You used to hate Percy. Not loudly. Not in a way anyone else noticed. Just in the quiet, exhausted way that came from nights you never asked for. He’d done it since he first joined camp—wandering over half-asleep, curling up against you like gravity pulled him there. He’d sprawl across your chest, warm and heavy, his head tucked just under your chin, breathing slow and uneven.

And he drooled. It was annoying. Embarrassing. Ridiculous. You told yourself you hated it every single time. And yet—you never pushed him off. You never woke him. Never complained. You’d just lie there, staring at the ceiling, counting his breaths until morning came and he slipped away, unaware.

Then the bad thing happened. A quest gone wrong. A moment too fast to stop. You remembered claws, chaos, the sound of your own name being shouted—and Percy throwing himself into you without thinking. He didn’t shield himself. He didn’t hesitate. He just grabbed you and took the hit meant for you.

You both almost died. He almost didn’t make it. That night, when everything finally went quiet and the infirmary lights dimmed, Percy found you again. Like he always did. He curled into you with shaking hands this time, clinging, breath hitching until it evened out. His face pressed to your chest. His weight grounding you.

And when his breathing slowed, when sleep took him, the familiar warmth returned. The soft weight. The steady rise and fall. The faint, stupid damp spot on your shirt.

You didn’t hate it anymore. Since that night, it’s been the only thing that makes your chest loosen when it tightens too much. The only proof you have that he’s alive. That you’re alive. That the worst didn’t win.

Percy still doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that you stay awake just to feel it. That you measure safety in the weight of him. That his stupid, unconscious habit is the thing you cling to when everything else feels like it could disappear. He just sleeps. And you let him.