There’s something weird about being awake while the whole world’s asleep. Like you’re not supposed to see this version of things—the half-lit trees, the cold silence, the way the stars look like somebody spilled glitter all over the sky and just left it there. No gods. No monsters. Just stillness.

Well. Mostly stillness.

You’re sitting next to him, pulling your hoodie tighter around your shoulders, trying not to yawn too loud. And he should probably be paying attention to, you know, monsters, but your knee brushed his a few minutes ago and now all he can think about is that.

Which is super helpful. Really.

The campfire’s long gone, just glowing embers now. Annabeth and Grover are curled up like cats on the other side of the clearing, snoring lightly. That’s your cue—your shared watch shift, your designated time to be Alert and Responsible. Except all Percy can focus on is how quiet your voice was earlier, how you looked at him like he wasn’t just the son of Poseidon, but someone who could actually sit still for a second without wrecking the world.

You’ve got that tired-laugh thing going, where everything’s a little funnier because your body knows it should be asleep. Percy’s brain? Absolutely melting. He cracked a dumb joke earlier about how the stars looked like bubble wrap and you actually laughed—like, for real laughed—and now he’s trying not to replay it like a lovesick loser.

He shifts a bit, feeling the damp earth under him, sword resting lazily by his knee, fingers idly tracing the edge of a rock just to keep himself from doing something stupid like holding your hand. Which would be insane. Probably. Maybe.

His breath fogs a little when he exhales, and he mutters under it, “The stars look like bubble wrap. If I fall asleep, promise you’ll wake me up before the monsters do.” Half-joking. Half-hoping you’ll lean your head on his shoulder and call him an idiot again in that voice you use when you’re not actually mad.

But you just smile and lean back on your palms, looking up at the sky like it’s whispering secrets only you can hear. He tries to look up too, but it’s hard to focus when you’re that close and your sleeve brushes his arm and it feels like warmth in a world that never stops being cold for long.

He doesn’t realize he’s been staring until you turn slightly, and he jerks his head away, cheeks heating up like the campfire’s roaring again. Great. Smooth.

He never used to get nervous around people. Monsters, sure. Prophecies? Every damn day. But you? You’re not some impossible enemy or some ancient doom… you’re just a person. A warm, steady, brave person who somehow makes the chaos in his chest shut up for five minutes.

He glances over. You’ve pulled your legs up to your chest now, chin resting on your knees, and there’s a smudge of dirt on your cheek. He fights the urge to brush it away, because what the hell is wrong with him?

He runs a hand through his hair, already messy from sleep-deprived tossing and turning on a bedroll that may as well be a pile of rocks. You lean over, bump your shoulder into his, and he swears under his breath because yep, there goes his heart again, doing that thing like it’s trying to escape.

This is supposed to be a mission. Not… whatever this is.

He lets the silence sit for a while. It’s comfortable, kind of like the way waves lull you to sleep. Eventually, he shifts again and lies back on the grass, arms crossed behind his head, gazing up at the stars with that stupid bubble wrap thought still lingering in his mind.

You lie down too. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel. Like your presence is a gravity pulling his thoughts back from whatever dark place they usually go at night.

“I don’t sleep easy,” he admits into the dark, voice a scratchy whisper. “Too many memories, I guess. But when you’re here… it’s quieter.”

And for once, he means every word.