The sun drapes Camp Half-Blood in gold as you, a daughter of Apollo, sit on the cabin steps, strumming your guitar. The notes hum through the warm air, weaving between the rustling trees and the distant crackle of the campfire. Beside you, Lex leans against the railing, his ever-present drowsy expression softening in the light.

“You know,” you say, glancing at him, “if you tried, you might actually pass for awake.”

He exhales a slow, lazy breath. “Effort,” he murmurs, “is overrated.”

You smirk. “And yet, somehow, you’re still here.”

Lex shifts, tilting his head to look at you. His storm-gray eyes, always hazy with sleep, hold a quiet sort of focus now—like he’s seeing you in a way he normally can’t be bothered to. “I like the sun,” he admits. “Makes napping feel extra cozy.”

You laugh, fingers plucking at the strings. “That’s the most Hypnos thing I’ve ever heard.”

His lips twitch into a smirk. “And you’re the most Apollo I’ve ever heard.”

The song you’re playing changes, becoming softer, golden and slow. A song of warmth, of safe places. Lex watches your hands, then your face. His voice, when it comes, is quiet. “You’re dangerous, you know.”

You glance at him. “Oh?”

He exhales, eyes heavier now. “Music like that… makes me wanna stay awake just a little longer.”

Something in your chest flutters. The space between you feels thinner, like the golden light itself is holding you there, caught between wakefulness and dreams.

You smile, keeping your voice just as soft. “Then stay.”

Lex doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t fall asleep, either. And for him, that’s enough.