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The afternoon sun beat down on the strawberry fields of Camp Half-Blood, casting a golden, idyllic glow over the valley. It was the kind of day that should have inspired heroic training, or at least a peaceful afternoon of canoeing. Instead, the interior of Cabin Six resembled a war room on the brink of tactical collapse.
Malcolm Pace, senior counselor of the Athena cabin since Annabeth Chase had spent more time splitting her days between New Rome and various architectural projects, rubbed his temples. Before him on the central planning table was not a map of a mythical labyrinth or a blueprint for a new temple, but a meticulously detailed, color-coded calendar.
"Look at this," Malcolm muttered, his voice dropping into the low, gravelly register he usually reserved for discussing ancient Spartan siege tactics. "Just look at the data points."
His half-siblings—six or seven of the younger Athena campers who weren't currently on sentry duty or weapon cleaning—crowded around the table, their grey eyes narrowed in collective, intellectual fury.
"Tuesday, 1400 hours: The climbing wall," Malcolm pointed to a red X. "Wednesday, 1630 hours: The armory, specifically behind the bronze shields. Thursday, 0900 hours—right during morning inspection, mind you—the porch of our own cabin."
"It's psychological warfare," whispered Alice, a twelve-year-old who had recently mastered advanced geometry and minor battlefield strategy. "They’re trying to break our focus."
"They aren't trying to do anything, Alice, that's the problem," Malcolm sighed, leaning back and running a hand through his sandy hair. "If it were a deliberate strategy, we could counter it with a standard phalanx or a flanking maneuver. But it's not. It's just Percy Jackson and our sister. And they have absolutely no boundaries."
The grievance was universal within Cabin Six. The Athena cabin did not hate Percy Jackson because he was a son of Poseidon—they had mostly moved past the millennial-old divine rivalry, given that the guy had saved the world multiple times. They didn't hate him because he was messy, or because he brought sand into the dining pavilion, or because his idea of a philosophical debate was asking if a centaur could wear pants on all four legs or just the back two.
They hated him because he was constantly, unapologetically, and incredibly publicly making out with Annabeth.
It was impossible to escape. An Athena camper would be attempting to calculate the structural integrity of a new ballista, only to glance out the window and see the Savior of Olympus dipped dramatically over the porch railing, his hands tangled in their sister's blonde curls while she laughed against his mouth. They would go to the archives to look up ancient treatises on weaving, only to find the restricted section occupied by two people who were definitely not reading.
"No sibling should have to witness that," Malcolm declared, striking the table with a rolled-up architectural blueprint. "It violates the natural order. It violates personal space. I saw them yesterday by the canoe lake—he was carrying her bridal style while they were kissing. Do you know how aerodynamically inefficient that is? They almost tripped over a naiad."
"So what's the plan, Malcolm?" asked one of the younger boys, crossing his arms. "We can't challenge Jackson to a duel. Annabeth would flay us alive, and besides, he’s better with a sword."
"We don't use force," Malcolm said, a sharp, calculating smile breaking across his face. The true intellect of Athena was about to shine. "We use psychology. Annabeth is a creature of logic and empathy, though her empathy is currently blinded by sea-green eyes and terrible hair. She doesn't understand our suffering because she is a participant. To make her understand, we must show her. We must hold up a mirror to her actions."
"A mirror?" Alice blinked. "Like... we film them?"
"No, that's voyeuristic and highly illegal under camp rules," Malcolm corrected quickly. "We provide an equivalent stimulus. We present her with a scenario wherein her sibling is doing the exact same thing, thereby forcing her to experience the acute psychological discomfort we endure on a daily basis."
The cabin fell silent as the children of wisdom processed the thesis.
"Wait," Alice said slowly. "Malcolm... are you saying you're going to start making out with someone?"
Malcolm’s cheeks flushed slightly, but he maintained his stoic, commanding posture. "I am saying that I am going to enter a highly visible, intensely public romantic entanglement. A simulated relationship designed for maximum exposure and optimal cringe value. Once Annabeth sees how deeply disturbing it is to watch her brother engage in public displays of affection, her natural sense of propriety will kick in, and she will establish a demilitarized zone of at least fifty feet between herself and Jackson at all times."
