The infirmary is quiet in that late-afternoon way, all white sheets and filtered sunlight, and Percy is the only one still there.

You’re half-propped against the pillows, eyes unfocused, clearly still deep under the effects of anesthesia. You keep making vague, exaggerated gestures with your hands like you’re trying to explain something extremely important… then losing track of it halfway through and dissolving into quiet, breathy laughter.

Percy sits in the chair beside your bed, elbows on his knees, watching you with an expression he doesn’t bother hiding. Concern, first. Then disbelief. Then—despite himself—fond amusement.

You attempt to sit up again, fail immediately, and flop back like gravity personally betrayed you. A second later you’re nodding solemnly at nothing, as if agreeing with an invisible conversation only you can hear.

Percy reaches out automatically when you sway, steadying you before you can slide sideways. He shakes his head, letting out a soft huff of a laugh under his breath.

You stare at him for a long moment, eyes heavy-lidded, then grin for no clear reason and point at his hair like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever seen.

He groans quietly, rubbing his face, but his hand stays right where it is—grounding, gentle, not letting you tip over again. The anger, the fear, the blame—all of it feels very far away in this moment. Right now, you’re just safe, drugged, and completely ridiculous.

And Percy doesn’t go anywhere.