Chapter Text
The dirt at Camp Half-Blood still smelled of ozone, burnt ash, and salt.
Percy Jackson stood on the porch of Poseidon’s cabin, letting cool evening air scrape against fresh scars lining his arms. He was twenty years old—twenty-one in a couple of weeks, assuming he survived that long. He had just lived through his fifth war. Five wars. Most demigods didn't survive three battles, but here he was, battle-hardened, exhausted, and feeling like an artifact from an ancient era.
Everything had changed. New Rome had been an option, a bright and peaceful future, but he couldn't leave. When the dust settled, Annabeth had packed her bags for college in California, her eyes full of a quiet, mournful understanding when Percy told her he couldn't follow. The breakup hadn't been screaming or tears; it was just two tired soldiers realizing their paths were finally diverging.
And then came today’s surprise attack on the camp. Another monster surge, another mindless defense, another reminder that peace was just a temporary draft between storms. Percy needed to get out. He needed to be someone who wasn't a savior, a leader, or a veteran.
He turned back into his cabin and pulled on his gear. He slipped into a pair of custom-fitted, dark charcoal jeans distressed with gritty bronze streaks down the thighs and calves, tucked into rugged, reinforced combat boots. Over a plain dark tee, he threw on a deep midnight leather jacket. On the back, embroidered in meticulous metallic thread, was a thundering wild horse, its mane blending into a swirling, decorative sandstorm that curled around the shoulders. To finish it off, he grabbed a sleek, low-profile full face ski mask designed to conceal his features from other participants.
The heavy thud of footsteps echoed on the wooden planks outside. Tyson walked in, his broad shoulders slouched from a long shift in the Cyclopes' forges. He wiped a hand smeared with soot across his forehead, his single big eye scanning Percy's outfit.
"Percy is going out again?" Tyson asked, his deep voice laced with clear concern.
Percy offered a small, quiet smile, adjusting the cuffs of his leather jacket. "Just need to blow off some steam, big guy. I'll be back later tonight. Promise."
Tyson sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to shake the floorboards. He knew better than to push—this had happened plenty of times before whenever the weight of the camp got too heavy for his brother to bear. "Be safe, Percy. Watch out for sharp corners."
"Always," Percy said, clapping Tyson on the arm before slipping out into the night.
On his way toward the camp boundary, Percy made a slight detour toward Cabin 9, hoping to catch Leo for a quick pre-check or a sarcastic comment. But as he approached the window of the Hephaestus cabin, he spotted a piece of scrap parchment pinned flush against the glass with a heavy steel bolt.
Not tonight, I'm beat after that attack.
— Leo
Percy chuckled softly under his breath, shaking his head. Fair enough, Valdez.
Leaving the border of the Camp's protective Mist behind, Percy hiked a mile down a quiet dark road until he reached an obscure, high-security storage facility. Navigating to the back row, he punched a complex twelve-digit security code into a heavy metal keypad. The heavy industrial shutter rolled up with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a climate-controlled unit.
Inside sat his machine.
It was a Rimac Nevera—a hypercar already legendary in the mortal world, but this one was completely unique. Leo had stripped out the standard electric drivetrain and rebuilt its entire propulsion system to operate on high-pressure, hyper-efficient hydraulics powered directly by water which glowed faintly under the garage lights. The body was painted a deep, iridescent sea green that shifted from midnight teal to brilliant emerald under light.
Percy keyed in the starter sequence. The car didn't roar like a gasoline engine; it emitted a deep, thrumming, mechanical pulse—like the rising tide before a tsunami. Slipping on his mask, Percy pulled out onto the asphalt and put his foot down, letting its raw, instant torque launch him into darkness.
This city’s racing grid was hidden deep within an abandoned industrial port on the sound, illuminated by flickering halide work lights, glowing neon underglow, and fiery bursts of exhaust pipes. The air was thick with the scent of burning rubber, race fuel, and salt water drifting off these docks. Hundreds of spectators lined the perimeter, cheering, betting, and blasting heavy bass from custom sound rigs mounted on backs of pickup trucks.
Engine revs echoed like thunder off the rusted corrugated shipping containers that formed an improvised, lethal track filled with hairpin turns and tight chicanes.