"Who's the target?" asked the boy. "I mean, the partner."
Malcolm straightened his glasses. He had spent the last forty-eight hours analyzing the camp roster, calculating compatibility vectors, and assessing who possessed the necessary lack of shame to pull this off.
"Someone chaotic," Malcolm explained. "Someone whose very presence disrupts the peace, thereby amplification the effect. Someone who has zero respect for boundaries, much like Jackson himself." He picked up a piece of parchment and slid it across the table.
Written on it, in bold, slightly messy letters, was a single name: Connor Stoll.
Finding Connor Stoll was never difficult; you just had to look for wherever a crowd was gathering to complain about a missing item or a sudden explosion of glitter.
Malcolm found him sitting on the steps of Cabin Eleven, casually tossing a golden drachma into the air and catching it with one hand while using a pocketknife to whittle a piece of wood into the shape of a very crude, very illegal key card clone.
"Stoll," Malcolm said, stopping at the base of the steps.
Connor caught the coin, his mischievous brown eyes snapping up. A slow, crooked grin spread across his face—the classic Hermes cabin look that usually meant someone’s shoes were about to be filled with pudding. "Well, if it isn't the brain trust. What brings the acting commander of Cabin Six to the slums of the Hermes porch? Did someone steal your favorite protractor?"
"No. I'm here to offer you a business proposition," Malcolm said, keeping his voice level. He sat down on the step below Connor, maintaining a professional distance.
Connor raised an eyebrow, closing his pocketknife with a sharp click. "A proposition? From an Athena kid? I'm listening. Usually, your idea of business involves checking out library books or revising the camp safety bylaws."
"I need a boyfriend," Malcolm said flatly.
Connor froze. The golden drachma slipped through his fingers, bouncing down the wooden steps with a metallic clatter until it rolled to a stop against Malcolm’s boot. Connor stared at him, his mouth slightly open, the sharp, fast-talking demeanor completely vanishing for a fraction of a second.
"You... what?" Connor squeaked. His voice cracked slightly, a rare occurrence for someone who spent half his life smooth-talking his way out of trouble.
"A temporary, highly performative boyfriend," Malcolm clarified, leaning down to pick up the coin and handing it back. "A fake relationship. For tactical purposes."
Connor swallowed hard, his eyes darting across Malcolm's face as if looking for the punchline, or maybe a hidden camera, or perhaps just trying to process the sudden rush of blood to his own ears. "Tactical. Right. Of course. Because when people think romance, they think tactics." He cleared his throat, trying to regain his usual smirk, though it came out a little strained. "Care to elaborate, Professor? Or is this a classified government project?"
Malcolm sighed and explained the situation. He laid out the data points, the sheer frequency of Percy and Annabeth's public displays of affection, the psychological toll it was taking on Cabin Six, and his thesis on using a mirrored stimulus to force Annabeth into realizing how terrible it was for everyone else.
As Malcolm talked, Connor’s expression shifted from profound shock to intense amusement, though there was a strange, lingering brightness in his eyes that Malcolm didn't quite have the emotional data to interpret.
"Let me get this straight," Connor said, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "You want me to fake date you, in public, specifically to disgust your sister and Percy into stopping their own PDA?"
"Precisely," Malcolm said. "You have the necessary lack of shame. You're already loud, disruptive, and constantly in the public eye. If we start acting... excessively affectionate in the middle of the dining pavilion, Annabeth will notice. She'll be horrified. The plan is foolproof."
Connor let out a low whistle, turning the drachma over in his fingers. "Wow. That is... deeply unhinged, Malcolm. Truly. A masterpiece of petty psychological warfare. I love it." He grinned, though his fingers tightened slightly around the coin. "But what's in it for me? The Hermes cabin doesn't work for free, you know."
