Camp Half-Blood had rules. Important rules.

Rules about curfew, about weapons, about not summoning anything that could eat your fellow campers.

And then there were the unwritten rules.

Like: Don’t sneak into other cabins at night. Don’t get caught sneaking into other cabins at night. And, most importantly— Don’t get caught sneaking into the Dionysus cabin specifically.

You were currently breaking all three.

Again.

“We’re going to get caught,” Percy Jackson whispered, pressed close behind you as you eased open your cabin door.

“You said that last time.”

“And the time before that.”

“And yet,” you murmured, glancing over your shoulder with a grin, “we’re still alive.”

“Barely.”

You slipped inside first, silent and practiced. Percy followed, shutting the door with careful precision.

The cabin was dim—low lamplight, soft shadows, the faint scent of something sweet and sharp lingering in the air. Your space. Yours.

Safe.

You turned toward him.

He was already looking at you.

That was the problem.

He always looked at you like that.

Like this wasn’t a game.

Like this was something heavier.

“Hi,” you said softly.

“…Hi.”

You stepped closer, fingers catching in the front of his shirt, tugging him just slightly off balance.

“You’re late.”

“I had to dodge Grover,” he said. “And your father’s general existence.”

You snorted.

“Valid.”

For a moment, the world narrowed—just the two of you, breath close, tension easy and familiar.

Then—

“You know,” Percy murmured, hand settling lightly at your waist, “one of these nights, this is going to go horribly wrong.”

You tilted your head, stepping even closer.

“Or,” you whispered, “it’s going exactly right.”

He laughed under his breath, forehead dropping briefly to yours.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s the problem.”

Neither of you moved.

You could feel the shift—subtle, but real.

The teasing ease softened into something quieter. Heavier.

Your fingers were still curled in his shirt. His hand still rested at your waist—but now it tightened, just slightly, like he’d realized how close you actually were.

“Still think this is a bad idea?” you murmured.

Percy huffed a quiet laugh, but it didn’t quite land.

“I think,” he said slowly, eyes flicking down to your mouth and back up again, “I stopped thinking about five minutes ago.”

Your breath caught—just enough for him to notice.

Good.

“Dangerous,” you whispered.

“Yeah.”

He didn’t step closer.

Didn’t pull you in.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Because now it was a choice.

Your choice.

So you made it.

You rose onto your toes, closing the last inch of space between you.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Just shared breath. Warmth. The quiet hum of something neither of you was pretending was casual anymore.

Then—

You kissed him.

Soft.

Testing.

Just the brush of your lips against his—enough to ask, not take.

Percy stilled completely.

And then—

His hand slid from your waist to your back, pulling you closer in one smooth, certain motion.

The kiss deepened—not rushed, not overwhelming—but sure. Like he’d been holding back and finally decided not to.

Your fingers tightened in his shirt as he angled slightly, his other hand coming up to steady you, thumb brushing lightly along your side.

There was a warmth to it—steady, grounding, like the ocean pulling at the shore instead of crashing over it.

You exhaled softly against him, and he answered it, breath catching just enough to betray him.

When you pulled back, it wasn’t far.

Foreheads still close.

Lips still brushing when either of you spoke.

“…Still think we’re getting caught?” you whispered.

Percy let out a quiet, breathless laugh.

“Oh, we’re definitely getting caught.”

You smiled.

“Worth it?”

He didn’t hesitate this time.

“…Yeah.”

His hand tightened slightly at your back, like he meant it.

And gods—

That was the problem.

Time passed the way it always did with him. Too fast. Too soft. Too easy to forget everything outside the room.

You were halfway through telling him a story—something ridiculous about Castor and Pollux sneaking wine and blaming it on a nymph—when Percy snorted, shaking his head.

“They actually got away with that?”

“Briefly,” you said, grinning. “Until Pollux tried to flirt with the wrong person and—”

Knock.

Everything stopped.

The sound didn’t echo—it settled. Heavy. Intentional.