Percy pulled the sea-green Nevera into the staging queue. The crowd parted, murmuring as the nameless, fluid-powered beast crept forward. He rolled up to the registration table, tossed a roll of high-stakes cash onto the board, and pointed to the leaderboard clipboard.
When asked for a handle, he didn't say a word. He simply signed the log sheet in sharp, bold letters: SANDSTORM.
A moment later, he was staged at the starting line. To his left was a modified Twin-Turbo Dodge Viper, its engine screaming like a jet. To his right, a stripped-down Nissan GT-R spitting flames from its titanium exhaust.
Both were members of an organized drivers’ ring owned by some rich man, good with his hands and any car put in front of him, known as the Ring of Fire. They never stayed in any city given their notorious reputations, but he’d heard they were in town. This race wasn’t going to be boring at the very least, because he was fairly certain the organizers for this city had thrown their undefeated local champion out against them trying to make a point.
In front of them, a girl in a neon jacket stepped into the beam of the headlights, holding a pair of glowing signal flags high above her head.
Percy gripped the steering wheel, his sea-green eyes sharp behind the mask. For the first time all day, the heavy weight in his chest loosened. The pulse of the hydraulic engine beneath him matched the rhythm of his own heartbeat.
The flags dropped.
The Nevera didn't slip; its hydraulic torque bit into the asphalt with terrifying violence, launching Percy forward like a spear thrown from the hand of a god. The roar of the crowd, the scream of the rival engines, and the flash of neon lights melted into a high-speed blur as he surged into the dark, reclaiming control over the only thing he could.
The screech of shredding rubber and a piercing whine of hydraulic power tore through these docks as all three cars charged down that first straightaway. The Twin-Turbo Viper roared on Percy’s left, its rear end stepping out slightly before its traction control bit, while the GT-R’s titanium exhaust spit furious tongues of blue flame to his right.
Ahead lay the first turn: a lethal, blind hairpin wrapped tightly around clusters of rusted shipping containers.
Neither the Viper nor the GT-R backed off. They were driving like men who had never known fear, or at least men who feared their boss more than this pavement. But Percy had danced with death across five wars; a tight corner at a hundred miles an hour barely made his pulse spike.
Instead of braking early, Percy leaned into his Nevera’s hydraulic drive. He dumped a burst of high-pressure water through the fluid lines, sending instant torque to those outer wheels. The sea-green hypercar flicked violently into that apex, hugging every edge of these shipping containers so closely the paint nearly shaved against corrugated steel.
The Viper was forced to brake hard to avoid slamming into Percy’s rear quarter-panel, its tires screaming in protest. The GT-R tried to undercut on their exit, but his Nevera’s raw, fluid-driven acceleration was unmatched. The car shot out of that turn like a released spring, leaving both rival drivers to fight over its wake of heated mist and rubber.
For two grueling laps, it was a knife fight. The Ring of Fire drivers used every trick in street racing’s book, attempt after attempt to box him in, but Percy drove with a fluid, natural grace belonging to the ocean itself—shifting lines effortlessly, cutting off pass attempts before they could materialize, and taking impossibly tight angles through the chicanes.
Crossing the finish line, his Nevera was a full car length ahead.
The crowd went wild. Horns blared, bass cannons thumped, and spectators rushed that finish line, pounding on the hood of their favorite sea-green beast. Percy kept his full-face ski mask firmly in place as he rolled up to the organizer’s table, gathered his thick stack of cash, and shoved it casually into his leather jacket.
He didn't leave immediately. Leaning against that low hood of the Nevera, he watched tonight’s remaining heats unfold. Other local drivers didn't fare as well; the Ring of Fire crew methodically dismantled this city's local racers, driving with a cold, ruthless precision as even the Viper and GT-R took another shot at victory and succeeded. Yet, even while the other races raged, Percy could feel eyes on him—and more likely, heavy, calculating stares fixed on his car. The Nevera's complete lack of an engine roar and its eerie, water-powered thrum had clearly set off alarm bells among this visiting crew.
When street races finally wound down in the early hours of morning, their crowd migrated en masse toward The Deep End, a local underground club tucked into an old naval warehouse near the water which he happened to know was owned by his brother, Triton.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick, hazy, and electric. Neon purple and deep cyan lights washed over brick walls lined with sweat and condensation. Industrial-grade subwoofers vibrated the concrete floor, sending reverberations straight through chests of this packed crowd moving on that dance floor. Suspended above the main room were rusted metal catwalks where people looked down at such chaos below, and high-end VIP booths flanked its perimeter, wrapped in dark velvet.
