The Argo II always felt like a living thing—creaking wood, the hum of celestial bronze machinery, Leo’s inventions sizzling somewhere deep in her ribs. You’d grown used to the rhythm of it, the constant motion, the closeness of seven demigods who had become something like a family.

You were Greek. One of Percy’s oldest camp friends, one of Annabeth’s trusted fighters. You belonged to the prophecy, to the war, to the endless battles that left you older than your years.

But even after everything—Tartarus, giants, gods—the strangest plot twist of your life was still this: stepping onto the deck one morning, groggy and bruised, and meeting them.

Frank. Hazel. Jason. Leo.

Four Romans who upended your world.

From the beginning you’d been helplessly, embarrassingly soft for Leo Valdez. He was the spark in the darkness, the joke when things got bleak, the warmth that cracked your chest open. He was chaos and comfort all in one compact, brilliant, grease-stained package.

Whenever the group split up, you chose his team. Whenever something funny happened, he looked at you first. Whenever things were tense, he was the one who made you laugh.

You never hid the way your eyes followed him, even if it was stupid and teenage and entirely doomed.

But Jason Grace saw everything. Too much, maybe.

From the moment you’d stepped onto the Argo II, Jason had watched you with that steady, piercing Roman blue stare. Serious. Controlled. Always standing two steps away, like getting too close might crack him.

He noticed how your smile widened whenever Leo entered a room. He noticed how you ran to Leo after missions, checking him for burns or new bruises. He noticed how, at night, you’d sit beside Leo in the engine room while he worked.

And it ate him alive.

Because Jason—tall, flawless, built like a marble statue that decided to walk off its pedestal and lead armies—Jason Grace was painfully, hopelessly in love with you.

He tried so hard to hide it. Romans didn’t pine. They didn’t yearn. But he did.

He hated how small Leo was compared to him. He hated how Leo’s jokes made you giggle, when his own attempts at humor came out stiff and strange. He hated how Leo fit into your space so easily while Jason felt like a storm tearing your whole world apart.

So Jason tried.

Gods, he tried.

He tried to joke. He tried to flirt. He tried leaning against walls the way Leo did—except he nearly knocked down a lamp once.

He tried teasing you the way Leo did—except it sounded like a military order.

But he kept trying, because it mattered. You mattered.

And today—finally—he’d gotten you alone.

Most of the others were off training or showering after a rough morning on deck. You were sprawled on the large couch in the Argo II’s main living area, legs curled up, hair still messy from battle, a half-eaten granola bar in hand. A peaceful moment.

Jason sat beside you. A little too close. A little too stiff.