You froze.

Percy froze.

Another knock.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Knowing.

“You’re awake,” came the voice.

You closed your eyes.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Percy mouthed: who is that

You mouthed back: we’re going to die

A third knock—lighter this time. Almost bored.

“Open the door,” the voice added.

You moved fast.

“Under the bed.”

“What—”

“NOW.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate.

Percy dropped, rolling smoothly under the bed just as you straightened, forcing your breathing to even out, smoothing your clothes like that would somehow undo everything about this situation.

You opened the door just enough to lean casually against the frame.

“Hi, Dad.”

Dionysus looked at you.

Then at your face.

Then at your posture.

Then—very slowly—at the room behind you.

“…Why are you sweating?”

You blinked. “I’m not—”

“You are.”

From under the bed, Percy made a tiny, doomed noise.

You coughed. Loudly.

“I was sleeping.”

Dionysus stared at you like he was deeply, personally offended by that statement.

“…Right.”

He stepped forward.

You blocked him.

Too fast.

Too obvious.

His eyebrow lifted. Just slightly.

“…Are you hiding something?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“…I didn’t say anything.”

You froze.

From under the bed:

“Don’t laugh,” Percy whispered.

You kicked the bed.

Silently.

Violently.

Dionysus tilted his head, gaze sharpening just enough to be dangerous.

“…There is a boy in here.”

It wasn’t a guess.

It wasn’t curiosity.

It was a statement.

You inhaled slowly, folding your arms like you weren’t one wrong breath away from disaster.

“Define ‘boy.’”

Dionysus blinked once.

“…I’m going to define it as the demigod currently attempting to control his breathing under your furniture.”

From under the bed—

“…wow,” Percy muttered.

You closed your eyes briefly.

“Traitor,” you whispered toward the floor.

“I am not the one who invited me,” he whispered back.

Dionysus’s gaze flicked downward.

Then back up.

Then he sighed. Long-suffering. Ancient. Exhausted.

“…Come out, Jackson.”

A pause.

A long, painful pause.

“…Do I have to?” Percy asked faintly.

“Yes.”

“…Okay.”

There was a shuffle. A thud.

Then Percy rolled out from under the bed, hair completely wrecked, shirt twisted, dignity left somewhere beneath the mattress.

He sat there for half a second like he might simply stay on the floor forever.

Then, slowly, he stood.

“…Sir.”

Silence.

Dionysus looked at him.

Then at you.

Then back at him.

Judgment settled over the room like a storm cloud.

“…You,” Dionysus said.

“…Me,” Percy agreed weakly.

“You have remarkably poor instincts.”

“That’s—uh—fair.”

“And you,” he added, looking at you, “have worse.”

You smiled sweetly.

“Genetics.”

He looked unimpressed.

“I’m not dealing with this,” Dionysus muttered. “I have endured war, tragedy, and theater festivals in ancient Greece. I refuse to add teenage stupidity to that list.”

You opened your mouth.

He held up a hand.

“Don’t.”

You closed it again.

Smart.

Then, quieter—just slightly—his gaze shifted back to Percy.

“If you break my child’s heart,” he said calmly, “I will turn you into something deeply inconvenient.”

Percy swallowed.

“…Like—”

“I haven’t decided,” Dionysus said. “It will depend on my mood.”

“…That’s fair,” Percy said quickly.

“Good.”

Dionysus turned, already halfway out the door.

Then paused.

Without looking back—

“…Next time,” he said dryly, “use the window. Even I had standards.”

The door shut behind him.

Just like that.

Silence flooded back in.

You stood there.

Percy stood there.

A beat.

Two.

Then Percy exhaled hard, dragging both hands down his face.

“I cannot believe that just happened.”

You looked at him.

Then at the door.

Then back at him—

And started laughing.

Full, uncontrollable, breathless laughter.

Percy dragged a hand down his face.

“I almost got turned into a dolphin.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

He stepped closer again, quieter now.

