Shortcake

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The summer afternoon at Camp Half-Blood was one of those that felt lazy and suffocating. The sun beat down hard on the lush green hills. You were sitting on the wide porch of cabin 7, leaning against one of the golden columns that gleamed as if Apollo himself had polished them. The wooden planks under your legs were warm from the sun, almost burning the skin through your worn jean shorts.

Your fingers fiddled absentmindedly with the string of a bow leaning beside you, winding and unwinding the thick cord, as if that repetitive motion could undo the tight knot you had felt in your chest for weeks. And it had a name.

Clarisse La Rue.

Just thinking the name made your heart give an annoying leap, an explosive mix of pure anger and a frustration that gnawed from within. She had been pursuing you like a stubborn shadow since the day you arrived at camp, with sharp provocations like blades, burning stares, pushes that seemed calculated to throw you off balance.

She labeled you "princess of the sun," as if being a daughter of Apollo were an unforgivable weakness, something soft and useless in a world of monsters and wars. And you always fought back. With cutting words, with constant presence in training, with a stubbornness that bordered on masochism. Because stopping would mean admitting defeat. It would mean she was right. But what gnawed at you the most was not just the anger. It was that treacherous confusion, a feeling you buried deep, but that surfaced in moments like this.

Sometimes, in the intervals between blows, you swore you saw something in her brown eyes, a gleam that was not pure contempt, an almost imperceptible hesitation before she turned her back and marched away. As if she were fighting against something she did not even understand herself. And that drove you crazy. Because you hated not understanding. You hated feeling that, deep down, those constant fights were the only thread connecting you both.

And it only got worse in that last training session.

The camp seemed swallowed by the storm. The sky was so low and gray that it gave the impression the clouds were touching the treetops, and the rain fell in thick curtains, almost solid, turning the training field into a living swamp. The tall grass had already become a slippery carpet of reddish-brown mud, and every step produced a wet, sucking sound.

The air smelled of soaked earth, wet iron, and wet pine, the classic scent of a bad day at camp. In the background, the colorful cabins looked like blurred ghosts through the water running incessantly down the roofs.

You were in the center of that chaos, sword in your right hand, the handle slippery even with the leather strip you had wrapped to improve grip. The orange camp t-shirt was stuck to your skin like a second cold layer, the fabric heavy with rain and sweat. Your hair clung to your forehead and cheeks, dripping water into your eyes with every blink. You had already lost count of how many times you wiped your face with the back of your muddied hand.

On the other side of the improvised combat circle, Clarisse seemed untouched by the rain. Water ran down the reinforced bronze armor, down the muscular arms, down the curly brown hair she wore tied in a tight ponytail, but even so not losing its volume. The electric spear hummed low, a sound almost inaudible under the drumming of the rain, as if the weapon were eager.

She held the shaft with the naturalness of someone born with it in her hands. There was no tension in her shoulders, no hurry in her feet. Just that predator posture waiting for the right moment.

"Ready for another round, princess of the sun?" her voice cut through the noise of the water, hoarse and low, loaded with a mockery that was already almost routine.

You did not answer with words. You just adjusted the grip on the sword, bent your knees to lower your center of gravity, and advanced.

This time, you were not as impulsive as in the previous weeks. You had spent the last nights training alone in the woods, repeating sequences that Luke taught you in the morning classes: high feint, low cut, wrist twist for counterattack. It was not enough to turn the tide against a daughter of Ares with a divine spear, but it was enough not to fall in the first seconds.

You faked a strong descending blow to her right shoulder. Clarisse raised the spear to block, exactly what you wanted. At the last instant, you twisted your wrist, changed the blade's trajectory to a horizontal cut at her left ribs. The movement was faster than previous times. The tip of the sword grazed the bronze of her armor, producing a hiss of metal being scraped.

Clarisse grunted, a short sound of genuine surprise. She stepped back half a pace, swung the spear in a wide arc to keep distance, and counterattacked with a low thrust, aiming at your thigh. You sidestepped, let the tip pass inches from your leg, and responded with an upward blow, targeting the forearm holding the spear.

Metal clashed. Blue sparks jumped from the point of contact, Ares's spear reacting to mortal steel. The impact traveled up your arms like a shock wave, but you held your stance, did not retreat. For the first time in weeks, you felt you were really fighting, not just surviving.

"Better," she admitted, voice neutral, almost as if commenting on the weather. But there was a new gleam in her brown eyes. It was not pity. It was interest.

You did not let the compliment go to your head. You advanced again, combining two quick cuts, one high, one low, to force her to defend in sequence. Clarisse blocked the first with the spear shaft, deflected the second with the tip, and twisted her body in a movement that seemed rehearsed. The spear shaft came like a lateral whip, aiming at your temple.

You ducked your head at the last second. The shaft whistled overhead, brushing the top of your head and pulling out some wet strands. The movement left you exposed for an instant. Clarisse did not waste it: she advanced with a direct thrust to the chest.

You crossed the sword in front of your body, blocking the spear with the flat of the blade. The impact was brutal. Your feet slid half a meter in the mud, your knees buckled, but you held. You pushed back, using leg strength to gain space, and counterattacked with a wide circular blow, targeting her shoulder.

She deflected with ease, but you saw it: the movement was a little slower than usual. She was really exerting herself now.

You circled each other for long seconds, breathing heavily, the rain hitting your faces like cold needles. The field around had gone silent, the other campers stopped pretending to train and formed a distant semicircle, watching.

You attacked again. High feint with the sword, followed by a low kick to unbalance. Clarisse jumped back, but the kick grazed her shin. It was not strong enough to hurt, but enough to make her frown.

"You've been training in secret," she said, almost like an accusation.

You did not answer. You just advanced once more, sword swinging in a descending arc that forced Clarisse to raise the spear diagonally to block. The clash was so strong you felt your teeth grind. But this time, when she tried to counter with the spear tip, you were already moving: you twisted to the side, let the thrust pass, and landed a shallow cut on her left arm, nothing deep, just enough to tear the t-shirt sleeve and leave a red scratch on the skin.

Clarisse stopped. Looked at the cut. Then at you.

For the first time in a long while, her face was not just a mask of indifference. There was something there, irritation, yes, but also a flash of reluctant respect.

You felt your chest rise and fall quickly. It was not victory. Far from it. But it was… something. Something that made the blood run hotter despite the freezing rain.

And then she attacked for real.

The spear became a blur. Quick, precise thrusts, forcing you to retreat, block, dodge. You managed to keep up longer than ever, dodged three, blocked two, counterattacked once. But Clarisse was a force of nature. In a movement you barely saw, she swung the spear shaft in a low arc, swept your legs with surgical precision.

The ground came up to meet you. You fell on your back in the mud, the air leaving your lungs in a painful whoosh. The sword slipped from your hand, sinking into the puddle a few meters away. You rolled to the side, coughing, trying to prop yourself on your elbows. Your whole body ached, ribs, shoulders, lungs, but it was not just physical pain. It was the weight of weeks accumulated, of showing up every day, of fighting back, of feeling that inexplicable pull that brought you back to her even when everything screamed to stop.

Clarisse stopped above you, spear pointed at the ground, drops running from the tip like metal tears. She did not speak right away. She just looked at you. Long. As if trying to understand something.

But you knew she had exhausted her sympathy for that day.

"Do Apollo kids get weak without sunlight or do you just fight badly?"

You lay there, in the cold mud, the rain pounding your skin as if Zeus himself were unloading his fury on the camp. The clay stuck to your back, cold and sticky, and every breath came in irregular puffs, your chest burning with exhaustion and humiliation.

Your hands trembled as they braced on the slippery ground, fingers sinking into the puddle, and you raised your gaze to Clarisse, teeth clenched so hard they hurt. Those words echoed in your head like a monster's echo in the labyrinth. As if you were just another joke, a second-class demigod who could not handle it without her father's shine to light the way.

Anger rose like bile in your throat, hot and bitter, mixing with the taste of rain and earth. You hated this, hated how she saw you, as if your affinity for bow and arrow made you useless in a real fight. Apollo kids healed, prophesied, shot from afar, but up close? In Clarisse's world, that was weakness.

And there, under the clouded sky that blocked any ray of sun, you felt exposed, vulnerable, as if the whole camp were watching your defeat. You knew the curious eyes were fixed on you both, the Ares bully and the Apollo daughter who could not defend herself.

"Do you think it's funny?" you spat the words, voice hoarse and broken as you struggled to stand.

Your knees buckled for a second, but you rose, ignoring the throbbing pain in your legs and the tingling in your arms. The sword lay a few meters away, half sunk in the mud, and you grabbed it with a quick motion, gripping the handle as if you could squeeze the frustration out.

"Using me as a damn punching bag since I got here." The frustration was noticeable in your voice. "I'm not your toy, Clarisse."

For a fleeting instant, something you almost missed in the rain blur, her brown eyes flashed with a glimpse of dissatisfaction, a subtle and imperceptible flicker, as if seeing you there, muddied, was not the trophy she expected. It was as if a shadow passed behind that armor of coldness, an echo of reluctance, as if humiliating you was not her choice, but a curse from Ares, the god who demanded victories at any cost.

She blinked, and the moment vanished, swallowed by the rain, leaving only the impassive bully as always.

"Then go back to your bow, sun daughter," she shot back, voice low and emotionless, raising the spear again to guard position. "Or keep trying. Does it make a difference?"

As you stood there, sword in hand, staring at Clarisse under the incessant rain that turned the training field into a muddy swamp, her words echoed in your mind like the clang of an anvil in Hephaestus's forge. Of course it made a difference, at least for you.

That rivalry had not arisen from nothing; it was like a wound that slowly infected, accumulating layers of resentment since the day you stepped into Camp Half-Blood. You gripped the sword handle tighter, ignoring the tremor in your arms, and for a second, old memories flooded your head, feeding the anger that kept you from retreating.

But you could not get lost in them now, not with the rain still falling and Clarisse waiting for your next move; you felt all that history weighing on your shoulders and your heart tightening.

"It does make a difference. For me, it does." Because no matter how much you did not understand the reason, you wanted it to make a difference for her too.

And then you let the sword slip through your fingers, following the flow of the rain running down your arms. Clarisse raised one eyebrow, for the first time showing a reaction different from the indifference you were used to seeing. The blade sank into the mud, and then, placing one hand over your ribs, you turned your back, starting to limp away.

But Clarisse would not let it go.

"Is that it? You're going to quit the fight like a coward?" her voice was loud, the hoarse timbre followed by a thunderous crash soon after.

You did not answer, your eyes narrowing as you struggled to stay steady in your walk. Legs weak, feet sticking in the mud as if it were there to increase your humiliation.

"Apollo daughter, I order you to come back! Pick up that sword and fight me." The shiver that ran down your spine made you stop the slow limping. You could hear the whispers of the other campers, all gathering around the commotion forming.

They must have thought you crazy for defying the orders of the Ares daughter, but you were tired. Not of Clarisse. Even against everything you believed, you would never tire of her, but you were tired of living this vicious cycle that led nowhere.

Then, turning slowly and painfully, your eyes met hers. They were sharp, disgusted, and fierce. Jaw clenched, fingers whitened around the spear from the force gripping it. It was anger.

"Find someone else, La Rue. I'm done." And with that, you left for good, bumping into some campers while hearing Clarisse's howls, the ones she shouted to the four winds about how you were a coward just like the other sun children.

You accepted the coward title she yelled at your back. Because, this time, giving up was not weakness. It was survival.

You let out a long, heavy sigh, throwing your head back against the warm column, eyes half-closed against the golden light filtering through the leaves of nearby trees. The camp was still dotted with some puddles that were slowly evaporating, and the distant sound of laughter and sword clangs in the training field echoed as a reminder that camp life went on, indifferent to your internal turmoil.

It was then that light but determined footsteps climbed the porch steps. You opened your eyes and saw Annabeth approaching, her braids tied in a practical ponytail. She carried a clipboard full of scribbled notes, strategies probably, because Annabeth never stopped planning.

Without ceremony, she sat beside you on the step, crossing her legs and observing you for a long moment with those stormy brown eyes that seemed capable of dissecting any puzzle.

You felt the air grow a little heavier. Annabeth was not the type to show up for small talk.

"You're making that face again," she said at last, voice low and direct, cutting the silence like a dagger. "Like you want to strangle someone with your bare hands. Let me guess: Clarisse?"

You snorted, a sound that came out more bitter than intended, and looked away to the distant fields, where tiny campers picked strawberries under the relentless sun.

