NICO'S POV:
I woke up to snoring.
Someone next to me, snoring very loudly.
I was confused at first. No one should've been in my room. Will had left last night, hadn't he? The infirmary was always quiet in the mornings—unnaturally quiet, like the air still remembered all the pain and groaning from the night before and didn't dare speak over it. But this time? Loud, unapologetic snoring.
I cracked one eye open, already bracing myself for whatever horror this was, and—gods.
One word could explain it.
Will.
On the chair next to my bed—slouched back like he'd been dragged through the Underworld and back—lay a very adorable, sleepy, and snoring Will. He was leaned so far back in the chair it was a miracle he hadn't tipped over. His head was tilted at an awkward angle, mouth slightly open, soft snores puffing out in rhythm. Hair messy. Shirt wrinkled and rucked up slightly at the bottom.
It was... criminally cute.
I blinked slowly. I didn't know Will could snore. It wasn't like a bear-growl or anything. It was quiet and a little squeaky at the end.
Unfair. Genuinely unfair.
I turned my head just a little, forcing myself to assess the room, desperate for a reason—any reason—he might've come back. Maybe he forgot something. Maybe he needed to check on something. But no. The answer was right there.
The floor.
Cracks lined the infirmary like spiderwebs, jagged and wrong. Some cuts were long and thick, others tiny and branching, like veins reaching up from the Underworld itself. Some twisted around each other like vines, splitting apart and spiraling out across the stone in every direction.
I didn't remember doing that.
But I didn't have to.
And then—of course—he yawned.
"Mornin', Neeks."
Oh gods.
No. No, no, no, no.
He had a morning voice.
That was not fun.
It was hoarse, low, that deep scratchy kind of voice that sounded like warmth and sleep and vulnerability. And his accent.
It was in full force. Southern and rough around the edges. Like honey dripping over sandpaper.
I could feel heat immediately rushing to my cheeks. I was blushing. I was blushing and he hadn't even done anything except exist. His eyelids were half-closed still, heavy with sleep, and he ran a hand through his messy golden hair, shaking it loose with a soft grunt. His shirt had ridden up just a little, showing a sliver of stomach, and he was giving me that sleepy, dopey, not-even-teasing smile and I swear to Hades I might've combusted on the spot.
My whole body buzzed. Not in a magical way—no shadows swirling or ghosts whispering—just the regular kind of buzzing, the terrifying mortal kind. Embarrassment and panic and oh gods, how long had he been here?
He raised an eyebrow at me, waiting for me to say something. My brain short-circuited.
"Why are you here? I thought you left."
It came out sharper than I meant it to.
He blinked, stretching again with a loud yawn that made his voice crack. "Great question," he said, scratching at the back of his head. "I did leave—fer a lil' while, at least. Went back t' my cabin, grabbed a shower, came back, did some paperwork, fell asleep at the desk. Long night."
"But that doesn't explain why you're here right now."
"Oh. Right." He yawned again—stop doing that—"You had a nightmare."
My entire body froze.
"WHAT?!" I yelled before I could stop myself.
He jolted and immediately put a finger to his lips. "Shhh—Neeks. Shhh. Other patients are still sleepin', alright?"
"Sorry," I hissed. "WHAT?" I whisper-shouted, like that somehow made it better.
He looked entirely too calm about this. "Yeah. You had a nightmare. Weren't too bad, really—you were screamin' a bit—"
"Screaming?!" I shrieked in a hoarse whisper.
He just nodded. Like it was normal.
Like I hadn't been a complete disaster.
"Yeah. Y' summoned a couple skeletons—"
"A couple?!" I was practically vibrating now.
I could feel it—panic crawling up my spine like cold water. The cracks in the floor weren't just there for decoration. I had screamed in my sleep. I had summoned the dead. I had lost complete control. I probably terrified everyone in the building. What had I done? What had Will seen?
What if I'd hurt someone? What if he thought I was dangerous? What if I'd screamed someone's name? What if I'd said something embarrassing—what if I'd cried?
My throat clenched. My fingers were already twitching, black mist curling around my fingertips.
I waited for the judgment. The fear. The moment his smile dropped and he stepped back from the monster in the bed. I knew it would come. It always did. I was dangerous, unpredictable, unfixable.
But it didn't.
"Nico," he said gently, reaching out like he was going to touch my shoulder—then hesitated and pulled back, like he remembered I hated that. Or maybe because he didn't want to touch me. Because of what I was.