By the time top racers filed in, most had shed their helmets and masks. Money had already changed hands down by the docks, so here, everyone was just looking to drown their adrenaline in alcohol. Percy found a quiet spot near one end of the long mahogany bar, having left his full-face mask in the car and letting messy dark hair fall free.
"Look what the tide washed in," A voice called out over the pounding bass.
Percy looked up to see the bartender sliding a heavy tumbler across the dark wood. It was filled with a rich, dark amber liquid over ice—a top-shelf Caribbean rum, Percy's personal favorite.
The guy behind the bar was named Pollux—or what was left of Cabin 12 after the wars. Dionysus's surviving son had the same keen, slightly mischievous violet glint in his eyes as his father, though he preferred the low-key life of managing a mortal nightspot over camp drama.
"Compliments of the house," Pollux said, leaning over the bar with a faint smirk. "Or rather, compliments of your winning streak. You looked like a maniac out there, Sandstorm."
Percy took a sip, the warm spice of the rum burning pleasantly down his throat. "Just taking the car for a spin, Pollux."
"Right, a 'spin' that just embarrassed the biggest racing ring on the East Coast," Pollux replied, drying a glass with a rag. He leaned in a little closer, dropping his voice below that thudding bass. "Speaking of which... The guy who runs the Ring of Fire is over in a corner booth. He’s been asking about you. Wants to converse."
Percy raised an eyebrow, swirling the ice in his glass. "Let me guess: he wants to buy the car or hire the driver."
"Probably both," Pollux chuckled. "He asked if I knew who you were under the mask. Now, as a bartender, I know everything—it’s practically a divine right. So, am I allowed to pay your identity forward, or do I play dumb?"
Percy took another long pull from his drink, watching neon lights flicker across the crowded dance floor. He was tired, his muscles still burned from this morning's monster attack at camp, and he had zero interest in joining some mortal driver syndicate.
"Tell him whatever you want," Percy said with a dry, tired grin. "I'm not for sale, but... What the Hades. I'll talk. Let's see what he's got to say."
Pollux gave a sharp nod, tossed his towel over his shoulder, and turned toward the back corner of the club to point the ringleader in Percy's direction.
Percy swallowed the last drop of dark rum, ice clinking against heavy glass as he set it down on polished wood. He signaled one of the secondary bartenders for another glass, but before they could move, a rough, well-worked hand darted forward from behind him.
The hand was calloused and heavy, adorned with a single striking piece of jewelry: a thick tungsten chain-link ring housing a massive, iridescent fire opal that seemed to catch every flick of neon light in the room. Bronze runic and tribal-like tattoos disappeared up a tailored sleeve and seemed to give off heat, he swore. Pinched tightly between two broad fingers was a black metal credit card.
"Allow me," A voice rumbled. It was a whiskey-rough bass that vibrated straight through the mahogany counter and his very being.
Percy turned around to face the speaker, taking in a towering man standing nearly six-foot-seven. He was built like a brick fortress, hulking muscles stretching a practical fabric of his tight dark shirt that was stylish enough for this club without being obnoxious. Long, deep auburn hair—streaked with every shade of blond imaginable—hung down his back, with the top half pulled neatly into a top-knot. A short, impeccably stylized beard framed a broad jawline, matching the multi-toned reddish-gold hair. Plus more of those tempting tattoos disappeared into his collar.
Percy’s eyes tracked down for a split second, barely registering the heavy iron work boots—one of which was clearly custom-built with a reinforced sole to compensate for a bad leg—before his eyes darted back up.
In that instant, divine aura found his familiar sea-green gaze. The realization hit both of them simultaneously.
The Ring of Fire. The master mechanic who could build or fix anything with wheels.
Percy and Lord Hephaestus chorused in unison: "Oh, shit."
Behind the bar, sitting right between them, Pollux doubled over and dissolved into a fit of breathless giggles, slapping the counter with his drying rag.
"I’m going to personally throw you to the flesh-eating horses," Percy growled, though his lips twitched with a reluctant smirk.
Hephaestus’s deep voice rumbled beside him, heat practically radiating off his massive frame. "And I’ll melt every piece of barware in this place into a solid block of copper."