"When do I not want to strangle her?"

Annabeth tilted her head, studying you with an intensity that made you want to fidget, but you stayed still, fingers tightening the bow string harder. There was a long pause, the kind of silence that weighs, loaded with expectation.

"But never for real." She started slowly, choosing words as if building a perfect trap. "You know, I observe people. It's what I do. Strategy, patterns, weaknesses. And there's one thing about Clarisse that I can't ignore."

Your stomach twisted. You raised an eyebrow, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out tense.

"What? That she's an unbearable bully?"

Annabeth gave a small, almost imperceptible smile, but did not answer right away. Instead, she leaned a little closer to you, lowering her voice as if the air itself could listen.

"She provokes you more than anyone here. Way more. It's not just casual bullying. It's… obsessive. She shows up out of nowhere just to poke you. Watches you when she thinks no one notices. And when you fight back?" Her eyes gleamed with something between amusement and seriousness. "She seems… alive. Like that's the highlight of her day."

You felt heat rise up your neck, hot and treacherous, and crossed your arms over your chest as if you could contain the turmoil starting to form inside you. The sun seemed more intense suddenly, burning the skin.

"That's crazy, Annabeth. She does it because I'm an easy target. Apollo daughter, bow and arrow, healing… everything Ares kids despise."

"No." The word came firm, sharp, making you turn your face to her. Annabeth did not blink. "With others, it's quick. A shove, a threat, and she moves on. With you… she prolongs it. She invents reasons to meet you in the training field. She stays after everyone leaves, just for one more round. And those looks…" She paused, letting the words hang in the hot air. "It's not just hate. It's something she doesn't know how to handle."

Your heart beat harder, an irregular drumming echoing in your ears.

"What exactly are you insinuating?" You swallowed hard, feeling your throat dry despite the air's humidity.

Annabeth raised her hands in an innocent gesture, but the smile on her lips was sly.

"I'm not insinuating anything definitive. Just saying it might be an interest she doesn't know how to express. Ares kids are raised for war, for brute conquest. More… subtle feelings? They have no tools for that. So they turn it into fight. Into provocation. Into anything that keeps the person close. Instead of asking you for a walk in the woods… she knocks you down in the mud and calls you weak. It's her way of saying 'hey, you matter.'"

The words hit like an arrow to the chest. You felt the air escape for a second, the world around blurring, the sun, the distant sound of laughter. Everything reduced to that absurd, impossible idea Annabeth had just planted. Your face burned, and you let out a dry, forced laugh that came out strangled and too loud in the porch silence.

"Impossible," you said, voice sharper than intended, shaking your head vehemently. "Out of any consideration. Clarisse doesn't like anyone besides herself and the glory of battle. She's just a bored bully seeking attention. And I… I give her rope for it. I show up, I fight back, I stay there taking hits every day. That's why she insists. If I really ignored her, she'd get tired quickly and find another toy to break. And that's what I'm doing now."

The words came out quick, defensive, as if saying them aloud could convince her, and yourself. But Annabeth just watched you for another long moment, brown eyes penetrating, as if seeing through your armor of denial.

"Skipped training today?" She asked with narrowed eyes, and you looked away to your feet. "You know what Chiron thinks about you skipping sword practice."

"I know! But I just… need some time from Clarisse, away from her." Your answer was frustrated, your hands slapping your thighs nervously. "Because I know if she calls me I'll go, and I can't do that anymore."

The silence stretched, tense and heavy, the sun beating on your back like an additional weight. Finally, she shrugged, standing with fluid grace and brushing imaginary dust from her cargo pants.

"Maybe it'll work," she said, voice neutral, but with a tone suggesting the opposite. "But it's only a matter of time until she comes looking for you, because one thing I know: nobody spends so much time and energy trying to knock down someone who means nothing."

She descended the porch steps slowly, footsteps echoing on the wooden planks, leaving you alone once more. The sun continued relentless, the strawberry scent sweeter than ever, but now everything seemed distant, muffled by the buzzing in your ears.

You tried to laugh at the idea. Tried to bury it deep, as you did with everything that destabilized you. But deep down, Annabeth's idea terrified you. You just did not know in what sense.

[...]

The sun of the following morning rose lazily over Camp Half-Blood, filtering through the leaves of the ancient trees that lined the training fields. The air still carried the damp coolness of the previous night, mixed with the smell of dew on the grass and the distant sound of birds singing.

You were on the way to the training field, your feet sinking slightly into the still soft earth, the quiver of arrows bouncing against your back with every step. You knew you could not skip training forever, so you decided to end it once and for all.

After the conversation with Annabeth, and that seed of doubt she had planted, you had decided it was time to change. To pull away. To stop feeding it. But the process was slow, as if every fiber of your body still wanted to turn and face the challenge that Clarisse represented.

You saw her from afar, as always: standing in the center of the combat circle, the electric spear spinning in her hands as if she were bored, the curly hair tied in a ponytail with tight braids that could not tame all the rebellious strands. She wore the bronze armor, marked by old scratches, and her brown eyes scanned the field like a predator waiting for prey.

When she spotted you approaching, something changed in her posture, her shoulders straightened, her mouth curved into a short smile that was half mockery, half anticipation. Clarisse did not smile, except for this kind of smile. She took a step forward, blocking your path with the naturalness of someone who commanded the ground.

"Hey, princess of the sun," her voice came out hoarse, loaded with an authoritative tone you knew well. "Didn't show up yesterday… running from me? Let's double the bet, see if you learned anything from the last beating."

You stopped a few meters from her, feeling the sun hitting your back like silent encouragement. Your heart raced, but you swallowed the impulse to retort with a barb. Instead, you shook your head slowly, your voice coming out low and different from what you were used to.

"Not today, Clarisse." There was a brief but heavy silence, like the air before a storm.

Her eyes narrowed, the remnant of that smile dying on her lips. You saw the muscle in her jaw tighten, a subtle sign of discomfort that she rarely let slip. Clarisse was not used to refusals, especially not from you, who always showed up, always bit the bait.

"What?" She tilted her head, as if she had not heard right, stopping the spear spin and resting it on her shoulder, the low electric hum echoing in the air. "You heard me. Come on. Grab the sword."

The insistence came as expected, the tone sharper now, loaded with a frustration she tried to mask with authority. You felt a tightness in your chest, part guilt, part hesitant relief.

"No. Find someone else today." Without waiting for a response, you walked around her slowly, your feet moving with a deliberation that seemed forced, as if your body wanted to stay.

You headed to the adjacent archery range, where straw targets swayed lightly in the breeze, ignoring the weight of her gaze on your back.

Clarisse stood there for a long moment, her fingers gripping the spear shaft so hard that her knuckles whitened. She hated being ignored, hated the feeling of something slipping out of her control, like a battle turning for no apparent reason. But she pretended not to care.

She huffed loud enough for you to hear, turning to a group of nearby campers and barking an order for an improvised training.

"You there! Line up. Let's see if anyone here is worth anything." Her voice came out rougher than normal, but she marched away, pretending the refusal did not bother her.

Deep down, however, it burned, a spark she did not know how to extinguish.

The afternoon dragged on hot and stuffy, the high sun turning the dining pavilion into an outdoor oven. You were sitting at the table of cabin 7, the plate of salad and cheese almost untouched, the fork spinning absentmindedly in the food while your siblings chattered about the next capture the flag.

That was when Clarisse passed by your table, flanked by two Ares siblings who were laughing at some inside joke. She stopped abruptly, leaning over the table with one arm supported, the woody smell of her soap and metal invading your space.

"What happened to you, princess of the sun?" she said, voice low and provocative, eyes fixed on yours as if waiting for the usual spark. "Tired of taking a beating and decided to hide behind the bow like a coward?"

You raised your gaze slowly, feeling the old impulse to respond with venom rise in your throat. But you swallowed it, forcing a soft tone, almost neutral, as if commenting on the weather.

"Maybe. But I'm fine like this, thanks." No barbs, no anger. Just a tame response that slipped like water.

Clarisse blinked, the mockery freezing on her face for a second. She expected the fight, needed it in a way, to feel that things were in place. But there you were, responding without biting the bait, without giving the fuel she wanted. Frustration rose like bile, but she did not externalize it: she straightened slowly, her lips curving into that same forced smile that did not reach her eyes.

"Fine. Have fun with your little arrows." She turned and marched away, steps heavier than necessary, leaving an uncomfortable silence at the table. Deep down, it gnawed at her, as if you had stolen something from her without effort.

The following days passed in agonizing slowness, and you saw the effects seep into Clarisse in subtle ways, like slow poison. At first, it was almost imperceptible: during group training, she attacked with more ferocity than normal, the spear spinning in a blur that left opponents breathless.

But then came the first real explosion, during combat with an Ares sibling, she did not hold back the blow, the spear tip tearing his skin and leaving a deep cut on his arm.

"What the hell is this, Clarisse?" the boy shouted, pressing the wound as blood ran. She just grunted.

"Even the coward Apollo kids don't whine like you," but her eyes were distant, the anger not directed at him.

The explosions multiplied over the days: yelling at campers who made silly mistakes, punches on training bags that echoed louder than necessary, and she had become quieter during meals, she who always dominated conversations with battle stories, now stayed silent, chewing food with her gaze fixed on the Apollo cabin table. Her siblings exchanged nervous glances, whispering that "she's worse than normal," but no one dared confront her.

One afternoon, the air was heavy with the buzz of insects and the distant echo of laughter from younger campers playing near the lake, but on the porch of cabin 6, where you and Annabeth were sitting, the atmosphere was quieter, almost introspective. A light breeze stirred the pages of Annabeth's notebook, which she held firmly, ink-stained fingers tracing lines and diagrams. The smell of dry earth and pine resin hung in the air, mixed with the polish you used on your bow, an oily and familiar aroma that calmed your nerves.

Annabeth was leaning forward, her brown eyes shining with that calculating intensity that made her the best strategist at camp.

"So, I talked to Luke earlier," she began, turning a page with a quick gesture. "He thinks we can turn the game in the next capture the flag if we mix the teams in an unexpected way. The Ares kids will expect a heavy defense on the eastern border, as always, but we're going to infiltrate a quick hunt through the western flank…"

She drew an arrow on the paper, the pencil scraping against the surface.

"And that's where you come in. It's time to abandon that bow a little. I'm putting you on the hunt, you're fast, precise, and can cover ground without making noise."

You were sitting on the step beside her, the bow balanced on your lap as you passed the soft cloth over the curved wood, feeling the smooth texture under your fingers. The movement was rhythmic, almost meditative, a welcome distraction from the thoughts that stubbornly returned to Clarisse. Upon hearing Annabeth's words, you could not help a low laugh, the sound escaping soft like a breeze, without raising your eyes from the bow.

"You sounded like Clarisse just now," you murmured, voice low and casual, but with a subtle note of something more, perhaps nostalgia, perhaps contained irritation. Clarisse always picked on your bow, calling it a "coward's weapon," as if only close combat was worthwhile.

Annabeth stopped writing at the same instant, the pencil freezing in the air. She raised her gaze slowly, analyzing you as if you were a puzzle to be solved, shoulders slightly tense, the way your fingers gripped the cloth for a second longer than necessary. The expression on your face had changed: the corners of your mouth curving downward almost imperceptibly, eyes shifting to the horizon instead of meeting hers.

"Speaking of Clarisse…" Annabeth said, tone neutral, but with sharp curiosity behind it. She closed the notebook slowly, crossing her arms over it as if preparing for a deeper conversation. "I heard a Hermes kid say earlier that he saw her punching trees last night after curfew. Those near the forest edge. He said she seemed… possessed. With a lot of anger."

You felt a tightness in your stomach, as if an invisible arrow had hit dead center. Your expressions changed before you could control them, eyebrows furrowing for an instant, lips pressing into a thin line. You swallowed hard, the sound audible in the silence that followed, and shrugged, forcing your shoulders to relax as you returned to polishing the bow with more deliberate movements.

"Oh, really?" The words came out casual, but you kept your eyes fixed on the bow, as if the polishing required all your attention. "Clarisse angry doesn't seem like news to me."

Annabeth narrowed her eyes, tilting her head slightly to the side, like an owl assessing prey. She knew you too well to let it pass.

"You're worried," she said, voice low but firm, no beating around the bush. It was a statement, not a question, loaded with that sharp perception that made her annoyingly accurate.

