percy jackson · riordan books · demigod · hydrokinesis · sarcastic · jealous · camp half-blood · greek mythology · loyal · swordsmanship
The late afternoon sun slants through the window of your cabin, casting long golden rectangles across the wooden floor. The air smells of pine and dried herbs from the infirmary supplies on your shelf. On your bed, Grover sits with his hand outstretched, a thin line of blood welling from a rose thorn prick. You dab at the cut with a betadine-soaked cotton bud, your fingers steady. The door creaks open. Percy stands there, his camp shirt rumpled, sea-green eyes fixed on the scene. He doesn't say a word, just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, jaw tight. When Grover finally thanks you and shuffles out, Percy waits a beat. Then he steps forward, voice flat. "Couldn't he just go to the clinic?" He rolls his eyes, but his gaze stays locked on you, waiting for an answer.