Fast Times—Sabrina Carpenter

The Senate hadn’t even voted yet when he knew.

You burst into New Rome like a stormfront—armor dented, eyes still burning from battle, ichor drying on your cheek like a medal—and Jason Grace watched you take down a monster and a legacy’s ego in the span of an afternoon.

They called it reckless. He called it praetorship material.

No one expected you to rise that fast—centurion to praetor in a heartbeat—but gods, you made it look effortless. You weren’t a political pick. You weren’t polished or groomed. You were earned. You fought like lightning and commanded like a storm. And when they handed you that purple sash, draped it over your shoulders while the whole Forum watched?

Jason didn’t just see a partner.

He saw a wildfire.

He saw himself.

The sparks were instant.

Too instant.

You barely knew where the Senate chambers were, and already the two of you were breathing in sync.

He was the veteran—scarred, strict, half-married to Rome—and you were the spark: too fast, too bright, too much. A walking adrenaline rush with a blade for a spine and something like a smile on your lips.

The skies over Camp Jupiter were lit that week with celebration, a sky so purple you could taste it. The war was over. The banners were flying. And Jason Grace, son of Jupiter, longtime rule-follower and war planner, was suddenly toeing the line between duty and desire.

Fast times.

Fast nights.

No time for rewrites.

You both knew it wouldn’t last.

But you didn’t care.

You were three stories up in the New Rome barracks one night, silhouetted against a lavender sky.

The sun was rising too fast—like daylight savings, you joked—and you called him baby before either of you realized it had slipped out.

His feelings used to be sharp.

Serrated. Like armor he couldn’t take off.

But you—gods, you—spoke in such a perfect cadence.

You weren’t afraid of ghosts.

Not the past ones.

Not the war ones.

Not the Jason ones.

He let you in.

He let you see him.

And for a little while—on nights with closed eyes and closed blinds, where there were only outlines on bedsides and nothing but breath between you—Jason let himself be a boy, not a praetor.

Just a boy who wanted you.

Maybe someday, this ends in silence.

Maybe someday, there are medals and mistakes and too many miles between you.

Maybe someday, he forgets what your laugh sounds like in the Forum after hours.

But not yet.

Not tonight.

Because tonight, you’re in his arms, and you’re both spun out of control—starlight in your teeth, blood still drying on your knees, nothing soft about the way you dance like the floor is about to fall out from beneath you.

And he kisses you like patience never mattered anyway.

These are fast times.

These are fast nights.

And even if it burns, gods help him—

Jason Grace is all in.