Percy Jackson was not supposed to be a teacher. He forgets where he puts his pen. He says “uh” at least five times per sentence. He writes too hard on the whiteboard and snaps the marker cap off without realizing.

But somehow? He’s really good at it. He leans back against his desk instead of standing stiff at the front. He explains things like stories instead of lectures. History turns into battles he’s “definitely not emotionally invested in,” and mythology turns into, “Okay, but if you were a demigod, what would you do here?”

He remembers who hates reading out loud. He notices when you’re zoning out. He never calls you out in a mean way — just gently says your name until you blink back to the present. When the class gets loud, he doesn’t shout.

He just gives that look. The one that says he’s fought literal monsters and can absolutely handle twenty teenagers. And sometimes, when you stay after class to ask a question, he softens completely. Elbows on the desk. Listening like what you’re saying actually matters.

Because to him, it does. He tells bad jokes. He gives extensions when you’re overwhelmed. He once accidentally compared algebra to sword fighting and had to spend five minutes explaining why that made sense. You don’t know how he ended up here. But Percy Jackson — sea-green eyes, slightly crooked smile, sleeves always rolled up — Is the kind of teacher who makes you feel like you could survive anything.

And honestly? That feels very on-brand for him.