Less teasing.

“…Still worth it.”

Your laughter softened.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And gods—that was worse.

Because he meant it.

You should have known it wasn’t over.

You should have known.

Camp Half-Blood did not do subtle.

It definitely didn’t do secrets.

You were halfway through breakfast when someone dropped into the seat across from you.

Black hair pulled back, sharp gray eyes already locked on you—calculating, precise, and far too observant for your current situation.

Terrifying.

Annabeth Chase.

“…So,” she said calmly.

You froze mid-bite.

Across the pavilion, Percy Jackson choked on his drink.

Hard.

Several heads turned.

Grover patted his back like this was a normal, everyday occurrence.

It was not.

“…So?” you echoed, slowly setting your fork down.

Annabeth leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table like she had all the time in the world—and like you had nowhere to run.

“Elaborate on why Percy left his cabin at 1:07 a.m., avoided three patrol routes, and entered yours.”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

The kind that spread.

Because people noticed.

They always noticed.

A couple Hermes kids at the next table leaned in—subtle as a brick.

A Demeter girl froze mid-sip.

From across the pavilion, Percy went completely still, like if he didn’t move, no one would see him.

You blinked.

“…You tracked him?”

“I observed patterns,” she corrected smoothly.

Percy looked like he wanted to sink into the ground and let the earth claim him.

You leaned back slowly, crossing your arms like this was just another conversation.

“…And?”

Annabeth’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“And,” she said, voice calm but sharp, “you’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

A snort came from somewhere behind you—one of the Stoll brothers, probably.

You didn’t turn.

You smiled.

Sweet.

Dangerous.

“And you’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

A beat.

Annabeth studied you.

Then leaned back in her chair.

“…He likes you.”

Percy choked again.

Louder this time.

Grover winced. “Dude.”

Someone laughed.

You didn’t look at him.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Yeah,” you said lightly. “I know.”

That did it.

Now people were really looking.

Whispers started—quiet, quick, spreading like wildfire.

“Wait—” “Are they—?” “Since when—?”

You could practically feel the attention shift.

Clarisse, across the pavilion, narrowed her eyes like she was about two seconds away from demanding answers the violent way.

Selina leaned forward beside her, already grinning like she’d just been handed gossip on a silver platter.

Annabeth didn’t react to any of it.

Of course she didn’t.

Her focus stayed on you.

Steady.

Evaluating.

Then, quieter—just enough that only you could hear—

“…Don’t hurt him.”

Your expression shifted.

Just slightly.

Not the smile.

Not the posture.

Just something underneath it.

“I won’t.”

Annabeth held your gaze for a long moment, like she was weighing that answer—turning it over, testing it for cracks.

Then she nodded once.

“…Good.”

She stood.

Just like that.

Conversation over.

Like she hadn’t just set the entire pavilion on fire.

Like she hadn’t just confirmed everyone’s suspicions in under thirty seconds.

She walked away without another word.

Silence lingered for half a heartbeat.

Then—

Chaos.

“WAIT—” “Are you serious?” “Since when?!”

A Hermes kid actually stood on the bench.

Grover buried his face in his hands.

Clarisse stood up like she was about to march over—only for Selina to grab her arm, laughing.

“Sit down,” she said. “This is getting interesting.”

Across the pavilion, Percy was staring at you like you’d just walked through fire and come out untouched.

“…You survived that better than me,” he said when he finally made his way over, voice low, slightly breathless.

You looked up at him.

Then at the absolute mess of attention now focused on both of you.

Then back at him.

You grinned.

“I always do.”

A beat.

Then, leaning in just slightly—just enough that only he could hear—

“Besides,” you added softly, “if we were going to get caught…”

Your eyes flicked briefly around the pavilion—at the whispers, the stares, the chaos—

“…might as well make it interesting.”

Percy huffed out a laugh, shaking his head, but there was something else there too.

Something warmer.

Something a little less like a game.

“…You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

He didn’t argue.