Malcolm had prepared for this. "I will grant you immunity from Cabin Six's chore rotation for the next three weeks. Furthermore, I will personally forge Chiron's signature on a weekend pass for you and Travis to go into the city next month."
Connor’s eyes widened. "The forged signature? Damn, Pace. I didn't know you had a dark side. You've got a deal." He stood up, offering his hand. "To a summer of terrifying your sister."
Malcolm stood as well, shaking Connor's hand. Connor’s grip was warm, dry, and lingered just a second longer than a standard business handshake, but Malcolm dismissed it as a standard Hermes pickpocket technique checking for watches.
"Excellent," Malcolm said. "We begin tomorrow morning at breakfast. Be prepared to be... demonstrative."
"Oh, you have no idea," Connor murmured, the crooked smirk returning with full force. "I'm a very method actor, Malcolm. Hope you're ready."
The next morning, the dining pavilion was filled with the usual chaotic chatter of a camp breakfast. The Ares cabin was loud and rowdy, the Demeter cabin was complaining about the quality of the cereal, and at the Poseidon table, Percy Jackson was currently feeding Annabeth a piece of blue pancake while she laughed, leaning completely against his chest.
At the Athena table, Malcolm sat with a straight back, systematically cutting his eggs into perfect, uniform squares.
"Phase one begins now," Malcolm whispered to Alice, who gave him a subtle, two-finger salute from across the table.
Right on cue, a loud commotion echoed from the pavilion entrance. Connor Stoll walked in, wearing his orange camp shirt completely inside out and carrying a massive bouquet of wild dandelions, thistle, and what looked suspiciously like poison ivy, though it was wrapped carefully in a stolen dish towel.
Instead of walking to the Hermes table, Connor marched directly toward the Athena table, his eyes locked onto Malcolm with a terrifying intensity.
The entire pavilion began to quiet down. The Athena campers watched with analytical fascination. At the Poseidon table, Annabeth paused, her fork halfway to her mouth, her grey eyes narrowing as she watched the approach.
"Good morning, my sweet, analytical prince!" Connor announced, his voice carrying easily across the marble pillars.
Malcolm stiffened slightly. A bit theatrical, he thought, but effective.
Connor reached the table, dropped to one knee with a dramatic flourish that would have made the Aphrodite cabin proud, and thrust the bouquet into Malcolm’s face. "I picked these from the strawberry fields. Well, technically I stole them from the Demeter cabin's private garden while Katie Gardner wasn't looking, but the sentiment is the same. For you."
Malcolm took the bouquet, trying to maintain a expression of calm, romantic acceptance. "Thank you, Connor. They are... botanically diverse."
"Only the best for the guy who keeps my heart in a secure, encrypted vault," Connor said, winking. He didn't get up. Instead, he reached out, took Malcolm’s left hand, and planted a loud, smacking kiss right onto the back of his knuckles.
A collective gasp went up from the younger Athena kids. Across the pavilion, Travis Stoll choked on his orange juice, coughing violently while his cabin mates patted his back.
Malcolm looked over at the Poseidon table. Annabeth was staring at them, her eyebrows knitted together in profound confusion. Percy was squinting, a piece of bacon hanging out of his mouth.
It's working, Malcolm thought triumphantly.
"Sit with me," Malcolm said, slide over on the bench to make room.
"Don't mind if I do," Connor said, hopping up and sliding onto the bench so closely that their thighs were pressed together from hip to knee. Connor didn't seem to mind the lack of personal space at all. In fact, he immediately slung an arm around Malcolm’s shoulders, pulling him in close. "So, what are we eating, babe? Want half my muffin?"
Malcolm winced slightly at the term "babe," but forced a smile. "No, thank you. I have my eggs."
"Nonsense, you need sugar. Brain food," Connor said. He broke off a piece of a blueberry muffin and held it right in front of Malcolm’s lips. "Open up. Ahhh."
Malcolm stared at the muffin fragment. He looked at Connor, whose brown eyes were sparkling with what looked like pure, unadulterated joy. He looked over at Annabeth. She was now frowning deeply, her fork completely abandoned.
