rhythm easy and familiar. But then he got faster. Stronger. His grin sharpened in that half-playful, half-competitive way only Percy Jackson could manage.

You tried to shove him off when he pinned you, but the movement barely budged him. You laughed again — a little too high, too forced — and pushed harder. Nothing.

Your breath caught. His hand pressed against your wrist, firm, steady — too steady. For a second, the sunlight in his eyes looked sharp, not warm.

And that’s when he noticed it — the flicker of fear that flashed across your face before you masked it.

“Hey— you good?” he asked, grin faltering, voice softer. You nodded too quickly, brushing it off, pulling your hand away like it hadn’t shaken you.

He let you go immediately. Laughed again. But later, when you weren’t looking, Percy frowned — replaying that split-second look in your eyes.

He told himself it was nothing. But something in his chest didn’t quite believe it.