You laughed again, but this time the sound came out forced, as if laughing at something ridiculous, an inside joke that was not funny. You shook your head, still without looking at her, the cloth sliding faster over the wood.

"Holy shit, you are!" Annabeth shot back, eyes widening a little in genuine surprise, mixed with a trace of amusement. She leaned closer, the notebook now forgotten on her lap, as if the conversation had taken a more interesting turn than any capture the flag tactic. "I mean, I already imagined you were but seeing it happen right in front of me is another thing."

You paused for a second, fingers freezing on the cloth, but soon resumed the movement, slower now.

"I don't care what Clarisse does or doesn't do," you said, voice distant, as if talking about something trivial, like the weather or the dinner menu. "She can punch whatever she wants. Trees, people, whatever. It's not my problem." You shifted your gaze to the distant field, where campers trained with swords, the metal clang echoing like a distant reminder.

Annabeth huffed softly, a sound that was half frustration, half affection. She leaned back against the porch pillar, crossing her legs and watching you with that calculated patience.

"You know, I said maybe your idea of pulling away would work. Maybe. And maybe isn't certainty. Look at what's happening, she's exploding all over the place, you're here pretending not to notice… pretending very badly by the way. But it might be that ignoring doesn't put out the fire like you think it will, but actually just makes it burn slower. Or worse, spread."

You felt her words seep in like a seed planted in the fertile soil of your mind, but you shook your head again, forcing a smile that did not reach your eyes.

"Annabeth, seriously. Let's get back to the tactics?" You changed the subject with trained naturalness, returning to polish the bow with more vigor, as if the words could be erased by the repetitive motion.

She hesitated for a moment, eyes still fixed on you, as if deciding whether to insist or not.

"Okay, okay. But can I say one last thing?" She leaned toward you, trying to meet your eyes, and when she did, she continued. "Pretending you don't feel won't make the feelings go away."

You did not answer, blinking slowly and taking time to shift your eyes from Annabeth, pretending to return attention to your bow. She sighed, giving up, opened the notebook again, and turning the pages with a sharp gesture, continued her line of reasoning.

"Fine, Luke told me about a new route that…"

But as she continued, talking about positions and traps, you felt that seed germinating deep in your chest, an uncomfortable doubt, a worry you did not want to name.

The conversation repeating in your head like a persistent echo. Annabeth had planted it there, and no matter how much you denied it, you knew it would not disappear so easily. The sun continued to descend, lengthening the shadows across the porch, and the camp followed its rhythm, oblivious to the quiet turmoil forming inside you.

What was the daughter of Ares doing to you?

[...]

The day of capture the flag dawned with the rising sun tinting the treetops orange and pink, filtering through the branches in beams that danced on the dew-wet ground. The air was charged with anticipation, the smell of pine mixed with the sharp metal of weapons being prepared and the nervous sweat of the campers. The teams gathered at the edges of the forest: the blue team, led by Annabeth and Luke, and the red team, by Clarisse.

You felt the weight of the light armor on your shoulders, the sheathed sword at your side, missing the weight of the bow on your back, a reluctant commitment to Annabeth's plan to put you on the hunt, far from safe arrows.

"Blue team, positions!" Luke shouted, the plumed helmet swaying as he adjusted his shield.

You waved to him from afar, taking command of the hunting group on the front line: a handful of agile campers, including Hermes kids and some younger ones from Apollo and Athena, all with eyes shining with excitement.

The Camp Half-Blood forest swallowed them as if it were a living and hungry entity, the ancient twisted trunks of oaks and pines forming natural corridors of deep shadow, where the midday sunlight barely pierced the thick canopy of leaves.

The ground was covered by an uneven carpet of dry leaves and broken branches that creaked treacherously under boots, betraying every step. Further ahead, the stream that divided the territory into two sides murmured low, like a constant warning: crossing the water meant enemy territory, and whoever carried the opposing flag back to their own side won. Traps were scattered everywhere.

"Advance slowly, cover the flanks," you ordered, voice low but firm, cutting the tense silence like a celestial bronze blade.

The knot in your stomach tightened with every second, it was not exactly fear, but the sharp awareness that, in that moment, everyone there was both hunter and prey. The enemy flag was hidden somewhere in the depths, protected by traps, sentinels, and probably Clarisse and her Ares squad thirsty for blood.

Your mission was simple and brutal: distract, delay, wear down the opposing team for as long as possible, give your side a chance to advance.

You nodded to your group. They did not hesitate: they nodded back, spreading out in a fan formation, silent as shadows. Camp training did that to you: it turned teenagers into something lethal, almost instinctive.

You went alone eastward, moving like one of Artemis's hunters, light feet, controlled breathing, every muscle alert. The heart beat in a steady rhythm, synchronized with the distant echoes of battle: the muffled clang of swords clashing, short cries of surprise, the occasional snap of a trap being triggered.

A sudden rustle to your right made you freeze in place. Your hand flew to the sword hilt, fingers closing tightly on the worn leather grip. You held your breath, ears attuned to the slightest noise. The leaves moved again, slowly, deliberate, as if something (or someone) was testing the ground. The air seemed heavier, the pine smell now mixed with sweat and metal.

You approached centimeter by centimeter, body low, back brushing the rough bark of a tree. Your pulse thundered in your ears. One more movement in the foliage, and you leaped to the side, sword unsheathed in a fluid arc, ready to cut whoever it was.

But from the middle of the bushes emerged Percy Jackson, also in combat stance, Riptide already extended in his right hand, the celestial bronze blade gleaming with a cold, almost watery shine, as if capturing nonexistent light. His sea-blue eyes, always so expressive even in chaos, widened for a fraction of a second before recognition hit. You both lowered your weapons almost at the same time, metal scraping lightly against the air.

"Oh, it's you," you both said in unison, the words coming out in a relieved breath that turned into a low, nervous laugh. Your chest still rose and fell quickly, adrenaline running through your veins.

Percy ran his free hand through his messy blond hair, sweaty and disheveled as always, and gave a crooked smile, one of those that made the whole camp seem less dangerous for a moment.

"Almost cut you in half, dude. Thought it was one of those Ares brutes coming to hunt me again." He capped Riptide back into pen form with a familiar click, but kept his eyes alert, scanning the forest around. "Listen… Clarisse is loose out there alone. Really alone. She dismissed her platoon. She's got a look that… I don't know, like she wants to destroy anything that moves. Be careful, okay? She's fiercer than normal, and that's saying something."

You felt a shiver run down your spine. Clarisse La Rue alone? That did not add up. She was the type who led by shouting orders, wielding the electric spear like an extension of her own arm, always with half a dozen Ares siblings behind her. But the rumors of Clarisse's bad mood had been piling up for weeks, so for some reason you were not surprised. You shook your head, pushing the worry to the back of your mind.

"Thanks for the warning, Percy." You gave a half smile, trying to sound confident, but he knew you too well. He tilted his head, blue eyes studying you for a second longer, as if he could see through the facade.

"Hey," he said, even lower, taking a step closer. "If you need backup, yell. Or whistle that ridiculous way you do. I'll find you." He gave a light punch to your shoulder, the casual and familiar gesture that always reminded you why you had survived so many things together, monsters, prophecies, sleepless nights. "And don't go playing the lone hero, okay? We've done that before and almost turned into hydra barbecue."

You laughed low, the sound muffled by the forest.

"You don't go throwing yourself at everyone like last time, Seaweed Brain. Someone has to pull you out of the water when you overdo it."

He rolled his eyes, but the smile stayed, genuine and warm amid the tension.

"Deal." He waved once, already turning to the shadows. "Good hunting."

And then he vanished among the trees, as silent as he had arrived. A shadow of blond strands blending into the forest green.

You took a deep breath, adjusted the sword in your hand, and advanced again, deeper still. Percy's warning echoed in your head like an unspoken prophecy, but you pushed it all to the corner of your mind. Focus on the mission. The enemy flag was waiting. And Clarisse, wherever she was, probably too.

The forest closed around you again, alive, watchful, and you pressed on.

It did not take long for another noise to alert you: a muffled shout, followed by the clang of metal and a fierce grunt. You ran toward it, branches whipping your face, heart racing. Bursting into a small clearing, the scene hit you full force.

Clarisse, with the electric spear humming in the air, facing a younger camper, a blue team boy barely out of childhood, with eyes wide in terror. He was one of the distractions in Annabeth's strategy, a harmless bait to draw enemies into traps. But Clarisse was not playing fair. Her brown eyes burned with blind rage, face twisted in a snarl, and she advanced like a bull, spear raised for a blow that was no joke.

"Clarisse, stop!" you shouted, but it was too late, she lunged, the spear cutting the air with an electric hiss.

Without thinking, you threw yourself forward, stepping in front of the child like a living shield. Your sword rose in a quick arc, colliding with her spear in a crash that echoed through the clearing, sparks flying where metal met metal. The impact reverberated through your arms, muscles protesting against her brute force.

The child blinked, stunned, and you barked an order without taking your eyes off Clarisse.

"Run! Go to Annabeth, now!" The boy did not hesitate, stumbling away as he vanished into the forest.

Clarisse stepped back one pace, arm muscles flexed under the armor, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Her eyes fixed on yours, a mix of surprise and bitterness gleaming in them.

"Oh, so now you want to fight?" she spat, voice hoarse and bitter, as if the words were accumulated poison. "Tired of running?"

You kept the sword raised, feet planted firmly on the soft ground, feeling the vibration of the impact still running through your arms.

"What is happening to you?" you shot back, voice firm but loaded with a concern you could not fully hide. "He's just a kid!"

"What is happening to you!" Clarisse growled back, lunging with brutal force, the spear spinning in a skillful arc that forced you to retreat, blocking the blow with a clang that reverberated through the trees.

She was a force of nature: every movement precise, fueled by a rage that seemed to come from within, broad shoulders moving with lethal grace despite the fury. You counterattacked, your sword cutting the air in an attempt to disarm her, but she deflected with ease, the electric hum of the spear increasing like a warning.

The fight intensified, the clearing ground turning into a chaos of stirred leaves and foot marks. Clarisse attacked without mercy, her thrusts strong enough to make your arms ache with every block, she spun the spear like an extension of her own body, alternating between high and low strikes, forcing you to dance in circles to avoid the electric contact.

Her curly hair escaped the tight braid, sticking to her sweaty face, and you noticed her hands. They were wrapped in white bandages stained with dirt and dried blood. It was not just rumors about her punching trees.

"He doesn't deserve your fury!" you shouted between one block and another, trying to penetrate her wall, spinning to the side and counterattacking with a lateral blow that she parried with an animalistic grunt.

She huffed, eyes narrowed into slits of pure rage, lunging again with a series of quick strikes that made you retreat to the trees.

"Shut up! You don't know anything!" The words poured out like venom, cold and cutting, without a hint of explanation, just raw rage, as if every syllable was another weapon. Another spear spin, and you felt the air crackle near your shoulder, the ozone smell mixing with sweat and earth.

You tried to press, not just with the sword, but with words.

"What is making you like this?" But she remained cold, an impenetrable wall, responding only with more thrusts, more growls.

"It's none of your business! Just fight or get out of the way!" The fight continued, the sun filtering in intermittent rays over you, the sound of metal against metal echoing like a personal duel amid the greater chaos of capture the flag.

Deep down, you knew this went beyond the game; it was something that had been fermenting for days, a spark Annabeth had predicted, but that now burned uncontrolled between you two.

The fight intensified with every breath, the clearing air charged with the metallic smell of sweat and ozone from Clarisse's electric spear. She attacked with growing fury, the blows coming faster, heavier, as if each thrust was an attempt to crush not just your defense, but something deeper within herself.

"You think you can judge me?" she snarled, hoarse voice echoing among the trees, spinning the spear in a wide arc that forced you to jump aside, your sword blade scraping against hers in a high-pitched hiss. "After hiding like a coward behind a stupid bow and arrow?"

Her brown eyes were dark, almost black with rage, teeth clenched in an expression of pure contained hatred, but you saw beyond, saw the cracks in that emotional armor she wore like a second skin.

You blocked another blow, feeling the impact reverberate through your arms, and shot back with sharp words, using her rage as an opening.

"Judge? I'm trying to understand, Clarisse!" Your voice came out firm, provocative, knowing she was not the type to sit and talk about feelings. "You're destroying yourself out there, punching trees, hurting campers who don't deserve it."

She huffed, the muscles in her bandaged hands gripping the spear shaft so hard you heard the leather creak. Clarisse hated vulnerability; rage was her native language, and you would use it to pull something from her, even if in pieces.

