Percy Jackson

The day had been painfully normal. The kind of normal that made everything worse. You pretended you don’t feel the shift in the air whenever he walks into a room.

You overheard two campers whispering near the armory. “Do you think they’re back together?” One had said, while the other replied. “They still look at each other like they are.”

You hadn’t meant to listen, but it hit harder than you expected. Hard enough that you had to step away before anyone saw your expression crack. Because you aren’t back together.

And that’s the problem.

You tell yourself the breakup was necessary. That it was timing. Personal things neither of you were ready to handle. You repeat it like a mantra.

But that doesn’t stop the way your chest tightens when you see him sparring, jaw clenched in focus.

Doesn’t stop the way you instinctively look for him at dinner. Doesn’t stop the way your hands sometimes hover near the empty space beside you on the dock.

The sun hung lazily over Camp Half-Blood. Demigods sparred in the distance and laughter echoed near the strawberry fields. Somewhere, a conch shell blew to signal afternoon training.

And yet… Percy Jackson felt like the only thing out of place.

Two months. He had told himself two months would be enough. Enough to cool off and to “grow.” Enough to respect the “personal reasons” that had torn you apart in the first place. He had tried to be mature about it. He had even said he understood. He didn’t.

Because every single part of camp still had you in it.

When he walks by the lake to clear his head, the water doesn’t feel like home anymore. He remembers how you used to sit at the dock, feet skimming the surface while he swam lazy circles around you. How you’d pretend not to watch him.

Now he just stands there sometimes, staring at the ripples, then leaving without going in.

In his cabin, it’s worse. He was digging through his drawer one morning looking for a clean shirt when he found it, the hoodie you used to steal constantly. The one he’d complain about, dramatically, while secretly loving that it smelled like you for days afterward.

He held it for a long time. Long enough that his chest started hurting in that quiet, suffocating way.

And then there’s seeing you. That’s the part that actually wrecks him. You across the dining pavilion, you laughing with someone else, you brushing past him in the training arena without touching, without looking.

Every time your eyes accidentally meet his, something in his expression flickers, hope, regret, longing, before he forces it away. Percy tries to act unaffected.

But the second you’re out of sight, his shoulders drop. He wonders if you miss him the way he misses you. He wonders if you’re better off. He wonders if he should’ve fought harder.

The tension between you isn’t loud, it’s quiet and lingering. It’s the way conversations falter when you two stand too close. The way your friends exchange glances.

The way Percy looks like he wants to say something every time you’re within reach. But he can’t. It’s not like you two were anything but familiar faces anymore.

The day had been painfully normal. The kind of normal that made everything worse. You pretended you don’t feel the shift in the air whenever he walks into a room.

You overheard two campers whispering near the armory. “Do you think they’re back together?” One had said, while the other replied. “They still look at each other like they are.”

You hadn’t meant to listen, but it hit harder than you expected. Hard enough that you had to step away before anyone saw your expression crack. Because you aren’t back together.

And that’s the problem.

You tell yourself the breakup was necessary. That it was timing. Personal things neither of you were ready to handle. You repeat it like a mantra.

But that doesn’t stop the way your chest tightens when you see him sparring, jaw clenched in focus.

Doesn’t stop the way you instinctively look for him at dinner. Doesn’t stop the way your hands sometimes hover near the empty space beside you on the dock.

The sun hung lazily over Camp Half-Blood. Demigods sparred in the distance and laughter echoed near the strawberry fields. Somewhere, a conch shell blew to signal afternoon training.

And yet… Percy Jackson felt like the only thing out of place.

Two months. He had told himself two months would be enough. Enough to cool off and to “grow.” Enough to respect the “personal reasons” that had torn you apart in the first place. He had tried to be mature about it. He had even said he understood. He didn’t.

Because every single part of camp still had you in it.

When he walks by the lake to clear his head, the water doesn’t feel like home anymore. He remembers how you used to sit at the dock, feet skimming the surface while he swam lazy circles around you. How you’d pretend not to watch him.

Now he just stands there sometimes, staring at the ripples, then leaving without going in.

In his cabin, it’s worse. He was digging through his drawer one morning looking for a clean shirt when he found it, the hoodie you used to steal constantly. The one he’d complain about, dramatically, while secretly loving that it smelled like you for days afterward.

He held it for a long time. Long enough that his chest started hurting in that quiet, suffocating way.

And then there’s seeing you. That’s the part that actually wrecks him. You across the dining pavilion, you laughing with someone else, you brushing past him in the training arena without touching, without looking.

Every time your eyes accidentally meet his, something in his expression flickers, hope, regret, longing, before he forces it away. Percy tries to act unaffected.

But the second you’re out of sight, his shoulders drop. He wonders if you miss him the way he misses you. He wonders if you’re better off. He wonders if he should’ve fought harder.

The tension between you isn’t loud, it’s quiet and lingering. It’s the way conversations falter when you two stand too close. The way your friends exchange glances.

The way Percy looks like he wants to say something every time you’re within reach. But he can’t. It’s not like you two were anything but familiar faces anymore.

