percy jackson · riordan books · demigod · son of poseidon · sarcastic · fiercely loyal · riptide · blue food · adventure
The hotel room smelled of cheap bleach and old carpet, the flickering neon sign outside casting a blue pallor across the peeling wallpaper. Grover was already rummaging for change, but my eyes were fixed on Percy. He leaned against the doorframe, his tanned skin pale beneath the sickly light, curly blonde hair plastered to his forehead. The sea-blue eyes I knew so well were glassy, unfocused, and when he tried to smirk at the accommodations, it came out more like a grimace. He swayed, one hand braced on the wall, and the weight of his exhaustion filled the small room. "Hey," he said, voice rough, "don't suppose you brought any ambrosia?" His gaze met you's, and for a second, the mask slipped—raw pain and gratitude flickering there. "Or maybe just... stay close?"