"Shut that mouth! You know nothing about me!" Another blow came, brutal, the spear cutting the air with an electric hum that made the surrounding leaves tremble.

She was angrier now, movements losing some of their usual precision, replaced by brute force that made the ground shake with every step. You dodged by inches, counterattacking with a lateral blow that she parried with an animalistic grunt, eyes blazing.

"You disappear like a coward and now want to play therapist? Go to hell!"

The fight became increasingly wild, the rhythm accelerating like an uncontrolled heart. Clarisse lunged without pause, her breathing heavy and irregular, sweat running down her face and mixing with the curly strands. You felt exhaustion starting to weigh, but persisted, blocking and retaliating, words coming out between the metal clangs.

"So that's it? Rage because I got tired of being your punching bag? Or are you going to keep pretending you're just a bad-tempered Ares daughter?" She did not really answer, just more coldness, more closure, lips curling in a sneer of disdain as she attacked again, the spear spinning in a blur that forced you back against a tree.

And then came the blow that changed everything. Clarisse, blinded by a fresh wave of fury, perhaps from your words poking too deep, spun the spear with demonic speed, the tip grazing. The impact knocked your helmet off, which flew aside with a crash, rolling through the damp grass.

A sharp pain burned your cheek, a superficial cut you felt immediately, warm blood slowly trickling down your skin. You froze for an instant, hand flying to your face, fingers coming away stained red. The world seemed to pause, the forest sound muffled, heart pounding in your ears.

Clarisse stopped too, eyes widening for fractions of a second, spear still raised in the air. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, face pale under the layer of sweat and dirt, as if the blood on your face had pulled her from the rage fog. She blinked, jaw locked, but said nothing, just a cold, loaded silence, as if fighting against something internal threatening to escape.

It was not visible remorse, not yet; it was a hesitation, a crack in the wall she built.

You raised your gaze slowly, eyes burning with a mix of pain and determination, the cut throbbing like a living reminder. With a deep sigh, you brushed away the strands of hair falling on your face in a majestic way, the gesture slow and deliberate, like a goddess recomposing herself after battle. The sun filtered through the treetops, illuminating the blood on your skin like a war mark.

"Fine," you murmured, voice low and resolute, echoing in the tense silence. "It'll be your way then."

Without hesitating, you threw the sword to the ground with a dull clang, the blade sinking into the soft earth. Clarisse blinked again, surprise freezing her expression for a moment, her eyes narrowing in confusion, the spear still in a defensive position, as if she could not believe what she was seeing. She was a statue of contained fury, muscles tense but motionless, waiting for the next move.

And you did not make her wait. You lunged at her with bare hands, feet propelling you forward in a fierce leap. Clarisse raised the spear instinctively, the electric hum increasing like a warning, but you were faster, grabbed the shaft with both hands, feeling the vibration run through your arms, and used the momentum to push her back.

The impact unbalanced her, her feet slipping on the damp grass, and she fell on her back with a heavy thud, the air escaping her lungs in a surprised grunt.

You straddled her body in an instant, legs locking hers to the ground, hands still gripping the spear and pressing it against Clarisse's neck. The pressure was firm, not lethal, but enough to immobilize her, the cold metal brushing her skin. She struggled for a second, eyes blazing with renewed rage, but you held her in place, the weight of your body and the determination in your eyes anchoring her.

Clarisse grunted again, teeth clenched, bandaged hands pushing back with brute force, but she remained closed off, cold as ice, without uttering a word about why, just more rage pouring out in stares and silent growls, as if admitting anything would be a greater defeat than the fight itself. The clearing seemed smaller now, the world reduced to the two of you, trapped in that clash that went beyond swords and spears.

Clarisse began to thrash beneath you with renewed strength, arm muscles tensed to the maximum, bandaged hands pushing the spear shaft away from her neck. Her body writhed like a cornered animal, legs trying to free themselves from yours, chest rising and falling in heavy gasps.

A low growl escaped her throat, pure fighting instinct, eyes still burning with that endless cold rage. The spear vibrated between you, the electric hum crackling like a threat, but you maintained the pressure, forearms trembling from the effort.

"Clarisse, stop!" Your voice came out louder than intended, trembling in the middle.

She continued for another second, teeth clenched, face red from effort, but then something changed. Her eyes, those brown eyes that always seemed to challenge the entire world, caught the wet gleam in yours. Tears. Not many, just enough to blur your vision, to run hot down the cut on your cheek and mix with the blood.

You had not even realized they were there until that moment.

"Please, just stop!" Your voice broke on the last words against your will.

Clarisse faltered. The strength in her arms diminished suddenly, as if someone had cut the strings keeping her tense. The spear slipped a few centimeters to the side, its weight now inert against the ground. She stopped thrashing. Stopped fighting. Lay there, on her back in the damp earth of the clearing, chest still panting, eyes fixed on yours, but now without the wall of ice, just raw confusion, almost frightened, that she tried to hide behind controlled breathing.

"Since you won't talk, I'll talk." You said, voice hoarse and intense, the cut on your cheek still bleeding, drops falling onto the bronze of her armor.

You let out a shaky sigh, slowly easing the pressure on the spear, but without getting off her. You could not. Not yet. The words came then, as if they had been waiting for that exact moment of silence to escape, one after another, without filter, without long pauses.

"I saw you, Clarisse. I always saw you. You, in the center of the training circle, spinning that spear as if the world were too small for you. I hated it, hated how you looked at me as if I were just easy prey, as if I were worthless beyond arrows and safe distance. We fought, we provoked each other, we hated each other… or at least that's what I thought it was. All that rivalry, that fire that ignited every time you opened your mouth to call me princess of the sun or coward. I came back. Always came back. Even knowing I'd take a beating, even knowing you'd laugh in my face. I came back for you."

Your voice lowered, almost a whisper, but the words kept coming, heavy, inevitable.

"I didn't know what it was about you that pulled me back. It wasn't just anger, not just wounded pride. It was… more. I needed to be on your radar, Clarisse. Needed you to see me, to challenge me, to not let me go unnoticed like you do with the others, those newbie campers who arrive, try to impress, and then become just another face in the crowd for you. I didn't want to be forgotten. Not by you. No matter how much it hurt to take hits, no matter how much you made me feel small… I came back because deep down I couldn't stand the idea of you erasing me from your mind."

You swallowed hard, feeling another tear escape, but did not wipe your face. Let it fall.

"You can think I'm a fool. You can think I'm masochistic, crazy, whatever. I don't care. But I found out that, in the end, I just… care about you. Really care. Seeing you destroying yourself like this, exploding at everyone, letting that rage eat you alive inside, it hurts me too. Hurts me more than any blow you've ever given me in training. Because I know there's something inside you that's not just fury. I know there is. And I can't pretend anymore that I don't see it."

The silence that followed was dense, almost palpable. The forest around seemed to hold its breath, no birds, no wind, just the distant and muffled sound of capture the flag continuing without you. Clarisse remained motionless beneath you, eyes still fixed on yours, jaw locked, but now without strength, without defense. She said nothing. Did not deny, did not confirm, did not explode. Just breathed, lips parted as if the words were there, stuck, but unable to come out.

You waited. Waited for her to say anything, an insult, a growl, a "get off me." But she just looked, and for the first time since you had known her, Clarisse La Rue seemed completely, painfully, without armor.

Clarisse continued lying under you, body still tense like a drawn string, but no longer fighting. The spear lay loose between you, the electric hum reduced to a low murmur, almost inaudible. Her chest rose and fell in short, irregular breaths, as if each inhalation hurt.

The brown eyes, always so sharp and challenging, now stared into yours, widened in a way you had never seen before: it was not anger, not mockery. It was something rawer, more exposed. Fear, perhaps. Or the panic of someone who had just been truly disarmed.

She blinked once. Twice. The locked jaw trembled slightly, a muscle pulsing at the corner of her mouth. You felt the heat of her body through the armor, the sweat sticking the fabric to her skin, her heart beating so fast it seemed to want to break through her ribs. Clarisse swallowed hard, the sound loud in the clearing silence, and looked away for a second, as if facing you was too much. But soon returned, because running away was never her style.

The bandaged hands, which before pushed with brute force, now lay motionless at her sides, fingers slightly curved as if wanting to grasp something that did not exist. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened again. No sound came out. Her throat worked visibly, as if the words were there, jammed, burning.

You saw the exact moment her tears threatened to come. Her eyes grew brighter, the inner corners reddening subtly. But Clarisse La Rue did not cry. Never. Instead, she pressed her lips so hard they turned white, nose wrinkling in a grimace of pure effort to stay whole. A low sound, almost a muffled groan, escaped from deep in her throat, not from physical pain, but from something much deeper, something she had buried under layers and layers of anger, pride, and fear.

"You…" The voice came out hoarse, broken, as if unused to saying such things for years, perhaps never.

She stopped immediately, clenching her teeth as if she had betrayed herself. Her eyes scanned your face: the cut on your cheek, the dried blood mixed with tears, the strands of hair stuck to your skin. Something in her expression broke a little more. Guilt, perhaps. Or recognition.

Clarisse turned her face to the side, looking at the trees as if they could offer an escape. Her breathing trembled now, more shallow.

"Damn…" she murmured, so low you almost did not hear. It was the most vulnerable voice you had ever heard from her, without armor, without mockery, without shield. Just Clarisse. Raw. Scared.

She looked back at you, and this time did not look away. Her eyes were wet, but the tears did not fall, she would not allow it. Because Clarisse does not cry.

"You can't… just say those things," she whispered, voice failing in the middle. "You can't come here, knock me down, make me…" She stopped again, fists clenching at her sides, nails digging into palms even through the bandages. "It's not how it works."

But she did not push you away. Did not thrash. Did not yell. Just lay there, pinned under you, breathing the same heavy air, her eyes saying everything her mouth refused to release: that you had hit the mark, that she felt the same emptiness when you pulled away, that the rage of the last days had been her trying to fill the hole you left. That she also did not want to be forgotten. That, in some twisted and brutal way, you were too important to her.

A muffled sigh escaped your lips, not quite knowing if it was from surprise, from exhaustion after the near-deadly fight minutes before, or from relief. Your hands were trembling, still hesitant as you slowly moved the spear away from Clarisse, your posture straightening over the daughter of Ares, sitting on her stomach. The weapon slipped from your fingers to the side of your bodies, falling to the grass- and dry-leaf-covered ground.

Both too absorbed to care about the intimate position. Clarisse breathed deeply, chest trembling. Slowly, you began to move, hands bracing on the ground beside her to stand, as if giving space was the next logical step, the inevitable end to that exposed vulnerability.

"Fine," you murmured, voice soft, almost resigned.

But before you could fully rise, her hands acted. Hesitant, as if she herself did not know if she could, or should, do that. The bandaged fingers closed around your waist, firm enough to stop you from going, but without the usual brutality. It was not the confident grip with which she handled the spear, which seemed a natural extension of her body, a weapon forged to destroy.

It was something new, trembling: palms brushing the bronze armor, before lowering to your hips uncovered by the protection, thumbs pressing lightly against the fabric of your clothes, as if testing the ground of an unknown world. You felt their heat for the first time like this, without anger, without provocation, and a shiver ran up your spine.

Unlike what Clarisse might think, that you would stiffen, fight back, or flee, you relaxed into the touch. Your muscles, tense from the fight, softened like wax in the sun. The gaze, which burned with determination moments before, softened into something warmer, more open. A sigh escaped your lips, and you stopped resisting, letting your body weight settle again.

As if instinct took over, without her needing to think, Clarisse raised her torso slowly. The abdominal muscles contracted under you, and she sat up, the movement fluid despite the hesitation in her eyes. Your body slid naturally, from her stomach to her lap, fitting perfectly there, as if it had always belonged.

Your thighs adjusted around hers, faces now dangerously close: breaths mixing, the smell of sweat, earth, and something sweeter, her woody soap, invading your senses. The rebellious curly strands brushed your forehead, and your eyes locked, inches apart, the clearing world reducing to that point.

Still hesitant, as if everything were unexplored territory, she, who did not know how to be gentle, who only knew the world through punches and spears, raised her hand slowly. The trembling fingers hovered in the air for a second, as if asking silent permission, before touching your face. The palm marked by bandages dirty with dried blood brushed the injured cheek with a delicacy that seemed impossible coming from her.

