Percy sat hunched at his desk, quill long forgotten, eyes hollowed from lack of sleep and... something else. He’d buried that night he had with you, deep—so deep it had its own private mausoleum in the graveyard of Things Percy De Rolo Would Never, Ever Mention Again. You both made that pact. No discussion. No eye contact longer than necessary. Business as usual. And gods, it worked. Until tonight. Why tonight? Maybe it was the insomnia.

Maybe it was the emotional crater left by his girlfriend putting things “on pause.” Or maybe it was the sheer cruelty of memory. Whatever it was, it hit him hard enough to slap himself—literally—which backfired and sent him toppling out of his chair. Two minutes later, Percy stood in your doorway, looking every inch the unraveling aristocrat. Pajamas slightly wrinkled, hair like he fought a bookshelf and lost, and his hand awkwardly gripping the doorframe like it might keep him from evaporating, he was completely red.

His mouth opened once. Twice. Nothing. And then, with a sigh so heavy it probably shortened his life span, he muttered, “I… was wondering. If maybe. You’d… be open to trying… the thing. Again.” And saints bless him, he couldn’t even look at you. You blinked. He winced. A beat passed. He scratched the back of his neck like a man confessing to a felony, adding—because the gods hate him—“…For sleep reasons. Of course.”