eis

Leo Valdez runs hot... Not metaphorically— though, yeah, that too! You know what I mean; physically! The son of Hephaestus is basically a walking space heater with brown curls.

Summer at half-blood is brutal. Sometimes you doubt that the camp really maintains an ideal climate all year round because what on earth is this heat? Is thick and humid, the kind that sticks to your skin even after midnight and makes you want to sleep with no clothes and the window open.

And Leo? Your lovely boyfriend Leo radiates warmth like he’s offended by the idea of using some air conditioning.

The first time you try to cuddle in July, it lasts a solid minute.

“Okay,” you gasp, peeling off his chest, “are you trying to kill me?”

“I'm a comfortable seventy-eight degrees of boyfriend perfection,” he says defensively, but grinning. His skin is warm under your palm— too warm for this weather so you push totally off, making an uncomfy face.

You love your boyfriend, but for your poor brain trying to rest, it's too much stimulation.

So you think that’s the end of it... That summer will mean sleeping an inch apart, hands barely touching, tragically deprived of proper snuggles with him.

It seems you forget who you’re dating because the next night there’s a contraption spread across his bunk. It looks like a cross between a quilt and a duvet.

“I made you something,” he says with proud eyes.

It’s a cooling blanket. Not just cold fabric, but temperature-regulating, humming faintly with celestial-bronze wiring so fine you barely notice it.

When you slide under it and he pushes you to his chest the heat that clogged to your skin last night just… disappears. The air around you feels crisp, like being under the shade of a tree.

You blink up at him. “You made air conditioning into a cuddle?”

He shrugs, his cheeks going the faintest red. “I refuse to be the reason my favorite person suffers heatstroke.”

And then you curl into him.

His warmth doesn’t smother you anymore. It seeps in balanced by the blanket’s cool touch. Your cheek rests against his chest, and for the first time all summer, you can actually breathe while still being wrapped around him.

He sighs like this—this—is what he’s been waiting for.

It's not a secret that Leo loves physical affection, but he loves fixing things more. And if the “thing” is the unfair fact that his body temperature makes July unbearable for you? Consider it handled.

By August, the cooling blanket has upgrades. Like adjustable settings, a hum that syncs to your breathing when you're anxious. Once, it even smells like peppermint because he was “experimenting.”

Anyway, the boy is counting down the days until winter arrives; it's not that he doesn't like the cooling blanket, but being able to cuddle with you at that time of year is a gift from Mount Olympus itself.

Winter at camp is every child's Christmas dream, or at least that's how winter is portrayed in movies and advertisements. There's snow on the rooftops and it's cold, but not awfully cold.

This moment Leo is perfect.

You don’t need the blanket or any other invention your boyfriend comes up with. You just need him.

You crawl under the covers and press yourself into him, and he wraps his arms around you without waiting for you to even settle up. His body heat is so nice, it's warm and the perfect contrast to your cold hands, nose and feet.

“You’re smug about this, aren’t you?” you murmur against his collarbone.

“Maybe,” he says, voice thick with sleep. “I’m premium heating for you...”

Your cold toes tuck against his calves and he yelps— but he doesn’t move away, just gives you a little pout.

Whether it’s building something to keep you cool in July or just holding you close in December, Leo will always make sure you’re comfortable.

Even if it means inventing climate-controlled cuddling.

Especially if it means he gets to keep you right in his arms.

♡ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

♡ 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⸝⸝ 𝐋𝐞𝐨 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐳 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Percy Jackson, was the demigod that has fought monsters older than the actual civilization, stared down gods who could end him with a movement of hand, fell into the Tartarus and climbed back.

And none of that prepared him for you.

It's on a normal Wednesday afternoon, which feels unfair. He’s leaning against the railing near Bethesda Terrace, the stone warm beneath his palms, watching sunlight ripple across the water, trying to remember the ocean.

New York hums around him— distant sirens, a street musician tuning a guitar, tourists laughing loudly— and then you turn toward him, hair doing that thing it always does when the wind catches it.

Percy thinks, very plainly, that this is it.

You’re talking— about normal stuff. A barista who spelled your name wrong. A dog you saw on the subway that looked like his owner. Percy laughs, because he always does when you talk, because somehow you make even the boring things feel amazing.

He realizes, distantly, that anyone with a heart would agree that it's so—.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, squinting a little, half-smiling while arching an eyebrow.

Percy blinks. He hadn’t meant to get caught. “Like what?”

“Like I'm saying something profound.”

“You did,” he says automatically.

You snort. “I complained about oat milk.”

“Exactly.”

You shake your head, amused, and start walking again. Percy falls into step beside you without thinking. He always does.

It's like gravity has decided you’re his center now.

Central Park stretches ahead of you, green and endless, a miracle squeezed between buildings that scrape the sky. Percy’s walked these paths his whole life, but walking them with you feels like discovering them for the first time. As if the city’s been holding its breath, waiting for you to show up.

You brush your hair back, casual, unthinking. Percy notices the way your fingers move, the way you tuck it behind your ear like you’ve done it a thousand times.

Today you did your hair in that style he loves, the one that makes him want to hug you and smell your shampoo while he dozes off.

Gods, he’s gone.

You stop near the water, leaning over the railing. “You good, Seaweed Brain?”

“Yeah,” Percy replies. Then, because he can’t help himself, “Just thinking.”