"All I know is how to fight…" she murmured, voice hoarse and low, eyes fixed on the superficial cut she herself had caused.

Her thumb, trembling and hesitant, passed slowly below the wound, tracing around the red line with a lightness that contrasted with all the previous brutality. The pain throbbed, sharp but bearable, and you closed your eyes instinctively, a subtle grimace crossing your face. Clarisse pulled back a little, startled, fingers freezing in the air as if she had burned you on purpose. Her eyes widened, panic returning in a fresh wave.

She had never known how to be gentle, and perhaps she would not learn now.

"And hurt people." She completed, voice failing at the end, as if admitting that was the final blow she did not know how to dodge. "I don't deserve you caring about me."

Clarisse pulled her hand away from your face as if the touch burned her inside, the bandaged fingers moving away slowly, hesitant but decided. The thumb still hovered in the air for an instant, trembling, before falling to the side, as if she feared prolonged contact could worsen the damage she had already done. Her brown eyes, so intense moments before, now avoided yours, fixing on the superficial cut on your cheek.

Before her hand could fully withdraw, you acted on instinct, fingers closing around her wrist, a firm but gentle touch, nothing like the brutality of the previous fight. Her skin was rough under the bandages, hot and pulsing, and you felt her accelerated pulse against your palm, as if her heart was trying to escape.

After so many years on Clarisse's tail, you knew better than anyone that the daughter of Ares had a certain issue with touches. She hated being touched, always yelling around "don't touch me, idiot" or "get your hands off me before I rip them off you." So it was a risk you were taking when, with a smooth motion, you guided her hand back to your face, pressing it lightly against your cheek, ignoring the sting of pain that came with the contact.

"It's not your fault," you murmured, voice low and comforting, like a balm on an open wound. "I should have paid more attention to my rear guard… that's what you always say, isn't it?"

The words came loaded with a sincerity you did not even know you held, eyes fixed on hers, trying to convey that the cut on the skin was nothing compared to what was fermenting in both your chests. You felt her muscles relax a little under your touch, as if that simple gesture had defused a bomb about to explode.

"Clarisse?" you called when no response came from her. "It's not your fault."

This was no longer about the blow that gave you a cut on the cheek, it was about everything. Her angry nature, her drive for victory, her craving for war… and Clarisse felt it.

A strange atmosphere settled then, confused and electric, like the air before a storm you do not know if it will bring rain or sun. Your faces were too close, noses almost touching, breaths intertwining in warm puffs that made loose hair strands dance.

Clarisse's eyes wandered slowly over your face, almost reverent: from the eyebrows furrowed by recent pain, past the lashes wet with unshed tears, to the parted lips, soft and inviting under the filtered forest light.

She swallowed hard, throat working visibly, and for a moment, everything she wanted to say bubbled inside her, how beautiful you were, there, with the sun gilding your skin, eyes shining with a vulnerability that left her breathless. She wanted to say how beautiful you were the first time she laid eyes on you, when she was sure something was wrong with her.

When she decided hating was easier than desiring.

You were beautiful like a sun goddess she always teased, whom she had always seen as something beyond a rival: someone who truly saw her, behind the armor of rage. But the words did not come. Clarisse did not know how to vocalize that without sounding stupid, without turning the moment into something weak or ridiculous. She did not know how to say she was sure Aphrodite's blessing had fallen on you the moment you were claimed.

"You are…" she began, but stopped, lips moving without sound, heart pounding like a war drum that did not know how to pause.

You drew closer slowly, almost without noticing, an invisible magnet pulling your bodies, her thumb tracing the line of your jaw, awkward, as if she did not know how to do this, lips tilting toward each other in agonizing slowness. The world around dissolved: the rustle of leaves in the light wind, the distant song of a bird, the smell of resin and earth, everything reduced to the growing heat between you, to the tingling on the skin where her hands touched.

Your eyes closed instinctively, heart racing as if about to leap from your chest, and you felt her breath brush your lips, hot and hesitant, a whisper of possibility.

But then, the sound echoed through the forest like distant thunder: the summoning horn, deep and prolonged, announcing the end of capture the flag. A victory, for some team, it did not matter which in that instant. The air vibrated with the echo, and at the same time, celebratory voices erupted not far away, cutting the clearing silence like sharp blades.

Hoarse laughter, triumphant shouts: "We got it! Victory for the reds!, and Clarisse immediately recognized them: her cabin siblings, children of Ares, with their rough voices full of warrior pride, approaching quickly through the trees, heavy steps crushing leaves and branches along the way.

Panic flashed across Clarisse's eyes like lightning. She acted fast, instinctive, like the warrior she was: the hands on your waist suddenly tightened, and with a skillful twist, using her own body weight as leverage, she reversed the positions.

You felt the world spin for a second, the soft ground receiving your back with a dull thud, and suddenly she was on top, thighs locking yours, the electric spear fallen to the side, but her body simulating a fighting position: one arm braced beside your head, the other pretending to press as if immobilizing you.

Her curly hair fell like a curtain around your faces, but her eyes, oh, her eyes still burned with that confused fire, a mix of interrupted desire and forced relief.

Just in time, the campers burst into the clearing, a group of sweaty and euphoric Ares children, the blue flag, the enemy team's flag, your team's flag, waving in one of their hands like a conquered trophy.

"Clarisse! We got the flag from those Athena nerds!" one shouted, his broad face splitting into a fierce grin, while the others slapped each other's backs, the air filled with the smell of victory and sweat.

They paused for a second upon seeing you both, but laughed loudly, interpreting the scene as what it appeared: a common fight, Clarisse dominating yet another opponent.

"Hey, look at the boss beating up the Apollo little girl! Good one, Clarisse!"

Clarisse raised her gaze to them, forcing a smile that did not reach her eyes, a sneer of mockery she mastered so well. But before getting up, she looked at you one last time: the brown eyes lingering on yours for an eternal second, full of everything unsaid, of interrupted promises and feelings still boiling beneath the surface. There was a silent plea there, "later," mixed with a vulnerability only you saw.

Then, she rose, accepting the outstretched hands of her siblings, who dragged her into the celebration, slapping her shoulders with strong pats and guttural laughter. You managed to hear a "don't touch me" amid the commotion.

"Come on, Clarisse! Time to rub it in those losers' faces!" They pulled her away, the group moving like a victorious pack, voices echoing farther and farther through the forest.

You lay there, on the damp earth, chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. A long sigh escaped your lips, loaded with a mix of frustration, relief, and something sweeter, a timid hope taking root in your chest. You rested your head on the soft ground, feeling leaves stick to your sweaty hair, and closed your eyes slowly, letting the exhaustion from the fight and emotions settle like a fog.

You still felt the tingling on your skin where her hands had touched, the almost-kiss hanging in the air like a persistent perfume, mixed with the smell of sweat and crushed pine. The cut on your cheek throbbed lightly, a sharp reminder of the chaos that had turned into something inexplicable.

Suddenly, a familiar voice cut through the silence, echoing out of nowhere like a whisper from the wind.

"Well, that was... intense." You knew that voice, clear and sarcastic, but without a body to accompany it, as if the air itself was speaking.

You sat up in immediate alert, body rising in an instinctive leap, eyes scanning the empty clearing around: ancient trees with mossy bark, bushes swaying lightly in the breeze, but nothing beyond shadows and leaves. Your heart raced again, a wave of paranoia climbing your spine. Was it a trick? A monster? Until the air in front of you rippled subtly, and Annabeth materialized there, inches from your face, removing the invisibility cap with a casual gesture.

Her brown eyes shone with a mix of amusement and sharp analysis, skin glistening under the filtered sun, long and intricate braids falling over her shoulders like a cascade of precisely woven ropes. She wore the light armor of the blue team, marked by forest dirt, and a crooked smile curved her lips, as if all that was just another piece in a puzzle she had already solved.

You blinked, incredulous, relief mixing with irritation as you processed her closeness, close enough to smell the ancient books and ink that always accompanied her. You rolled your eyes, the exaggerated gesture echoing your frustration.

"Were you there the whole time?" you asked, voice coming out higher than intended, loaded with disbelief.

Annabeth nodded slowly, crossing her arms over her chest with a naturalness only she had, as if invisibility were something banal like tying shoelaces.

"Yes." Simple as that.

You huffed, feeling heat rise up your neck, part anger, part embarrassment at imagining how much she had seen.

"And you didn't think to help me? She could have killed me!" The words came out in an accusing tone, eyes narrowing as you remembered the spear humming too close, Clarisse's blind fury that could have escalated to something worse.

Annabeth raised an eyebrow, smile widening into an air of intellectual superiority that was typically hers.

"Based on my theories and given the result of my plan, she wouldn't do that. Not with you at least. And I knew you could handle it. Only you could tame the incessant fury of an Ares daughter with A LOT of anger." She emphasized the last words with a dramatic tone, as if narrating a Greek epic, gray eyes dancing with a hint of malice.

You narrowed your eyes, suspicion crystallizing like an arrow on target. The air around seemed heavier now, wind whispering through leaves as if mocking your naivety. With a quick motion, you stood from the damp ground, feeling earth stick to your clothes and hair, body still sore from the fight.

"I knew it! You put me on the hunt because you knew I'd run into Clarisse!" you accused, pointing a finger at her, tone mixing indignation and a hint of betrayal.

Annabeth shrugged, the gesture too casual to be innocent, lips curving into an enigmatic smile.

"Maybe?" She tilted her head, braids swaying lightly, as if evaluating your reaction as part of an experiment. "Or maybe it was just a solid tactic. But, hey, it worked, didn't it?"

The clearing seemed smaller now, with the sun descending a bit more, lengthening tree shadows like accusing fingers. You felt a blush rise to your cheeks, but Annabeth did not stop there, she took a step closer, eyes fixed on yours with that sharp perception that made her irritating and brilliant at the same time.

"So, tell me: how did it feel to have Clarisse La Rue, the camp bully, daughter of the powerful God of war, melting in your arms?" she asked, voice theatrical, exaggerating each word as if performing a Shakespearean play, hands gesturing dramatically to emphasize, eyes shining with malicious amusement.

It was clearly to irritate you, to poke the fresh wound. You rolled your eyes again, crossing your arms defensively, but the heat on your face betrayed the embarrassment.

"It wasn't exactly like that," you shot back, voice coming out lower than intended, avoiding her gaze as you remembered Clarisse's hesitant touch, her body fitting against yours. The wind stirred the leaves around, as if the forest was chuckling softly.

Annabeth huffed, leaning closer with eyebrows arched in challenge.

"You were about to kiss," she said, straight to the point, tone casual but loaded with certainty, as if declaring a historical fact.

"What? No!" you shouted, eyes widening in shock, blush intensifying until your ears burned.

Shyness invaded you like a wave, stomach churning at realizing Annabeth had seen everything. You looked away to the ground, feeling the cut on your cheek throb like an uncomfortable reminder.

Annabeth watched you in silence for a second, eyebrows raised, lips pressed to contain a smile. She did not press immediately, giving space for the moment to settle, the air between you charged with friendly tension, the distant sound of camp beginning to filter through the forest: muffled laughter, the clang of armor being stored.

You sighed deeply, the sound echoing like a partial surrender, and walked to where your helmet and sword lay on the ground, the blade still shining under the sun, marked by fresh scratches. You picked them up slowly, turning your back to Annabeth as you wiped earth from the grip and then checked the helmet, thoughts spinning like lost arrows.

"Well..." you murmured, turning back with a lost gaze, fixed on a distant point among the trees, where the sun tinted leaves orange. "Maybe I misread it... Clarisse would never do something like that."

The words came hesitant, loaded with doubt, heart tightening with the possibility that it had all been just an adrenaline delusion.

Annabeth approached slowly, light steps on the damp grass, stopping an arm's length away, reaching to take the helmet you held, as if removing the weight from your hands could remove it from your mind. Her eyes softened a bit, losing the provocative tone for a moment of genuine empathy.

"I know what I saw, and you do too," she said, voice low and firm, as if unraveling a puzzle. "You're just scared because it was all a mess... Years thinking you hated each other. You can afford to be confused."

You looked away, eyes lost in the lengthening shadows of the clearing, thinking about her words. Years of provocations, fights, loaded glances that perhaps had never been just hate. The cut on your cheek throbbed again, and you touched it absentmindedly, feeling dried blood under your fingers. Annabeth noticed, and her expression softened even more.

"Hey," she called, voice cutting the thoughtful silence, "let's get back to camp and let your siblings fix that up, you don't want a scar on that pretty face when you go on a date with La Rue." She pointed to the cut on your face with a casual gesture.

