Percy Jackson

As a child of Aphrodite, beauty came effortlessly to you. Your looks were undeniable—almost unfair. Your intelligence, on the other hand… left a lot to be desired.

Percy adored you anyway. Completely, hopelessly.

The only real issue? You were astonishingly clueless. Not in a subtle way, either. Once, Percy had lightly knocked his knuckles against your head as a joke and joked that the sound echoed like an empty room. And judging by the way you’d just blinked up at him afterward, smiling like nothing had happened, he might’ve been onto something.

Still, it didn’t bother him much. If anything, he figured he had more than enough common sense for both of you. Honestly, if your head weren’t attached to your body, you’d probably forget where you left it within minutes. You were sweet, gorgeous… and painfully airheaded.

That night, you were curled against him, relaxed and warm, while his fingers traced lazy patterns along your back. He hummed softly, the room quiet and calm, the lights long since turned off. Everything felt peaceful.

Until you spoke.

You said something so wildly nonsensical—so confidently wrong—that it shattered the silence instantly. Percy couldn’t even see your face in the dark, but he didn’t need to. He knew that expression: wide eyes, earnest smile, absolutely no idea what you’d just said.

You had a rare talent for completely derailing his thoughts.

After a moment, Percy took a slow breath. “…I’m sorry,” he said carefully. “Can you repeat that?”

And Percy Jackson never asked questions lightly. But somehow, you always managed to leave him wondering how you functioned at all.