"Every demigod's got nightmares, sugar. 'S normal. And losin' control when you're unconscious? That ain't somethin' t' feel guilty about. You weren't awake. Your powers acted up. Happens all the time."
I nodded, but it didn't help. Not really.
His voice was soft and warm and kind and my chest hurt because I didn't understand why he was being like that. He should be scared. He should be angry. I wasn't normal. I wasn't safe.
I wasn't good.
He looked at me a moment longer. Then—his stomach growled. Loudly.
He blinked, looking almost surprised by it. Then he laughed. "Well, guess that means it's time for breakfast. Whatcha want, Neeks?"
He stood up, stretching so far I heard his back crack. Like a cat. A golden, stupidly attractive, half-asleep, stretch-happy cat.
And gods. His shirt rode up again. And his arms were so tan and so strong and—
Nico. STOP.
I shook my head sharply, like I could rattle the thoughts out of my skull. "Nothing, Will."
He rolled his eyes, hands on his hips. "Well, that there means I get full freedom over what I'm feedin' ya. Thanks for the trust, darlin'." He winked—he winked—before turning and jogging off down the hallway.
I stared at the door he disappeared through. I hated him. I hated him and his morning voice and his stupid shirt and his kind heart and the way he hadn't run from me.
And I really, really hoped he wouldn't bring back eggs. Gods, I hated eggs.
I sat up in my bed, stretching—or at least stretching as much as I could without hurting my shoulder. It wasn't hurting as bad now, just a dull, persistent ache that flared when I moved wrong, like something still buried under my skin that refused to let go.
The window above my bed was still covered by the curtains. I poked my head through them to see what was going on outside.
There were small campers running around the area, shrieking with laughter, chasing after a basketball they definitely weren't using for basketball. They kicked it like it was a football, and honestly, it seemed to be working pretty well. The scene should've been comforting—normal. Safe. But it just made me feel hollow. Like I was watching the world through a pane of frosted glass.
Smells of food floated through the window from the dining pavilion. Warm bread, something sugary, probably syrup. The scent twisted in my stomach like a knife. It made me want to throw up. I just couldn't bring myself to eat. Even though my stomach felt like it was folding in on itself, like some black hole devouring me from the inside out, the idea of chewing and swallowing made my chest tighten. The thought of food going down my throat turned my whole body cold. I could already feel the taste of acid rising before anything even touched my tongue.
Eventually, I heard Will's footsteps coming down the hallway again. Steady. Familiar. He opened the door, hair slightly less messy now and his shirt smoothed down—though his golden curls still stuck up in places, and his laces were untied.
"Breakfast is served!" he said brightly, placing the tray of food gently in my lap. Toast. Two slices. Butter melting into the surface, banana slices layered on top like it was supposed to be something fancy.
My stomach flipped. I almost gagged just looking at it. Something about the sogginess of the banana, the way the butter bled into the bread—it was like acid in my chest. Will must've sensed the way my entire face twisted.
"Neeks," he said, crouching beside the bed, his voice softer now, like coaxing a stray cat out of an alley. "Please, just three bites, alright? You had three spoons of porridge yesterday and you were fine. Please, Neeks?"
Oh yeah. He didn't know I threw that up.
I frowned, staring at the plate like it was going to lunge at me. But I reached out anyway, picking up the toast with my fingers, slow and mechanical. He was watching me with that same soft look—so hopeful, so gentle. I just wanted to do what he told me to. I wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted him to think I was trying. But I just couldn't. Not really.
The smell climbed into my brain and wrapped itself around my throat like a noose. I held my breath to block it out. Slowly, I brought the toast to my mouth and took a bite.
It felt like chewing damp cardboard soaked in milk. The bread stuck to the roof of my mouth like wet paper. The banana was mushy and cloying, sweet in a sickly way that made my molars ache. The butter clung to the back of my throat like oil, and every swallow felt like forcing something down that didn't belong in me. I could feel it sliding, heavy and wrong, like lead.
My stomach curled, and I gagged. But Will didn't seem to notice. I forced myself to keep it down.
"Another one, please Neeks?"
I nodded tightly, chewing slowly through another bite, then another. It was unbearable. I could feel sweat beading at the back of my neck. I didn't care about the food—I just wanted him to leave so I could get it out without him seeing. So he wouldn't have to see me break again. So he wouldn't have to tighten the watch around me even more than he already was.
Toast was always worse for me. The texture, the heaviness. It always made me throw up straight away. I just wanted him to leave.
He smiled. "Thank you, Neeks." He reached out to put a hand on my shoulder, but retracted it again like earlier. Obviously, he was still disgusted with me.