Pollux didn't even flinch. He just casually wiped down the counter, sliding a fresh glass of Caribbean rum in front of Percy and a heavy tumbler of smoky, single-malt whiskey toward the god.
"I am my father’s son," Pollux said, flashing a slow, Dionysian grin that was equal parts lazy and smug. "Take it up with him."
"Don’t think I won’t," Hephaestus grunted, though his massive, calloused hand still closed around the whiskey glass.
Percy picked up his rum, giving Pollux a sharp, pointed look. "And don't think your dad's status protects you from a proper beating, Valdez-lite. I can still kick your ass."
"Promises, promises," Pollux laughed, waving them off.
Percy shook his head, turning back toward the god. The bass of the club was thumping against the floorboards, and the crowded room was far too loud for whatever conversation they were about to have.
"Come on," Percy said, grabbing his glass. "Let's take a walk. It's too noisy in here."
"Lead the way, kid," Hephaestus agreed, snatching his own drink off the mahogany top.
The demigod couldn't believe his luck. Of all the gods, he ran into the one he'd had a crush on since his first time going into the blacksmith's forge. The Fates were some bitches.
As Percy turned and began navigating through this sea of dancing bodies toward an exit, Hephaestus fell into step a few paces behind him, his bad leg creating a heavy, rhythmic cadence on the floorboards.
The God of the Forge knew better than to push his luck. He knew, with absolute certainty, that there would be wrath unrivaled if he ever tried anything with his Uncle Poseidon's favorite son. The Sea God was possessive, quick to temper, and protective to a fault—especially when it came to Percy Jackson.
And yet, as Percy walked ahead of him—broad shoulders moving fluidly under the midnight leather jacket, dark charcoal jeans hugging lean, battle-honed muscle—Hephaestus couldn't stop his eyes from drifting downward, taking in the sight with a quiet, appreciative burn before they stepped out into the cool night air. He had certainly grown up from that kid first met at fourteen.
Cool, salty night breeze off harbor waters hit them the moment they stepped out of those heavy double doors marking The Deep End. Hephaestus led the way to a secluded outdoor patio jutting over moving water, where heavy wooden tables sat empty under dim glowing string lights.
They pulled out two chairs at a table right along the railing, dark waters slapping softly against wooden pylons below.
Hephaestus took a slow sip of his whiskey, his deep-set eyes glinting with dry humor as he looked across at Percy. "Well, this certainly isn't the conversation I intended to have when I walked over to your barstool."
Percy leaned back, resting one arm over the back of his chair and swirling ice in his rum. "What, disappointed you're not offering a mortal race driver one fat contract?"
"More like mildly entertained," Hephaestus rumbled, a faint smirk tugging at his short beard. "Though I suppose I should be careful. If your father finds out I’ve been eyeing his favorite son in a dark club, he’d probably drown every undersea forge I have."
Percy let out a short, scoffing laugh. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me the mighty God of the Forge is actually worried about my dad's reaction. I race in Triton’s underwater heats down in his trenches all the time. If anyone was going to throw a fit, it’d be my brother, and he literally owns the place we just walked out of."
Hephaestus tilted his head, broad shoulders shifting as he studied Percy over the rim of his glass. "Is that so? And does the Lord of the Seven Seas actually know about this little hobby of yours?"
Percy shrugged, taking a slow sip of his rum. "We've never explicitly talked about it. But... It's not like it's a big secret. He used to attend those exact same street races with my mom back before I was born."
Hephaestus let out a low rumble of amusement in his chest. "Sally Jackson in a drag race. I can't decide if that's terrifying or impressive."
"A little bit of both," Percy admitted with a dry grin. "How’d you end up running a mortal driver ring anyway? Don't you have enough divine projects to keep you busy?"
"Mortal cars are... simple. Purely mechanical," Hephaestus said, looking down at his whiskey. "No divine politics, no prophecies. Just pistons, metal, and physics. It’s a good excuse to build new toys without Olympus breathing down my neck. What about you? How’d a hero of the cosmos end up behind the wheel of a hypercar?"
"Necessity, mostly," Percy said, his gaze drifting out toward that dark horizon of the sound. "When I turned thirteen, rent was tight, mom was working herself to the bone, and being a demigod doesn't exactly leave room on your resume for a regular nine-to-five. Monsters don't respect shifts at a grocery store. But street racing? It was fast, paid cash, and my reflexes made it almost too easy. It paid the bills."