“Uh-oh.”

He smiles. “That bad, huh?”

“You tend to overthink... It’s kind of your thing!”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

Percy watches the reflection of the city shimmer in the water, your reflection tangled up with it. He wants—suddenly, fiercely— to tell you everything. That you feel like fresh air after all the prophecies he's lived. That being with you makes him feel normal like he’s just a boy from New York. That loving you is the easiest thing he has ever done.

But he doesn’t say it.

Saturday nights in New York have a rhythm Percy knows by heart.

They smell like hot pavement and garlic knots, grease-stained cardboard boxes folded under one arm. They sound like distant traffic and laughter leaking out of open windows, like music thumping through walls that are way thin. They feel alive, anything could happen.

And now, he can use those nights to be with you.

Tonight, it’s just you, perched on the edge of his couch, cross-legged, holding a slice of pizza like it’s sacred.

“This place shouldn’t be allowed to exist,” you say while munching. “It’s sooo good.”

Percy grins around his own bite. “I told you. Best pizza within a five-block radius.”

“You say that about every place.”

“Because I only speak the truth.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and Percy feels it again— that quiet, overwhelming sense that this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

There's no monsters, no quests and not a sinking prophecy breathing on his neck. Just you, and pizza, and the city sounds outside the windows.

That recurring thought comes back to him once again.

‘Anyone with a heart would agree,’ he thinks, watching the way you lean back, content, hair falling messily over your shoulder.

Falling in love with you is so easy.

At some point, the music from the apartment downstairs drifts up through the floor— something smooth, warm, a little romantic. Percy doesn’t know the song, but it fits anyway. Like it knows what’s happening before he does.

“You wanna go up?” he asks suddenly, nodding toward the door.

“The roof?”

“Yeah. It’s a good night.”

You hesitate only a second before nodding. “Okay, but let me use your hoodie.”

The city greets you when you step outside. The air is cooler up here, carrying that late-summer almost-fall weather. The skyline stretches out, all glowing windows, people walking through the streets to go back home or to party.

You walk to the edge, resting your arms on the low wall. Percy stands beside you, so close he can feel your warmth without touching.

“God,” you murmur. “I’ll never get used to this.”

The wind plays with your hair again, and Percy thinks that you are fresh air, something clean and good in a world that’s always asking too much of him. You laugh softly at something on the street below, and Percy’s chest tightens.

‘Perfect mix,’ he thinks. ‘Saturday night and..’ something more. Something lasting.

He swallows. You're right about him being an overthinker king. This is the part where the thought creeps in, uninvited but persistent.

She’s mortal.

It lands heavy, like a big stone dropped into calm water.

You don’t know about monsters or gods or the way the world can go to shit without your eyes being able to see reality. You deserve mornings that aren’t haunted by his nightmares, a life where danger doesn’t lurk. Someone normal.

Percy steps back an inch without meaning to.

You notice immediately, turning to look at him.

“Hey,” you say quietly. “What just happened in your head?”

He exhales a laugh that isn’t really one. “Do I really make it that obvious?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

He rubs the back of his neck, staring out at the city now, like it might give him answers. “I just— sometimes I think about… whether I’m the right person to be standing here with you.”

Your brow furrows. “Percy.”

“You deserve a normal life,” he says, the words tumbling out before he can stop. “Someone who doesn’t come with… complications. You know— my ADHD and—”

Well, all that demigod part. But before he can talk more you speak.

“Do I look unhappy?”

“No,” he says immediately, his eyes back to you.

“Do I look like I’m missing something?”

“No.”

“Then don’t decide for me,” you say gently. “Okay?”

Percy’s breath stutters. The city keeps moving behind you— cars threading light through the streets, music floating up from somewhere below— but the moment narrows until it’s just the two of you and the space between your words.

“Okay,” he says, softer than he means to.

You don’t smile right away. Instead, you step closer. Close enough that he can feel your warmth once again, close enough that his hands curl uselessly at his sides, unsure if he’s allowed.

Then you lift your hands.

Your palms cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing lightly along his jaw, and Percy forgets— briefly— how to breathe. Your touch is careful, but certain. Like you know exactly what you’re doing.

Because you’ve decided.

He looks at you, eyes wide, and you lean in making your foreheads almost touch.

“This,” you murmur, voice barely there, “doesn’t feel complicated.”

And then you kiss him.

It’s unhurried and intentional. Your lips press against his, giving him time to catch up, like you’re letting him know this isn’t something that needs to be earned or fought for. Percy’s hands come up instinctively, resting at your waist, grounding himself in the reality of you.

The city fades. You're so warm.

It's just the soft exhale you let out against his mouth, the way your thumbs stroke his skin in that familiar way you always do.

When you pull back, you stay close— still holding his face, smiling like you’ve just proved a point.

“See?” you say quietly. “Normal.”

Percy lets out a breathy laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Yeah,” he says, voice warm and a little stunned. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

You laugh too, soft and close, and he feels it in his chest more than he hears it. The music from below drifts up again, the night itself is rooting for you.

Percy squeezes you a little closer, heart full in a way that doesn’t hurt at all.

If this is what normal feels like, he thinks—

he’s more than okay with it.

You're the perfect mix of Saturday nights and the rest of his life. The girl of his dreams.

★ eiris 2026. proofreaded ! ❩