Before I could stop myself, I gagged. My throat constricted, and I could taste the bile rising—sharp, acidic, burning the back of my mouth.
"Hey. Neeks, you okay? What's wrong, Neeks?" Will's voice was full of concern now, worried and soft. He was already half-standing.
I covered my mouth with one hand and bolted up, sprinting to the bathroom, barely making it to the doorway before my stomach gave out.
Will was behind me before I could shut the door on him.
I dropped to my knees, yanked the toilet seat up, and threw up into the bowl. The sound echoed, raw and awful. The burn in my throat was fire. My hands shook as I gripped the cold porcelain. I was panting, gagging, shaking. Spit and acid dripped from my lips.
I barely noticed his presence until I felt fingers brush against my scalp, lifting my hair gently out of my face. His nails dragged carefully across my head, like he knew exactly how to soothe the ache in my skull.
Will.
His hand moved in small circles on my back, warm and steady. Grounding.
"S'okay, sweetheart," he whispered, voice low and hoarse. "You're alright. Just breathe, sugar. You're okay."
I didn't feel okay. I felt empty and sick and so, so ashamed.
The dry heaving wouldn't stop. My throat spasmed again and again, but there was nothing left in me. I wanted it to be over. I just wanted it all to stop.
His hand never stopped moving across my back. His other stayed tangled in my hair, soft and careful. Like I wasn't disgusting. Like I wasn't a monster.
Eventually, it passed. The nausea, the shaking. But the shame? That just got worse.
Tears brimmed in my eyes, hot and sudden. And before I could stop myself, I was sobbing—shoulders shaking, breath hitching, face buried in my arm on the toilet seat.
I looked up at Will. His eyes were dark with worry, his lips pressed into a thin line. His face looked like it was breaking open.
He opened his arms slowly, giving me the choice. Not pushing. Just offering.
I froze.
His arms were open—just slightly, not demanding, not pushing, just... offered. Like a question. Like I could say no.
And gods, I wanted to say no. I shouldn't want this. Not from him. Not from anyone. Not when I looked like this—shaking, red-faced, my mouth sour with vomit, my body trembling like a snapped bone. I was disgusting. Broken. He shouldn't be near me. He should've run the second I started sobbing like a child.
But he didn't.
He just sat there, arms still open, eyes still soft. No pity. No judgment. Just that calm, steady look of his like he could see every sharp, ugly piece of me and still wanted to hold them.
My mind screamed at me to pull back. That if I touched him, I'd poison something. That if I let myself fall into him, I wouldn't be able to crawl back out. That if he held me, really held me, I might forget how to be alone—and I couldn't afford to forget that.
But gods.
Gods, I was so tired.
And Will... he looked warm. Not just physically—though his body radiated heat like a campfire—but in that unbearable way he always did. Safe. Like the sun filtering through a window in the dead of winter. Like something I hadn't let myself have in years.
Against every better judgment, against the monster voice in my head telling me to run, I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, took one trembling breath—
And fell into him.
His breath caught in his throat, just for a second, like he hadn't really believed I'd do it. But then he was wrapping his arms around me without hesitation, strong and gentle all at once, pulling me into his chest like I belonged there. I pressed my face into the curve of his shoulder and just let go.
His shirt was soft. His body was so much warmer than mine. I could feel his heart beating under my cheek, slow and steady like the rhythm of something ancient and grounding. His arms encircled me completely, one hand resting on the back of my head, the other stroking slow circles into my spine. His touch didn't feel suffocating. It didn't feel forced.
It felt like safety.
Like I'd been drowning for weeks and someone had finally pulled me above water.
My arms tightened around his neck without meaning to. I couldn't stop shaking. I didn't want him to see me like this, and yet I didn't want him to let go either. I never let people hold me. Never. And now here I was, clutching Will like I might disappear without him.
He didn't flinch. He didn't speak right away.
He just held me.
Then, quietly, gently, he pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes. His face was all softness and heartbreak, his mouth in a flat line, eyes shining like he wanted to cry too.
It was like watching him break—watching me break had cracked him open.
Then he wrapped me back in his arms, tighter this time, pressing his cheek against my temple.
"You're okay, Neeks," he whispered, like a promise. "You're okay. You're safe. I got you, sugar. I ain't lettin' go."
And maybe—for a moment—I believed him.
AN-
Hahahahahahaha!
King Daoist coming through!
Clear the way!
Enjoyy pookie bears😘😘😘