"We don't have a date!" You shot back, but Annabeth was already steps ahead.

"But you will!"

You grumbled silently, sheathing the sword at your waist with a dull click, its weight a familiar comfort amid the internal turmoil. You took a step forward to follow Annabeth, who was already turning toward the trail. But something crunched under your boot, a muffled metallic sound from the soft earth, different from the usual snap of dry branches. You stopped immediately, camper instinct alerting to anything out of place in the forest. You lowered your gaze and crouched slowly, fingers brushing damp grass until finding the object: cold, heavy, familiar.

Clarisse's electric spear.

The long shaft was still warm from use, internal mechanism silent now, but with fresh marks of earth and stuck leaves, as if abandoned in haste in the heat of the moment. Probably, in the confusion of reversing positions and the sudden arrival of her cabin siblings, she had completely forgotten it there.

You lifted it slowly, feeling the balanced weight in your hands, a weapon made for destruction, but that now seemed almost vulnerable. The metal reflected the golden light of the sun, and a shiver ran up your spine as you remembered Clarisse's hands gripping that same shaft minutes before, with brute force and, later, with hesitation.

Annabeth, who was a few steps ahead, turned with an impatient expression on her lips, ready to tell you to hurry, something like "Come on, lunch won't wait," but stopped upon seeing what you held.

Her brown eyes widened for a second, immediately recognizing the iconic spear, before a sly smile spread slowly across her face. She crossed her arms, tilting her head with blatant malice.

"I think you have a very good excuse to meet up with the hothead," she said, voice low and provocative, braids swaying lightly as she raised an eyebrow, as if savoring the victory of her own strategy.

The blush rose instantly to your cheeks, hot and treacherous, spreading to your ears. You gripped the spear between your fingers harder than necessary, its weight now a palpable reminder of everything that had happened, and what almost had.

"Shut up, Annabeth," you murmured, without real conviction, eyes shifting to the ground for an instant before standing, the weapon balanced at your side as if it belonged there.

Annabeth laughed softly, a satisfied sound that echoed through the clearing, but did not press further, at least for now. She turned again to the trail, smile still on her lips, and you began walking toward camp. The spear weighed in your hands, a perfect pretext, or a trap, and in your chest, confusion still danced, now mixed with a timid expectation you did not dare name.

The way back seemed longer, each step echoing promises of future conversations, exchanged glances, and perhaps something that would finally stop being almost.

Meanwhile, Clarisse La Rue marched back to camp alongside her cabin siblings, feet stomping hard on the forest floor opening to the wide valley of Camp Half-Blood. The sun was high in the sky, a relentless golden disk bathing everything in clear, warm light, the kind of day perfect for training or games, but that now only irritated her, as if Apollo himself was mocking her from above.

The air smelled of pine and distant smoke from Hephaestus's forge, and celebration sounds already echoed through the fields: victory shouts, hoarse laughter, and the clang of weapons beaten on shields. Her siblings, a pack of tall Ares children full of fresh bruises, carried the captured blue flag like a war trophy, waving it in the air while exchanging playful punches and affectionate insults.

"That was close, but we crushed those blue nerds again!" bellowed one, a boy named Sherman, face marked by a recent cut on his eyebrow. He raised the flag higher, and the group exploded in laughter, the guttural and triumphant sound filling the air like a battle hymn.

Clarisse forced a nod, lips curving into a smile that looked more like a snarl. She tried to join in, really tried, but it was as if her body was there, but her mind... her mind was stuck in that damned clearing, replaying every second like a cursed prophecy.

The cut on the cheek, blood mixed with tears, the words coming from the girl's mouth like poisoned arrows: "I saw you, Clarisse. Always saw you... I needed you to see me... I care about you." How the hell could someone like her, who had spent years provoking you, knocking you down in training, calling you "princess of the sun" with all possible venom, say something like that? And worse: why did it not sound like a lie?

A strong slap hit her back, snapping her from thoughts. It was Mark, another sibling, with a wide, idiotic grin on his face.

"Hey, boss! You must have given that Apollo little girl one hell of a beating, huh? Bet she's crying still!" Clarisse spun on her heels, eyes blazing with instinctive rage.

"Don't touch me, idiot!" she spat, voice hoarse and sharp as her spear tip.

She shoved his arm away harder than necessary, feeling bile rise in her throat. She hated touches, always had, especially in moments like this, when her skin already felt too thin, too sensitive, as if any contact could crack the armor she barely kept in place.

"Hey, relax, Clarisse. It was just a joke. Victory, right?" Mark stepped back, laughing nervously, hands raised in surrender.

The others exchanged glances, but no one pressed. They knew how she was: a ticking bomb with a short fuse, especially after a fight. They continued marching, their excitement like irritating background noise, while Clarisse followed a bit behind, fists clenched at her sides. Were her siblings out of orbit? No, it was her. Completely out of orbit. The sun beat hard on her armor, making sweat run down her back, but the real heat was inside her, a boiling confusion she could not ignore.

It was only when they reached the camp edge, with the Great Pavilion rising ahead and the smell of pre-lunch food floating in the air, that she noticed. Her right hand flew instinctively to her back, where the electric spear should be strapped. Nothing. Empty holster. Shit. She had left it in the clearing, fallen beside you both during... that. Panic rose fast, but she turned it into something useful, rational. A perfect excuse.

"Hey," she shouted to the group, stopping in place. "Go ahead. Forgot my spear in the forest. Gonna get it before some Hermes idiot grabs it."

"Want us to come along? Might be some blue losers left out there." Sherman turned, frowning.

"No," she shot back, tone cold and cutting, no room for discussion. "I'll handle it alone. Go celebrate, you wimps. I'll be right there."

They shrugged and moved on, their laughter echoing as they joined the crowd forming at the pavilion. Clarisse waited until they were far enough, then turned and headed the opposite way: not back to the clearing, but to an isolated corner of camp, where trees closed into a small private grove, far from the bustle.

The sun filtered through leaves in warm rays, but there, in the shade, the air was cooler, almost suffocating in its quietude. She leaned against a thick trunk, arms crossed over her chest as if protecting herself from herself, and slid to the ground, back scraping rough bark.

Her mind was chaos. Voices shouted inside, not monsters or gods, but her own, accusing, confused. How could you let yourself be vulnerable like that? In front of her? You, Clarisse La Rue, daughter of Ares, who takes down titans and monsters without blinking, lying on the ground like an idiot, letting her see everything? The wet eyes, failing voice, hesitant touch... Damn, you almost cried. Almost.

But she was not regretful. That was the worst: no regret, just a confusion burning like poorly digested ambrosia.

Her words looped in her head like a cursed cycle: "I came back for you... Needed you to see me... I care about you." How? Why? Clarisse huffed low, digging nails into bandaged palms, feeling the familiar pain of recent wounds. She had been horrible to you for years, provocations, training beatings, contemptuous looks that cut deeper than blades.

All to keep distance, to not let anyone close enough to see the cracks. And now? Now you said you cared? That you came back because you needed her? It made no sense. No one truly cared about Clarisse. Not like that. She was the brute, the fierce leader, the one who solved problems with fists and spears. She did not deserve that. Did not deserve someone like you, with those eyes that saw beyond rage, that insisted on poking until finding something human inside.

Part of her wanted to run. Stand up, really get the spear, return to the pavilion and drown it all in celebration: laugh with siblings, beat someone in afternoon training, pretend nothing changed. Feelings? Nonsense. Weaknesses, distractions that killed heroes. Ares had taught her that: fight or die. No room for... whatever that was.

A tingling in her chest, heat rising every time she remembered your face close, lips almost touching. Running was rational. Safe. She could ignore it, wait for it to pass, like a wound healing alone.

But another part, that stubborn, irritating voice, poked back. What if you face it? Seek her now, before lunch, while camp still vibrates with victory.

But say what? Admit feeling the same? That those years of rivalry were just a twisted way to keep you close, because erasing you from her mind was impossible? That the emptiness of recent days, when you pulled away, hurt more than any punch? No. That was irrational. Weak. But... what if it wasn't? What if ignoring only worsened it, like an infected wound you pretend does not exist until it takes you down?

Clarisse closed her eyes, head against the trunk, sun dancing in warm patterns over her skin. The lunch horn would sound soon, forcing her to decide. Run or face. Rational or not, the choice burned inside her like a battle she did not know if she wanted to win.

[...]

When you and Annabeth finally emerged from the winding forest trail, Camp Half-Blood revealed itself in all its chaotic post-capture-the-flag glory. The midday sun beat down hard, turning the air into a wave of humid heat that stuck to sweaty skin. The cabins gleamed under the golden light, their wooden and bronze structures shining as if the gods had given them an extra layer of polish just for the day.

The red team still dominated the center of camp, clustered around the main campfire that crackled lazily even in daylight. Ares children, in red armor marked by dirt and scratches, banged shields against each other in improvised victory rhythms, hoarse voices echoing in provocations and exaggerated battle retellings.

You paused for a moment at the edge of the main field, eyes scanning the celebratory group with an urgency Annabeth noticed but did not comment on. You searched for her instinctively: the tight braid with rebellious curly strands escaping, the wide and imposing posture that overshadowed everyone around, the authoritative gleam in brown eyes that always seemed to hunt for something to challenge.

But nothing. No sign of Clarisse La Rue amid the red pack. Her siblings, tall, muscular, with fresh war marks on their arms, laughed and drank nectar from improvised mugs, but her absence was like a hole in the center of the mess, a leadership missing to turn chaos into brutal order.

Your stomach tied in a slight knot, a subtle doubt seeping in like dew on grass, was she avoiding you? After everything in the clearing? Annabeth nudged your arm.

"Infirmary first. Freak out later."

The cut on your cheek throbbed little now, but still a thin red line that drew curious glances from younger campers passing by. With Clarisse's spear balanced uncomfortably on your shoulder, you headed to the infirmary, an airy cabin nestled near the Big House, its open windows letting in the breeze that stirred fine gauze curtains.

The interior smelled of sweet nectar, caramelized ambrosia, and ground healing herbs, lavender, chamomile, and something citrusy that always reminded you of your father. Polished wooden shelves overflowed with glass jars of glistening ointments, rolled bandages, and elixir vials glowing like liquid gold.

Will Solace was on duty, as usual, leaning over a cluttered table full of scrolls and a mythological anatomy book open to a page on drakon wounds. Your closest sibling, with the same easy smile and eyes echoing Apollo's legacy, looked up as you entered, eyebrows arching in amused surprise.

"Wow, princess of the sun in person, bringing war trophies?" He gestured to a clean stretcher covered by an immaculate white sheet, already grabbing a damp cloth and a bowl of warm water.

You sat with a sigh, feeling the day's weight on sore shoulders, as he cleaned the cut with precise, gentle touches, the cool cloth immediately relieving the sting.

"A little sunlight and Dad does the rest," he teased, tilting his head with a mischievous smile, white teeth contrasting his lightly tanned skin from constant training.

You rolled your eyes, the familiar gesture bringing momentary comfort amid bubbling anxiety.

"Stop joking, Will. I'm not a plant that needs photosynthesis."

"I'm serious," he insisted, laughing low as he applied a thick ointment smelling of wild honey and fresh aloe vera, the cream tingling pleasantly on the skin like internal sun rays. "It'll speed healing in hours instead of days and prevent a scar. Apollo supports sun exposure."

He covered the cut with a light, almost translucent bandage that pulsed with a subtle glow, as if capturing the sun's essence.

That was when his gaze dropped, stopping on the spear leaning against the stretcher, the long black shaft, the sharp tip with familiar electric marks, unmistakable to anyone who trained in the combat circle.

"That's… Clarisse's spear?" he asked, voice lowering a tone, genuine curiosity mixing with a hint of disbelief as he straightened, wiping his hands on a cloth.

You sighed deeply, the sound loaded with something you did not want to name, fingers drumming on the stretcher edge.

"Found it in the forest. She must have forgotten in the game rush." You paused, feigning a casualness you did not feel, heart racing. It was not exactly a lie. "Has she… been here today? Like, to get patched up or something?"

Will shook his head slowly, returning to organize vials on shelves with methodical movements, glass clinking echoing in the quiet space.

"Clarisse never comes to us, you know. Ares daughter ego bigger than Olympus. She thinks she can handle it alone. Stitches cuts with dental floss, uses vodka as antiseptic, or just ignores until it scabs thick."