Malcolm opened his mouth and let Connor feed him the muffin. It was incredibly awkward, mostly because Connor’s thumb brushed against his bottom lip as he did it, leaving a strange, warm sensation that Malcolm’s brain immediately tried and failed to categorize under "tactical variables."
"Good boy," Connor whispered, his voice suddenly much softer, right next to Malcolm's ear.
Malcolm’s breath hitched. Wow, Connor is really committed to the bit, he thought, his heart doing a weird, erratic skip that he attributed to a sudden spike in blood sugar from the muffin.
Over the next week, the "relationship" escalated with terrifying speed.
Malcolm had estimated that it would take three to four instances of public affection to break Annabeth’s resolve. He underestimated two things: his sister's stubborn refusal to acknowledge what was happening, and Connor Stoll's absolute dedication to the role.
If Malcolm was reading by the lake, Connor would suddenly appear, lie down, and rest his head directly in Malcolm’s lap, demanding that Malcolm read ancient Greek poetry aloud while Connor played with the hem of Malcolm's shirt.
If Malcolm was leading a strategy session at the combat arena, Connor would show up with a cooler full of Gatorade, cheering excessively from the stands, shouting things like, "That's my intellectually superior boyfriend! Show them how to use a protractor, Mal!"
It was exhausting. It was distracting. And yet, the strangest thing was happening: Malcolm wasn't hating it as much as he thought he would.
On Thursday afternoon, they were staged on the porch of the Athena cabin—the prime location for maximum exposure, as it was directly across the green from the camp store. Percy and Annabeth were sitting on the steps of the dining pavilion, talking quietly.
"Initiate maneuver delta," Malcolm murmured, leaning against the porch railing.
Connor, who was sitting on the porch swing, stood up and walked over. "Maneuver delta? Remind me, is that the one where I hold your hand, or the one where I whisper sweet nothings about structural engineering in your ear?"
"The hand-holding, followed by a close-proximity lean," Malcolm instructed, his eyes fixed on his sister across the green. "Annabeth is looking this way. Make it look natural."
"Natural. Right," Connor said.
He stepped close, wrapping his hand around Malcolm’s. Connor’s hands were rough from climbing and pranks, calloused and warm. He squeezed Malcolm’s fingers, stepping into his space until Malcolm was backed up against the railing. Connor leaned in, tilting his head up slightly—Connor was just an inch shorter than Malcolm—and looked into his eyes.
Up close, Malcolm noticed that Connor’s eyes weren't just brown; they had flecks of gold in them, like the drachmas he was always flipping. He smelled like campfire smoke, orange soda, and something distinctly, uniquely Connor.
"You know," Connor whispered, his breath warm against Malcolm’s jaw, "you're really bad at the acting part of this, Pace. You look like you're trying to remember the multiplication tables."
"I am maintaining tactical focus," Malcolm whispered back, though his voice felt strangely tight. His eyes drifted down to Connor’s lips, which were parted slightly in a soft, uncharacteristic smile. There was no smirk there. No prankster grin. Just... something else.
"Let's give them something real to look at then," Connor murmured. He reached up with his free hand, his fingers gently brushing against Malcolm's jawline, his thumb resting right on Malcolm's cheekbone. He leaned in closer, his forehead almost touching Malcolm's.
Malcolm’s brain completely short-circuited. The data points vanished. The color-coded calendar in his head caught fire and burned to ash. His heart hammered against his ribs like a captured harpy. Is he going to kiss me? Malcolm thought, a sudden, terrifying wave of realization washing over him: I want him to kiss me.
Before the distance could be closed, a loud, intentional cough broke the silence.
Malcolm jumped, tearing his eyes away from Connor.
Annabeth was standing at the bottom of the porch steps, her arms crossed over her chest, a look of profound, deeply disturbed irritation on her face. Percy was standing a few feet behind her, looking incredibly uncomfortable, wincing as he looked between Malcolm and Connor.
