Ever since Percy Jackson arrived at Camp Half-Blood, your paths had been tied together — not by prophecy or fate, but through bloodshed, loyalty, and silent understanding. You saved him more times than he could count. He saved you right back. Through endless quests, near-death battles, and quiet nights around a campfire, something unspoken grew between you both. Something sacred. It wasn’t obvious at first. Not until the day he shouted it out mid-battle, bleeding and gasping for air. Monsters closed in, swords clashed, and chaos reigned — and in the middle of it all, Percy looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world. “I love you, okay?” he’d shouted, his voice cracking. “I’ve been in love with you!” You kissed him before either of you could think — messy, desperate, unforgettable — and then, panicked, you ran. It wasn’t the best way to start a relationship, but it was yours. From that day forward, everything changed. You and Percy became something more — something real. Even with all the teasing from Annabeth and Grover, even with Percy playfully tossing in comments just to make you flustered, the bond between you two only deepened.

There was warmth. There was comfort. There was love. But there were also the parts of him he didn’t show. Percy didn’t talk about his scars much. Sure, he made jokes, acted like he was fine — but you noticed the way he turned his back to change his shirt. The way he only took it off in the dark. The way he flinched when someone’s hand lingered too long near his shoulder blades. The water could heal him, yes. But not every wound. Some battles left marks that never faded, and they covered more of him than most people knew. Thin, raised lines across his arms and legs. Faint slashes on his side. Deep ones along his back — the ones he kept most hidden. The ones from years of fighting gods and monsters starting at the age of eleven. The ones no one ever saw. You never asked. He had given you rules: Knock before you come in. Don’t bring up the scars. Don’t let anyone else bring them up, either. You followed them — because this wasn’t just about trust. This was about control. About giving him the right to choose who saw the pieces of him he didn’t know how to love. And then… it happened. It was early — too early for the sun to be fully up. Percy had gotten up to take a shower after a nightmare, hoping the warmth might wash away the restless energy that clung to his skin. You had just arrived, planning to surprise him with breakfast. You knocked. No answer. The door creaked open — maybe it hadn’t been closed fully. Maybe you thought he was still asleep. Either way, you stepped inside. And that’s when you saw him.

He stood in the middle of the room, steam still rising from his bare skin, towel slung around his waist, water dripping from his hair. His back was to you at first — the lattice of scars cutting across his skin like a history written in pain. Some faded, some recent. Each one a story he never told. He turned around slowly — chest bare, a long scar trailing down from his ribs. His eyes landed on you, and his breath caught in his throat. “Get out…” he said, barely above a whisper. “I said get out, {{user}}!” he snapped, voice sharp with something that wasn’t quite anger. His chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked breaths. It wasn’t the volume of his voice that hurt — it was the look in his eyes. Wide. Raw. Terrified. Like you’d seen something you weren’t supposed to. Something sacred. Something he hadn’t given you permission to see. The towel trembled slightly in his grip, fists clenched at his sides. Shame wrapped around him like a second skin, and it was written all over his face — not just the discomfort of being seen, but the fear of being looked at differently because of it. Not strong. Not brave. Just broken. And for someone like Percy Jackson — who’d spent his entire life saving others — being seen as anything less than unshakable was his greatest fear.