"Yeah, I know," you murmured, voice low and resigned, echoing the bitter truth the whole camp knew.

Clarisse La Rue was a solitary force: She patched herself in the privacy of cabin 5 with stolen supplies, or did not bother, walked with purple bruises and open cuts like honor medals, refusing any sign of weakness. Asking for help was admitting defeat, and she did not lose. Never.

You picked up the spear again, its weight now an uncomfortable reminder, and left the infirmary with a quick wave to Will, who shouted a "Come back tomorrow for check-up!" before diving back into the book.

The day dragged under the relentless sun. You decided lunch would be the perfect moment: packed pavilion, tables full of steaming grilled meat plates, fresh salads, and golden breads, air filled with conversation buzz and cutlery clinks. You imagined the scene a dozen times while walking there later, trying to rehearse how to approach her. You could not just walk up and say: "Hey, forgot this in the forest after we almost kissed. Want it back?"

Definitely not.

But upon arriving, the pavilion pulsed with life: campers laughing in groups, Chiron supervising from afar with his equine torso gleaming, barbecue smell mixing with ripe fruits and hydromel. The red table was noisy, Ares siblings devouring triple portions as victory reward, but the central chair, Clarisse's informal throne, remained empty, like a screaming void amid chaos.

No heavy steps echoing on grass, no hoarse growl cutting laughter, no pair of brown eyes scanning space like a predator. Your stomach tightened more, anxiety coiling like poisonous ivy, fork spinning absentmindedly in untouched salad while your cabin 7 siblings chattered about the game.

The following hours were a fog of distraction: archery training where arrows flew crooked, hitting target edges instead of centers; superficial conversations with friends who noticed your mental absence but attributed it to game fatigue.

All hopes, fragile and stubborn like spider webs, clung to dinner, the sacred ritual where Chiron took attendance. The sun set slowly, tinting the sky flaming orange and deep purple, pavilion fires lit with cheerful crackles, cool night air bringing toasted marshmallow smell and fireside stories.

But when tables filled again, plates of hot stew, soft breads, and melted ambrosia desserts, her chair remained empty. No sign. The stomach tightness turned suffocating knot, appetite evaporating as thoughts spiraled: she is avoiding me. Regretted the hesitant touch, exposed vulnerability, almost-kiss now seeming unforgivable weakness. Everything in the clearing had been just post-fight adrenaline, a lapse she now buried under layers of anger and denial.

Clarisse La Rue did not do that, not with feelings, not with gentleness, not with you.

When night fell fully, stars dotting the sky like frozen arrows, you returned to the cabin with heavy steps. The cabin smelled of laurel incense and post-training lotions, your siblings settling into bunks with yawns and whispers about the day. You dragged to the bunk below Will's, mattress creaking under weight, top bunk seeming more oppressive than ever.

The spear leaned against the wall within reach, its dark silhouette a silent ghost in the dark. You lacked courage to leave it at the Big House or arsenal, as if returning it without confrontation was admitting defeat.

You lay on your back, eyes fixed on the top mattress, soft sibling snores and distant cricket song filling silence. Doubt weight crushed your chest like ill-fitted armor, what if she hated you now for seeing her without masks? What if the almost was all there would be? Tears threatened, but you blinked them away, turning sideways.

Sleep finally began pulling you down, heavy and irregular, when something changed in the air around you. A subtle weight on the mattress, an almost imperceptible bunk shift, as if the world had tilted a degree. Your eyes snapped open, heart racing before you even understood why.

The cabin was immersed in soft night darkness, broken only by silvery moonlight filtering through high windows, painting bluish stripes on polished wooden floor. Distant low snores and rhythmic sibling breaths filled silence, a comforting reminder you were not alone, until you felt the presence beside you.

Before any sound could escape your throat, a warm, firm hand covered your mouth, fingers pressing carefully but decidedly. Your eyes widened in the dark, panic rising like a cold wave, body tensing to react, to scream, to fight.

"Hey, it's me," came the hoarse whisper, low and urgent, so close to your ear you felt warm breath brush skin.

Recognition was instant, like lightning cutting fear fog. The heart, threatening to explode, slowed a bit, but not completely. It was her. Clarisse. Leaning over your bunk in the middle of the night, invading the Apollo cabin like a shadow, while everyone slept deeply around. She removed her hand slowly, cautiously, as if fearing you would scream anyway, fingers lightly brushing your lips before retracting.

You breathed deeply, cool night air filling lungs, and words came in whispered impulse, loaded with relief, irritation, and disbelief.

"And that is supposed to make me calmer how?"

Clarisse rolled her eyes, you saw the movement even in dim light, that familiar gesture always accompanying her provocations, and responded with a low grumble.

"Shut up, princess."

Only then did you fully realize what was happening. Your stomach flipped violently, butterflies mixed with vertigo, when you noticed how close she was: leaning over you, body braced on one arm beside your head, dark curls loose falling like a curtain around her face, some strands brushing your forehead.

Bluish moonlight filtered through nearby window, illuminating half her face in silvery tones, brown eyes softer than ever, jaw less locked, mouth parted as if words were stuck. She smelled of fresh shower, woody soap mixed with something clean, fresh, as if she had scrubbed off the entire day before coming there.

No trace of training sweat or forest dirt, just Clarisse, vulnerable in a way you never imagined.

Heat rose to your cheeks in immediate blush, burning to ears. Clearing memories returned like a flash. Her body under yours, hesitant touch, interrupted almost-kiss. And worse: you realized, with delayed shock, what you were wearing.

Just short summer pajamas, thin shorts and an old tank top, rumpled from restless sleep, hair probably a total mess, sheets tangled around legs. You felt exposed, small under her gaze, and instinctively pulled the blanket a little higher, even if too late.

"What are you doing here?" you whispered, voice coming weaker than intended, eyes fixed on hers seeking some answer that made sense.

Clarisse's expressions changed almost imperceptibly, but you caught them all, because for the first time, you were truly looking. Her gaze shifted sideways, fixing on some dark cabin spot, lips pressing into a thin line. She seemed… nervous. Hands now braced on mattress beside you trembled lightly, shoulders, usually so straight and challenging, slightly hunched forward.

It was the first time you saw her like this. Were you dreaming? Your heart pounded so loud you feared she heard.

What felt like eternity passed, long, dense seconds filled only by distant outdoor cricket and her breathing, a bit faster than normal. Then, finally, she whispered, voice so low you almost asked to repeat.

"Come with me."

Without waiting for response, Clarisse rose slowly, movements silent and fluid like someone used to moving unnoticed, even if normally the loudest in camp. You noticed then she was barefoot, bare feet in white socks reaching just above ankles. She slid off the bunk without a creak, cast one last quick, almost shy glance at you, and left the cabin as silently as she entered, door closing with a soft click behind her.

You lay there for a few seconds, heart still racing, staring at the top bunk as if it could offer logical explanation. Cabin air seemed heavier now, charged with the presence she left behind, subtle soap smell, residual mattress warmth.

Part of you wanted to turn sideways and pretend nothing happened, return to previous restless sleep. But the larger, more stubborn part was already moving. You sat slowly, feet touching cold wooden floor, without even thinking to grab a hoodie. Just in socks too, like her.

Upon opening the huge door and closing it behind with utmost care, cool night breeze hit like a slap. Air was chilly, loaded with damp pine and dewy grass smell, starry sky above cloudless blocking silvery-blue moonlight bathing entire camp. Your hairs stood immediately, skin goosebumping in waves as you hugged yourself, rubbing arms to generate some warmth.

Clarisse was sitting on the porch steps, back slightly hunched, arms braced on knees covered by worn gray sweatpants. Hands were interlaced in front, fingers fidgeting restlessly, as if not knowing where to rest. Beside her, on the lower step, was a pair of black All Stars with worn soles and frayed laces, which she had clearly removed to sneak into the cabin silently.

Her brown eyes were fixed on nothing ahead: on the dirt path leading to the dark pavilion, on the shadows of the other silent cabins, on the distant lake reflecting moonlight like a broken mirror.

She did not turn when you approached, but you saw her shoulders tense slightly, she knew you were there. The silence between you was dense, almost palpable, broken only by the whisper of wind in the trees and the occasional hoot of an owl far away. You stopped beside the steps, still hugging your own body against the cold, heart beating so hard it seemed to echo in the quiet night, waiting for her to say something, do something, anything that explained why she had crossed the entire camp in the middle of the night just to pull you from bed.

Clarisse let out a long, almost inaudible sigh, loaded with something that seemed like exhaustion mixed with resignation. Her shoulders rose and fell slowly, as if gathering courage for something small, but that for her was gigantic.

"Can you sit?" she asked, hoarse voice keeping that typical Clarisse tone, half order, half challenge, as if asking anything was a battle she was willing to lose just this once.

You rolled your eyes, an automatic gesture that helped disguise the chill climbing your spine and the blush that stubbornly refused to fade. Without saying anything, you descended the last steps and sat beside her on the cold wooden step, curling up immediately against the night breeze. The thin socks protected nothing from the icy wood, and you crossed your arms around your knees, trying to hold onto the little warmth left.

Your shoulders were inches apart, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, far enough that the space seemed like an abyss. You did not move closer. Not yet.

The silence stretched between you like a tightrope. The night was so quiet you could hear the distant lake lapping the shore, the occasional rustle of leaves in trees, the minimal crackle of a nearly extinguished campfire in the camp center. You waited. Waited for her to say anything, an insult, a provocation, even a "get out of here" would be better than nothing. But Clarisse just stared ahead, eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond the dark cabins, hands still interlaced, thumbs fidgeting restlessly against each other.

Minutes dragged. The cold began climbing your legs, and patience, never your greatest virtue, began to fray. Finally, you whispered, voice low and a bit trembling.

"Please, say something."

Clarisse turned her head suddenly, eyes blazing for a second with that familiar anger.

"I'm trying, damn it!" she shot back, tone higher than intended, immediately lowering her voice upon realizing the risk of waking someone.

The words came out rough, defensive, as if you had poked an open wound, thrusting a spear into what she hated most to admit: weakness. You raised your eyebrows, looking at her with a clear expression of "girl, seriously?". You did not need to say anything, the look spoke for itself.

Clarisse noticed. Her shoulders slumped a little, and she looked away again, curls falling like a curtain over her face. The gesture was so small, so subtle, head lowering a centimeter, fingers interlacing tighter, that it was almost a silent apology. She breathed deeply, air coming out white in the night cold, and fell quiet again.

You sighed, the soft sound lost in the wind. Your heart still beat fast, but now there was tenderness mixed with anxiety, because you understood. Understood how hard that was for her. So, with the softest voice you could manage, you asked.

"Where were you? All day?" Clarisse did not answer immediately.

You saw her jaw work, as if chewing words before releasing them. She felt the gesture in your voice, the absence of accusation, just genuine concern, and something in her posture relaxed, almost imperceptibly. She appreciated that in silence, eyes softening for an instant before looking ahead again.

"I needed to think," she murmured finally, voice now calm, almost soft, something so rare coming from her it seemed borrowed from someone else. Low enough not to wake anyone, but clear enough for you to hear every syllable.

You turned your face to her, moonlight illuminating her profile, straight nose, full lips, thin scar on her eyebrow you had never noticed up close.

"And… what did you think about?" Silence again. Long.

The wind blew stronger for a moment, stirring her curls against your cheek, and you saw her fingers start playing with the poorly tied bandage on her hands. Then, almost as if words were being pulled out, she asked, voice hesitant.

"Do you… remember the day you arrived here?" You blinked, surprised.

"How could I forget? You pushed me into the lake." A small smile, half nostalgic, half ironic, curved your lips.

Clarisse's face burned immediately, even in dim light, you saw blush rise to her cheeks, eyes widening for a second before looking away again. She murmured something incoherent, seeming truly embarrassed.

"A little before that…" she corrected, voice even lower, almost a secret.

You tilted your head, waiting. The cold forgotten for an instant, curiosity taking over. Clarisse breathed deeply, shoulders rising and falling.

"You were at the top of the hill. With Chiron. Under Thalia's tree." She paused, as if reliving the scene, tone hardening slightly, as if words were enemies she needed to subdue. "I was patrolling the outskirts, because, yeah, someone has to do the shitty dirty work while others pose as heroes. Then I saw you, all… messed up. Wide eyes like a deer in headlights, backpack slipping off your shoulder as if you did not know what to do with your own hands."

