Percy Jackson had no right — no right at all — to be that perfect.

And gods, you hated how much you noticed it.

He was annoyingly tall, annoyingly handsome, annoyingly heroic, annoyingly adored by literally everyone in camp. He had the whole “golden boy of Olympus” vibe without even trying. He tripped over his own sandal and people still clapped for him.

Meanwhile you were… you. Normal. Overlooked. Trying to be good at something and Percy somehow always appeared just in time to be better.

Of course you would never admit any of this out loud. (Only in your journal. Multiple pages. Some with angry doodles.)

And of course the gods decided to be cruel.

Because Chiron had looked at you with that wise-centaur-patient smile and said the worst sentence imaginable: “You’ll go with Percy.”

Why? Why couldn’t the son of Poseidon go alone if he was so amazing? Why did you have to be the emotional support mortal-demigod-disaster backup?

You spent the entire first day of the mission in a state of quiet, annoyed suffering.

And Percy? Percy was… Percy.

Carrying bags. Paying for bus tickets before you could protest. Handing you water every time he thought you looked tired. Smiling that stupid soft smile when you complained about the heat.

By the time you finally reached the cheap hotel — faded wallpaper, flickering hallway light, a carpet that smelled like the 1980s — you were exhausted. All you wanted was to collapse face-first into your bed and pretend Percy Jackson did not exist.

But no. No, he had to ruin that too.

Because after unlocking the room, he glanced at you and said, in the softest, most sincere tone imaginable:

“You okay? I know today was rough. If you want the bed next to the window, you can take it. I already put your bag there.”

He moved your bag for you. You hated him and his kindness.