Chapter Two: Leo and Calypso's Auto Repair
POV: Limited Third Person (Leo's)
Word Count:
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Leo sometimes regretted actually opening a shop with Calypso. The girl was stubborn, bullheaded, and impatient. She moved his tools around, insisting she was organizing and cleaning, without letting him know, so he nearly sliced off his fingers when he thought he was reaching for one of his hammers.
He sucked on his bleeding fingers. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl, he thought as he searched for the first-aid box. He couldn't find it anywhere and instead found himself just sitting at his stool, his fingers still in his mouth, as he fumed to himself. Why in Olympus did he agree to work with such a frustrating girl?
It has been over a decade since he had first met Calypso on Ogygia and smashed Dirt Face's face in. The gods deemed each of the seven demigods in the prophecy one gift and Leo had jumped on the chance: free Calypso from her prison island right-that-freaking-instant or he would go fireball on their butts.
"Leo?" Calypso's voice asked him from behind.
He spun on his stool, his mouth open to retort angrily, but froze. Holy Hephaestus, did she look cute toda–
No. She looked beautiful.
Her golden-brown hair was in a scruffy bun, stray locks framing her milky-pale face and almond-shaped eyes. She was wearing a red tank-top smudged with grease, dirty jeans, and a bandana wrapped around her waist. A streak of dirt was smeared across her forehead, highlighting her pale skin. Her dark eyes flashed with amusement at his face. He quickly closed his mouth when he realized he was staring like a gaping fish.
"What're you doing?" she questioned.
He wavered. Why was he mad? He couldn't remember. All he could think about was how good she looked, especially in his favorite color.
She made a tsking sound. "Did you injure yourself again? And you call yourself a son of Hephaestus, butterfingers." She fished through a cabinet to her left and pulled out the dumb first aid box he had be hunting for earlier. She walked up to him and starting bandaging his bleeding fingers. She smelt – like always – of cinnamon.
He wanted to say something sly or smooth, but all he could do was grin like the idiot he was. She snorted, but a smile was tugging at the corner of her pouty lips.
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