"A resourceful demigod," Hephaestus noted softly, finishing off the rest of his glass in one deep swallow. He set the heavy tumbler down on the wood with a quiet thud. "Which brings me back to that machine you were driving tonight. I’ve seen custom builds, Jackson, but a Rimac Nevera running entirely on a high-pressure hydraulic drive? Powered by water?"
Percy drained his rum, setting his glass next to the god's. "Leo's pride and joy. He spent three months retrofitting the fluid dynamics."
Hephaestus's eyes lit up with genuine, sharp curiosity. "Can I have a look at the setup?"
Percy smirked, pushing his chair back as he stood up. "Tell you what—I'll drive you back to my storage facility. You can inspect it all you want."
The God of the Forge was already on his feet, his heavy iron boot thudding solidly against the deck. "Deal."
The drive back to the storage facility was surprisingly comfortable. The Nevera’s hydraulic propulsion hummed with a quiet, powerful vibration beneath them, cutting through the stillness of late-night coastal roads. Despite the stark difference in their divine stature, conversation flowed effortlessly. They talked about mechanics, the ridiculous habits of mortal street racers, and their shared activity’s sheer catharsis of tuning an engine until it ran like poetry. With every shared laugh and passing mile, both realized just how much they genuinely enjoyed each other's company—a rare, unburdened camaraderie neither had anticipated finding tonight.
When they pulled inside the climate-controlled unit, that heavy industrial door rolled down behind his Nevera, sealing them away from an annoying outside world in a soft, ambient glow of these garage lights.
Hephaestus immediately went to work. He popped the Nevera’s rear cover, his massive hands moving with practiced, awe-struck precision over custom fluid lines and hyper-efficient pressure valves Leo had crafted. He spouted off technical specs for nearly twenty minutes, evaluating fluid dynamics, heat distribution, and pressure tolerances with deep, passionate expertise only the God of the Forge possessed. Percy leaned back against that sleek, sea-green quarter panel, watching him with an amused, quiet intensity, offering a soft answer whenever Hephaestus asked about how this setup performed under full throttle.
Eventually, the technical rant trailed off. Hephaestus stood up, wiping a smear of dark lubricant from his calloused thumb. He turned his attention from the engine to the demigod standing before him. Under low lights, Percy didn't look like that scared, overwhelmed kid Hephaestus had met years ago. He was battle-hardened, broad-shouldered, and striking—a grown man who carried the heavy weight of five wars with a quiet, lethal grace.
Hephaestus wiped a stray smear of oil from his thumb onto his pants, his broad shoulders relaxing as he stepped back from the open engine bay. "The fluid dynamics are brilliant. Leo’s got his father’s touch, but..." He tilted his head, his fiery eyes sweeping over the sleek, sea-green frame before landing back on Percy. "...He doesn't have your taste."
Percy leaned against the quarter panel, crossing his arms with a lazy, slow-burning smirk. "Is that a compliment, Lord Hephaestus? Careful, your forge-side reputation might suffer if people find out you’re impressed by a demigod's car."
"I’m rarely impressed by cars, Jackson," Hephaestus rumbled, his whiskey-deep voice echoing against the quiet garage walls as he took a slow step closer. "It's usually the driver that makes or breaks the machine."
"Is that right?" Percy tilted his chin up, refusing to back down as the towering god closed the distance. "And how’s the driver doing tonight? Up to your high divine standards?"
"You drive like you’ve got nothing left to lose and everything to prove," Hephaestus said, stopping just inches away. Heat radiated off his massive chest in tangible waves, thick with the scent of hot iron and ozone. "It’s dangerous. Distracting."
"Distracting?" Percy raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint cutting through the tiredness in his sea-green eyes. "You mean to tell me the Ring of Fire’s undisputed ringleader was losing focus out there because of me?"
"You're not as subtle as you think, Sandstorm," Hephaestus replied, a low, quiet chuckle vibrating through his chest. "And you certainly aren't as quiet as the rest of the demigods who walk into my forge looking for a handout."
