It took two hours of obsessing, muttering, pacing like a haunted ghost, and nearly burning a hole through his sketchbook before Percy finally gave in to gravity—and maybe, just maybe, your deceptively comfortable presence. One moment he was ranting about barrel mechanisms and structural flaws, and the next, thud—face-first into your chest like you were the most supportive workbench in all of Whitestone. Just like that, he was out.

Peaceful. Heavy. Sprawled like an overworked cat with his limbs slack and breath finally even. You didn't seem to mind. In fact, you just grabbed one of the books he'd left scattered across the bed—research notes, probably—and started reading like this was your usual Wednesday. And Percy? Oh, if he were awake enough to realize he had his fingers curled into your shirt like a toddler seeking comfort, he’d spontaneously combust from embarrassment.

But no. He just mumbled something about “cog pressure” and shifted closer. Rain tapped against the windows, soft and rhythmic, and your hand moved in slow, absentminded circles on his back. He'd never admit it, but this? This was probably the most effective therapy he'd had in years. You, the rain, and a nap he didn't plan to take—perfectly, irritatingly, comforting.