"Can I help you, Annabeth?" Malcolm asked, his voice coming out a full octave higher than normal. He quickly let go of Connor’s hand, though Connor’s fingers lingered against his palm for a second before dropping.
"Malcolm. Connor," Annabeth said, her grey eyes cutting through them like imperial gold blades. "What, exactly, is going on here?"
"We are engaging in a romantic partnership," Malcolm said, trying to regain his composure. "It is a natural expression of human emotion. Much like what you and Percy do. Constantly. Everywhere. Without regard for the psychological well-being of anyone within a three-mile radius."
Annabeth blinked. She looked at Malcolm. She looked at Connor, who had quickly reverted to his relaxed, hands-in-pockets slouch, though his face was slightly flushed. Then she looked back at Malcolm, her eyes widening as the pieces of the puzzle clicked together in her massive, strategic brain.
"You..." Annabeth pointed a finger at Malcolm. "This entire week... the dandelions... the muffin... the climbing wall... you did all of this just to make a point about me and Percy?"
"It was a mirrored stimulus!" Malcolm defended himself, his analytical armor firmly back in place. "You failed to recognize the discomfort your actions caused the cabin. I merely provided an equivalent scenario to generate empathy through shared suffering!"
Percy let out a low chuckle behind Annabeth. "Dude, I told you they were doing it on purpose. Nobody talks about structural integrity during a cuddle session unless they're trying to send a message."
Annabeth ignored Percy, stepping up the porch stairs until she was face-to-face with her brother. "Malcolm. You are a genius when it comes to battle strategy, but you are an absolute idiot when it comes to human emotions."
"I adjusted for variables—"
"Malcolm," Annabeth interrupted, shaking her head. "Look at Connor."
Malcolm blinked. "What?"
"Look at him," Annabeth repeated, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Percy and I will tone it down. Fine. I get it. The porch kisses stop. But by the gods, Malcolm, open your eyes."
With that, Annabeth turned on her heel, grabbed a very confused Percy by the arm, and marched away across the green, muttering something about how the children of Athena were cursed to be completely blind to anything that wasn't in a textbook.
The porch fell silent. The wind rustled through the nearby woods, carrying the faint scent of strawberries.
Malcolm stood frozen, his mind racing, trying to process his sister’s parting words. Open your eyes? Look at Connor? What did that mean? The plan worked. The objective was achieved. The PDA would stop.
He turned slowly to look at Connor.
Connor was standing near the porch swing, his hands still shoved deep into his pockets. He wasn't smirking. He wasn't laughing. He was looking down at his own sneakers, kicking a small pebble across the wooden floorboards. The bright, confident posture he usually held was completely gone, replaced by a strange, quiet vulnerability that Malcolm had never seen in a son of Hermes before.
"Well," Connor said softly, his voice lacking its usual theatrical flare. "Mission accomplished, I guess. You got her to stop."
"Yes," Malcolm said, his throat suddenly feeling very dry. "The... the strategy was successful."
"Right. Great." Connor cleared his throat, finally looking up. His brown eyes looked incredibly heavy, a faint, sad smile touching the corners of his mouth. "So... I guess I'll go collect that forged weekend pass from you later? And the chore immunity?"
Malcolm didn't answer. He was analyzing. For the first time all week, he wasn't looking at Connor as a tool for a prank or a variable in a plan. He was looking at the actual data points he had ignored.
Data point one: Connor had agreed to the plan almost immediately, despite the fact that the Hermes cabin usually demanded much higher bribes for fake pranks.
Data point two: The muffin. Connor hadn't just fed him; he had looked at Malcolm with an expression that had absolutely nothing to do with Percy or Annabeth.
Data point three: The porch, just minutes ago. The way Connor’s hand had felt. The way he had looked at Malcolm’s lips. The fact that Connor hadn't leaned away when Annabeth approached—he had looked like he genuinely wanted to finish the kiss.
Malcolm felt a wave of profound, overwhelming realization wash over him. It hit him harder than a blow from a training dummy.
"Connor," Malcolm said, his voice barely a whisper.