"Maybe I don't want a handout," Percy murmured, his tone shifting from light teasing to something lower, grounded, and deliberate. He uncrossed his arms, resting a hand casually against the warm metal of the hood beside him. "Maybe I just wanted to see if the God of the Forge could actually keep up with me off the racetrack."
Hephaestus’s gaze darkened, his thumb tracing a heavy, calloused line near his own jaw as he looked down at Percy. "That sounds like a challenge."
"Take it however you want," Percy said softly, his smirk softening into something far more unguarded.
Temptation finally broke through the god's divine composure. Step by step, Hephaestus closed the distance between them, his towering six-foot-seven frame casting a warm shadow over Percy. He reached out, a heavy, warm hand gently cupping the side of Percy's jaw, thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone.
Percy didn't pull away. Looking up into the deep, fiery eyes of the forge god, he let out a low, rough exhale. "You know... I've had a crush on you since I was fourteen," Percy murmured softly.
Hephaestus’s eyes darkened, passed heat and moved straight to need, then without another word, he leaned down and pressed his lips to Percy's.
The kiss was searing and possessive, tasting of dark rum, smoky whiskey, and raw yearning, but that quickly gave way to layers. Hephaestus tasted like smoke and leather and iron, his skin burning hot, while Percy was cool to the touch and tasted of sea salted citrus fruit; somehow managing to be salty, tangy, and sweet all at once. Percy gave in instantly, his hands tangling into the thick, auburn-and-blond hair at the back of Hephaestus' neck, pulling him closer. Everytime quick fingers came into contact with those tattoos it felt like steam should be letting off between them.
Any lingering exhaustion from the morning's monster attack vanished, replaced by an intoxicating surge of adrenaline and desire.
They lost themselves to it for the next couple of hours. Wrapped together on the wide, sleek hood of that sea-green Nevera, their encounter was intense, slow, and deep—a clash of ocean tides and volcanic fire. Hephaestus’ broad, rough hands were surprisingly reverent against Percy's scarred skin, mapping every curve and muscle, while Percy matched the god’s intense, unyielding passion step for step until both were completely spent, lying together in the quiet warmth of this shuttered garage.
Cool air of the climate-controlled unit eventually settled over them as adrenaline began to wane. Hephaestus pulled himself up, sitting on the edge of that car’s fender and running a heavy hand through his disheveled hair, his stylized beard framing a fond, rare smile.
"As much as I'd like to stay," Hephaestus rumbled, his deep bass voice thick with lingering satisfaction, "I’ve got the Olympus forges calling. Real work starts at dawn."
Percy sat up, running a hand through his own messy black hair and pulling his dark tee back over his head. "Yeah. I hear you. I need to get back to camp before Tyson or anyone else notices I've been gone all night."
Hephaestus swung his bad leg over, stepping onto the concrete with a heavy boot. He turned back to look at Percy, his fiery eyes locking onto sea-green ones. "Are you going to the races tonight, Sandstorm?"
Percy adjusted his leather jacket, a slow, confident smirk spreading across his lips. "Wouldn't miss it."
"Good," Hephaestus said softly, stealing one more kiss. Then, with a sharp nod and a sudden, blinding flash of golden light that smelled faintly of ozone and hot metal, the God of the Forge vanished into thin air.
Left alone in the quiet storage unit, Percy secured his Nevera, checking hydraulic fluid levels one last time before locking down this bay. Instead of risking the hypercar for a casual errand, he walked over to his completely legal, thoroughly normal sedan.
He keyed its ignition and drove out onto the quiet highway, taking a quick, low-profile trip into the city to his mom's apartment. It was still dark when he pulled up outside Sally’s place. Moving like a shadow, he used his key to slip inside quietly so as not to wake her or Paul. He walked into the kitchen, pulled that thick roll of high-stakes cash he’d won at those races out of his jacket, and left it neatly stacked on the counter next to a sticky note with a drawn heart.
Stepping back out into the night, he drove back toward Long Island, re-parked the sedan, and hiked one final stretch through the woods. He slipped past magical boundaries of Camp Half-Blood just as the very first hints of dawn began to paint eastern skies in soft shades of pink and gold.
Plunging back into a welcoming quiet from the Poseidon cabin, Percy changed clothes for coverage’s sake and collapsed onto his bed, exhausted, sore, and thoroughly satisfied, hauling his ass under thin covers just minutes before the rest of camp began to wake, already knowing it wouldn’t last long.