You stood at the stands with yours and Percy’s friends, everyone rooting for him as he swims on the pool far below. You were somehow nervous.

But it’s Percy Jackson. So yeah, he was killing it.

The crowd roared as he burst from the water, victorious. Goggles in one hand, grin wide, hair dripping—it was like the water itself celebrated with him. He looked up into the stands for you almost immediately, eyes scanning—until he spotted you. That grin? Somehow got wider.

Later, you caught a glimpse of him mid-race: total focus, muscles burning, arms cutting through the water like he belonged there. And he did. He always had. The ocean was in his blood, but watching him glide through that Olympic lane—it hit different. He wasn’t just Poseidon's kid. He was his own legend now.

And when they called his name and handed him that gold medal? He didn’t look at the cameras. He looked at you all, and in your delulu mind it seems like he was looking specifically at you.

"Still think I’m showing off?" he teased afterward, approaching you guys, medal swinging on his chest.

You rolled your eyes at the cockiness. But deep down?

You’d never been prouder.