"Yeah?" Connor took a step back, toward the porch steps. "Look, Mal, it's fine. It was a good prank. Fun week. I'll see you around the dining—"
"You weren't acting," Malcolm said.
Connor froze, his foot hovering over the first step. He slowly lowered it, his shoulders tensing. He didn't look back at Malcolm. "What are you talking about? Of course I was acting. I'm a Stoll. We're great actors."
"You're a terrible actor," Malcolm corrected, taking a step forward, his heart pounding in his chest. "Your posture changes when you're lying. Your left eyebrow twitches slightly when you're pulling a scam. You didn't do either of those things this week. Not when you held my hand. Not when we were by the lake."
Connor stood completely still for a long moment. Then, with a heavy sigh, he turned around. The playful, chaotic facade was completely gone. He looked tired, his eyes fixed on Malcolm with a raw honesty that looked completely foreign on his face.
"You really are a genius, aren't you?" Connor said, a bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaping his lips. "Took you a whole week and your sister pointing it out to figure it out."
"Connor..."
"Look, Malcolm, I've had a crush on you since last summer," Connor said, throwing his hands up in a rare display of genuine frustration. "When you came to me with this ridiculous, completely insane plan to fake date you, what was I supposed to say? 'No, sorry, I can't do that because I actually want to hold your hand for real'? Of course I said yes. I thought... I don't know, I thought maybe if we spent enough time together, you'd notice. But you were so focused on your spreadsheets and your 'mirrored stimuli' that you didn't see it."
Malcolm stared at him. The son of wisdom, completely speechless.
"It's fine," Connor said quickly, turning back toward the steps. "Plan's over. I'll get my pass later. See ya, Pace."
"Connor, wait!"
Malcolm didn't think. For the first time in his entire life, he completely abandoned logic, strategy, and calculations. He lunged forward, reaching out and grabbing Connor by the forearm before he could step off the porch.
Connor spun around, startled. "Malcolm, seriously, you don't have to—"
Malcolm didn't let him finish. He closed the distance between them, reached up, grabbed the collar of Connor’s inside-out orange shirt, and pulled him down into a kiss.
It wasn't a tactical maneuver. It wasn't performative. It wasn't designed to disgust Annabeth or make a point to Percy.
It was messy, sudden, and completely real. Connor froze for a fraction of a second in sheer shock, his hands hovering in the air between them. Then, with a low gasp against Malcolm’s mouth, he melted. Connor’s arms wrapped tightly around Malcolm’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest, his fingers digging into the fabric of Malcolm's shirt with a desperation that had been building for months.
The kiss tasted like the summer heat, a hint of the blueberry muffin from breakfast, and the absolute chaos of the Hermes cabin. Malcolm tangled his fingers in Connor’s curly brown hair, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, completely losing himself in the sensation of Connor’s lips moving against his.
When they finally broke apart for air, neither of them moved away. Connor kept his arms locked around Malcolm’s waist, his forehead resting against Malcolm’s, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. A massive, radiant, completely un-ironic grin slowly broke across Connor's face.
"Wow," Connor whispered, his eyes shining with gold flecks. "Was that... maneuver epsilon?"
"No," Malcolm panted, his face bright red, a soft smile finally breaking through his stoic expression. "That was completely uncalculated."
"Good," Connor murmured, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of Malcolm’s mouth. "I prefer you uncalculated."
From across the green, a loud, familiar whistle echoed through the camp.
Malcolm glanced over Connor’s shoulder. Percy Jackson was standing near the climbing wall, giving them a massive thumbs-up and shouting, "Nice form, Pace! Aerodynamically perfect!"
Beside him, Annabeth was just shaking her head, a smirk on her face as she turned away, finally satisfied that her brother had figured out something that couldn't be solved with a calculator.
Malcolm laughed, hiding his face in the crook of Connor's neck. "I suppose we're going to have to keep doing this now."
"Oh, absolutely," Connor laughed, tightening his grip on Malcolm’s waist. "But from now on, we do it because we want to. And hey—if it still terrifies your cabin, that's just a bonus."