Percy Jackson stood in the doorway, one hand shoved in the pocket of his jeans, the other holding the strap of the backpack he’d been loaned for the day. He scanned the room, his sea-green eyes sharp, taking in the rows of desks, the faded world map on the wall, the kids in their various states of Monday-morning exhaustion.

And stopped.

There you were.

Slouched in a chair by the window, one leg hooked over the armrest of the desk beside you. You were wearing ripped, black skinny jeans, scuffed combat boots, and a faded band t-shirt he didn’t recognize under an open flannel. Your hair was different—messier, deliberately so—and there was a silver ring on your thumb you’d never worn at camp.

You were laughing at something, head thrown back, showing the line of your throat. The person next to you—a guy with gauged ears and a beanie—nudged your shoulder, and you shoved him back, still grinning.

He had never seen you like this. Unpolished. Unapologetic. Completely at home.

A weird, hot twist settled in his stomach. He couldn’t look away.

The guy with the beanie said something else, and you replied, your voice carrying just enough over the classroom noise to reach the doorway—a low, easy tone Percy had only ever heard you use when you were teasing him.