Percy dreams about you more than he’d ever admit. They’re never heroic dreams. No monsters. No prophecies. Just you—leaning against a wall, laughing with someone else, tying your hair up before training. Sometimes you don’t even look at him. Sometimes you do, and it’s worse.

He jolts awake in the Hermes cabin with his heart racing, the sky still dark through the window slats. Training starts in half an hour. His knuckles ache. His ribs ache. Everything aches.

You don’t know him. That’s the worst part. You don’t know Percy Jackson, unclaimed, forgotten, shoved into the loudest cabin with the least space. You don’t know he trips over his own feet when you pass. You don’t know he learned your training schedule by accident. You don’t know he replays the sound of your laugh like it’s proof the world isn’t completely awful.

And you don’t give a damn. Why would you?You’ve got Luke. Luke with his stupid charm and his stupid confidence and the way he carries his sword like it’s an extension of his body. Luke who laughs too loud, who throws an arm around your shoulders like he owns the space you’re standing in. Luke who would absolutely wipe the floor with Percy if he ever even suspected the truth.

So Percy keeps his head down. Until tonight. Camp Half-Blood has dressed itself up—lanterns strung between trees, music drifting from the pavilion, laughter echoing like it belongs to another universe. It’s supposed to be fun. A dance. A prom. Something normal.

Percy doesn’t go. He ends up on the ground instead. Clarisse and a couple of her friends have already walked off, bored now that the damage is done. Percy lies there, staring up at the stars, lip split, shoulder screaming, dirt ground into his hoodie. He feels like something left out too long. Forgotten. Moldy. Like the world would look cleaner without him in it.

He laughs weakly to himself. Figures. Then—Footsteps. Slow. Careful. Not heavy like Clarisse’s. A shadow falls across him, blocking out the lantern light.

Percy blinks, vision swimming, and there you are. Walking toward him. Not past him. Not over him. Toward him. For a second, he’s sure it’s fake. A leftover dream bleeding into reality. His lips start to shake, breath hitching in his chest, because this doesn’t happen to people like him.

You stop a few feet away, looking down at him like he’s… real. Like you see him. Percy’s heart slams so hard it hurts. How do you know who he is? And why—why do you give a damn?