The sky is streaked in orange and pink, the lake reflecting it like melted fire. The breeze carries the scent of salt and strawberries.

Percy’s standing a few feet away from you. His hands are shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to physically restrain himself from reaching out. His sea-green eyes flick to yours, then away, then back again.

His voice, when he finally speaks, isn’t teasing. It isn’t confident. “…Do you ever think about it?”

“About us?” He lets out a small, breathy laugh that doesn’t sound amused at all. “Because I keep telling myself I’m fine. That we did the right thing. That I can handle it.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “And then I see you.”

There’s no accusation in it. Just honesty. “I don’t know how to just… not feel it.” His eyes don’t leave yours this time.

The day had been painfully normal. The kind of normal that made everything worse. You pretended you don’t feel the shift in the air whenever he walks into a room.

You overheard two campers whispering near the armory. “Do you think they’re back together?” One had said, while the other replied. “They still look at each other like they are.”

You hadn’t meant to listen, but it hit harder than you expected. Hard enough that you had to step away before anyone saw your expression crack. Because you aren’t back together.

And that’s the problem.

You tell yourself the breakup was necessary. That it was timing. Personal things neither of you were ready to handle. You repeat it like a mantra. That doesn’t stop the way you instinctively look for him at dinner.

The sun hung lazily over Camp Half-Blood. Demigods sparred in the distance and laughter echoed near the strawberry fields. Somewhere, a conch shell blew to signal afternoon training.

And yet… Percy Jackson felt like the only thing out of place.

Two months. He had told himself two months would be enough. Enough to cool off and to “grow.” Enough to respect the “personal reasons” that had torn you apart in the first place. He had tried to be mature about it. He had even said he understood. He didn’t.

Because every single part of camp still had you in it.

When he walks by the lake to clear his head, the water doesn’t feel like home anymore. He remembers how you used to sit at the dock, feet skimming the surface while he swam lazy circles around you. How you’d pretend not to watch him.

Now he just stands there sometimes, staring at the ripples, then leaving without going in.

In his cabin, it’s worse. He was digging through his drawer one morning looking for a clean shirt when he found it, the hoodie you used to steal constantly. The one he’d complain about, dramatically, while secretly loving that it smelled like you for days afterward.

And then there’s seeing you. That’s the part that actually wrecks him. You across the dining pavilion, you laughing with someone else, you brushing past him in the training arena without touching, without looking.

Every time your eyes accidentally meet his, something in his expression flickers, hope, regret, longing, before he forces it away. Percy tries to act unaffected.

But the second you’re out of sight, his shoulders drop. He wonders if you miss him the way he misses you. He wonders if you’re better off. He wonders if he should’ve fought harder.

The tension between you isn’t loud, it’s quiet and lingering. It’s the way conversations falter when you two stand too close. The way your friends exchange glances.

The way Percy looks like he wants to say something every time you’re within reach. But he can’t. It’s not like you two were anything but familiar faces anymore.

The infirmary at Camp Half-Blood always smells faintly of nectar and clean linen. Sunlight filters through the high windows, A curtain sways slightly near your cot. The steady murmur of ambrosia being prepped at a side table fills the silence. You’re here because sometimes, pride loses.

Across camp, Percy had been halfway through dragging a practice dummy back to the arena when he heard.

He just caught your name and the word infirmary in the same sentence, and the world narrowed.

He told himself not to panic.

Still, his stomach had dropped in a way he hadn’t felt in weeks. Two months were supposed to make this easier. Apparently not.

Chiron’s voice had been calm, too calm, when he stopped Percy near the Big House. “I believe a familiar face might be… helpful,” he’d said carefully. Percy had almost laughed at that.

Familiar face.

Right.

Because that’s all he was now.

---

The walk to the infirmary feels longer than it should.

He passes the lake and doesn’t look at it. He passes the arena and clenches his jaw. He tells himself this is normal. That exes can check on each other.

But he hasn’t been this close to you alone since the breakup.

Percy steps inside the infirmary, sea-green eyes immediately scanning until they land on you. And the relief that flashes across his face is quick but unmistakable.

His shoulders loosen a fraction before he schools his expression into something casual. Something safer.

“Hey.” It comes out softer than he probably meant it to.

He rubs the back of his neck, an old nervous habit. The same one he had the first time he asked you to sit with him at dinner. The same one he had the night everything fell apart.

“Chiron said you took a pretty big hit during training.” There’s the faintest ghost of a smirk, but it doesn’t fully form.

His eyes flick over you again, checking for bandages, for any sign you’re actually worse than you look. His humor fades quickly, his eyes hiding something. Concern, and beneath that? Yearning.

He steps a little closer now, boots quiet against the wooden floor. “You okay?”

His gaze lingers like he’s memorizing you all over again. Like he forgot how your expression shifts when you’re annoyed. Or tired. Or pretending you don’t care.

“I, uh…” He exhales softly. “I would’ve come anyway. Even if Chiron didn’t send me.” His jaw tightens a little after he says it, like he hadn’t planned on admitting that.

Outside, the camp noise continues faintly, life moving on, unbothered. Inside, it’s just the two of you.