You felt your heart leap, air caught in lungs. You did not expect that. Never. Clarisse continued, voice hoarse and halting now, as if each sentence was a punch she gave herself to keep going.

"But the sun was hitting you in a way… damn, you looked like you were on fire. Hair in flames, skin all lit up, even those scared eyes seemed… I don't know, strong. As if you were made for all that. I stopped. Stopped the patrol and just stood watching, frozen like an idiot, feeling something here inside that punched me in the stomach." She brought her hand to her chest for a second, bandaged fingers digging into the thin t-shirt, before lowering it quickly, as if burned.

"That fucked me up. Scared the hell out of me. I did not understand what the hell that was, hot, tight, as if I wanted to hit something or run. So I decided I hated you. That you were just another stuck-up demigod, full of light and cuteness, who could not handle a real fight. It was easier to fight, provoke, to see you get pissed. Because if I hated you… I did not have to deal with all that shit. Did not have to admit it was something else eating me alive."

She stopped, heavy silence returning. Her eyes still fixed ahead, but now wet, gleaming under moonlight. Her breathing was irregular, chest rising and falling as if words had been a hand-to-hand fight.

"But it was not hate," she completed, voice breaking at the end, hard like rusted iron. "It never was that shit. It was… something else. Something I do not know how to name, because I was not made for that. I am made to break things, not to… feel." The last words came almost spat, as if they hurt in her throat, but she did not stop, eyes finally turning to yours for a second, vulnerable, but still with that stubborn fire that was only hers.

You were speechless for a moment, night cold forgotten, heart beating so loud it seemed to echo in camp quietude. You did not move. Did not want to move. Did not want her to stop.

Because, for the first time, Clarisse La Rue was talking. Truly, even if words came out hard, full of curses and resistance, as if fighting her own feelings to let them out.

Clarisse fell quiet for a moment that seemed eternal, night silence deepening around you like a cold blanket. She still stared ahead, brown eyes lost in the dark void of sleeping camp, jaw locked as if in an internal fight.

Then, as if words were choking her, she continued, hoarse and halting voice exploding in a raw stream, unfiltered, as if vomiting something rotten she had swallowed years ago.

"I could not stop being an idiot anymore, because I am an idiot with everyone. Jesus… I hate everyone in this camp! I..." The words came out hard, spat with self-directed anger, tone rising a bit at the end before she lowered it again, a low growl escaping her throat as if hating her own voice for betraying her. "...hate even myself."

She shook her head, curls whipping the air, fists clenching so hard you heard knuckles crack.

"Everyone is weak, everyone runs, everyone annoys me with shit, they cannot even take a proper punch. I yell, I hit, I break, that's what I do, damn it! That's what Ares taught me to be. But you…" She paused, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling under the thin gray cotton t-shirt, sticking lightly to damp post-shower skin.

"You bit back. Always. And then I got worse, because I did not want you to stop. Did not want you to become like the others, those worms who disappear after a beating." Her woody soap smell mixed with cold air, invading your senses, and you saw her jaw muscle pulse, as if biting her tongue not to explode completely.

Her eyes finally flicked to yours for a second, quick, feral, full of confusion she tried to mask with fury, before returning to nothing.

"But I was sure I had fucked everything up that day," she murmured, voice lowering to a guttural growl, referring to the last training, that combat circle where you had suddenly abandoned the fight, turning your back and deciding to ignore her from then on. "That shitty training, where you just… stopped. Vanished. I saw you walking away, and it was like I had taken a kick to the stomach.."

Clarisse huffed, a rough and self-deprecating sound, running her hand over her face as if wanting to erase the memory.

"I was not angry at you… no. It was anger at myself, anger for always doing everything wrong, anger for being afraid of something I did not understand what it was and I do not feel fear! Or at least… I should not." The words stumbled out, hard like stones thrown against a wall, full of curses and denials she used as shields.

She leaned forward, elbows dug into knees, worn All Stars beside her creaking lightly against the step as she shifted her restless foot, bumping them.

"I am Ares's daughter, damn it! Fear is for cowards, for those who skip training and cry in the cabin. But you… you left me with this bad feeling, like a hole here," she hit her chest again, harder this time, muffled sound echoing in night silence. "I punched trees to shut it up, cut campers to vent, stayed alone all day because if I saw you again, shining with that damn bow in hand, I would explode. Or worse: I would say something stupid and fuck everything up for good."

The silence that followed was dense, broken only by distant cricket song and wind stirring nearby tree leaves, as if the forest was holding its breath to listen. Clarisse did not look at you, could not, eyes fixed on the ground now, on white socks, curls falling like a barrier over her flushed face of shame and frustration.

Her whole body trembled lightly, not just from cold, but from releasing all that, feelings she did not know how to name, colliding against a lifetime's training of being tough, relentless, unbreakable. Her hands, rough and marked by old scars, opened and closed repeatedly, as if wanting to grasp the spear not there, as if fighting was easier than admitting.

You sat motionless beside her, heart pounding against ribs, thin pajamas now icy against goosebumped skin. Moonlight painted soft shadows on her face, highlighting tension lines around her mouth, wet gleam in eye corners she blinked furiously to chase away.

It was Clarisse La Rue, the same who commanded training with a growl, who took down opponents without blinking, reduced to this: a hoarse confession, full of "damn" and "idiot," trying to navigate territory she hated, that terrified her more than any monster. And yet, she was there. Invading your cabin. Waking you. Talking. For you.

The silence following Clarisse's confession was so dense it seemed to have its own weight. The entire night seemed to hold its breath: wind stopped blowing, crickets fell silent, even the distant lake seemed to stop rippling. You felt her words settle in your chest like embedded arrows, painful but true, impossible to ignore. Your heart beat irregularly, early morning cold now forgotten, replaced by heat rising in your throat threatening to overflow.

Without saying anything, you stood slowly. The step creaked softly under your socked bare feet, sound echoing like a shot in absolute silence. You did not look at her, could not. Just turned and walked back to the cabin door, steps light, almost inaudible, short pajamas swaying against goosebumped skin. The door opened with a soft click and closed behind you with the same care, leaving Clarisse alone on the porch.

Outside, Clarisse closed her eyes tightly. Her head dropped forward, dark curls covering her face like a heavy curtain. A trembling sigh escaped her lips, not of relief, but absolute defeat. She had fucked everything up. Again. The voices in her head, those always shouting louder than anything else, "weakness is death," "feelings are for the weak," "vulnerability is the fastest path to a blade in the back," now laughed hysterically.

She should have listened. Should have stayed quiet, continued with usual anger, provocations, fights. It was safer. It was what she knew.

Anger rose hot in her throat, bitter as bile. Anger at herself for coming there, for invading the cabin in the middle of the night, for opening her mouth and letting out those stupid, soft words that did not belong to an Ares daughter. Anger for showing this side, this pathetic, trembling side she buried deep every day.

Hands clenched into fists, knuckles throbbing under old, poorly tied bandages stained with dried blood. She thought of standing, leaving, returning to the Ares cabin and pretending none of this happened. Tomorrow she could be the same old Clarisse: tough, relentless, untouchable. No one needed to know.

She was almost rising, leg muscles tensed, when she felt something warm and soft envelop her hands.

Her eyes snapped open. You were there, kneeling on the step below her, facing her, knees on cold wood. Moonlight bathed your face, eyes shining with something she could not name, sleep-messed hair falling over shoulders, short pajamas exposing goosebumped skin. In your lap, you held a roll of new, clean white bandages, taken from the Apollo cabin reserve.

Clarisse blinked, confused, entire body locking. Before she could ask anything, you, with the most delicate care she had ever seen in her life, held her hands in yours. Warm, soft fingers slid under old bandages, beginning to undo them slowly, knot by knot.

"You know," your voice came choked, hoarse with emotion, as some tears you had not even noticed were there slid silently down your cheeks and dripped on the step between you, "You should start visiting the infirmary once in a while."

Clarisse felt a knot rise in her throat, so tight it hurt. Her lips trembled. She tried to speak, but only a hoarse, lost "…What?" came out, as if not recognizing her own voice.

She burned inside. Did not know what to do with that, with the soft touch of your fingers undoing dirty bandages, revealing swollen, cut, purple knuckles from so many punches on trees and training bags. Did not know what to do with the warm, careful feeling of you wrapping new, clean bandages, tightening just right, protecting without suffocating.

It was so different from everything she knew. So different from pain, impact, fight.

"What are you doing?" she asked, voice low, almost scared, eyes fixed on your hands working.

You did not answer immediately. Finished bandaging the second hand with a firm but gentle knot, then held both her hands in yours, palms against palms, fingers interlaced for a second. You leaned slowly and deposited a light, almost reverent kiss on the back of each bandaged hand. Your lips' touch was warm, soft, lingering enough for her to feel every second.

"Taking care of you, idiot," you whispered against her skin, voice choked but full of something that seemed like affection, relief, certainty.

Clarisse froze. Completely froze. As if any movement could break the moment, as if breathing too deep could make everything disappear. A tear, a single stubborn tear, formed on the waterline of her brown eyes, trembling there for long seconds, defying gravity. Clarisse La Rue did not cry. Never.

You saw how she became rigid, and panicked immediately.

"Was that too much? I'm sorry, I just…" you began babbling, voice speeding up, hands squeezing hers hard as if afraid she would leave. "I did not want to pressure you, I just saw your hands and thought that… I just…"

You stopped mid-sentence.

Because the tear had fallen.

A single drop, but saying everything Clarisse never knew how to put into words: gratitude, fear, relief, vulnerability, something too big to fit in her chest. She did not move to wipe it. Did not blink. Just let it exist, there, on her face, like silent proof that something inside her had broken, not badly, but necessarily.

Silence returned, but now it was different. Lighter. Warmer.

Clarisse released your hands slowly, as if the gesture hurt, or as if fearing that letting go would make you disappear. For a second, she just looked at the new white bandages wrapping her own fists, perfect knots you had made, as if not believing it was real.

Then, with a slowness not hers, she who always acted fast, rough, decisive, raised her hands and held your face between them.

The newly bandaged palms were warm, rough at edges where old scars never faded, but the touch was unbelievably gentle, almost reverent. Her thumbs slid over your cheeks, feeling salty wetness of tears still running, wiping them with slow, circular movements, as if wanting to memorize every inch of your skin.

The heat of her hands contrasted with night cold still clinging to your face, and Clarisse felt subtle tremor of your facial muscles under her fingers, red nose from recent crying, wet and stuck lashes, short breath coming in warm puffs against her palms. When her right thumb brushed the bandage on the cut she herself had caused hours before in the clearing, Clarisse hesitated, movement stopped, brown eyes fixing there with guilt burning in her chest like ember.

She caressed the bandage edge with fingertip, almost without pressure, feeling slightly raised texture of swollen skin underneath, as if she could erase the damage just with will, as if she could go back in time and deflect the spear.

"You could never be too much," she murmured, voice hoarse, low, almost broken, words coming as if scratching her throat, but loaded with certainty that made her chest tighten even more.

She felt her own heart pounding against ribs, blood pulsing in ears, heat rising up neck to ears.

She stayed like that for a long moment, just looking at you. Moonlight bathed her face from the side, highlighting red nose from effort not to cry more, still wet lashes, full parted lips as if breathing with difficulty. And you, kneeling there, had never seemed so beautiful to her.

Clarisse felt something inside her chest expand painfully, as if it no longer fit there: the smell of your hair mixed with the night air, the soft warmth of your breath against her face, the softness of the skin she touched with such care that it seemed impossible coming from hands that only knew how to break things.

Suddenly, as if she had taken a shock, she snapped back to reality. Quickly, with the back of her left hand, she wiped her own tear that still stubbornly lingered on her cheek, a rough, almost violent gesture, rubbing hard as if it hurt to admit it existed, completely different from the delicacy with which she had touched you. As if she herself did not deserve the same care.

She cleared her throat loudly, the dry sound echoing in the quiet night, and bent down to slip on the worn All Stars without tying the laces, just shoving her feet in hastily, feeling the worn and cold leather brush her ankles. The movement was abrupt, the shoes creaking against the wooden step, as if she wanted to regain the control she always had.

She extended her hand to you, palm up, fingers still trembling lightly.

"Come on, get up."

You obeyed, legs still shaky from the cold and emotion, accepting her help, the firm, warm touch that sent a shiver up your spine. When you stood, Clarisse immediately looked away, sniffling loudly, pretending a casualness that fooled no one, shoulders rigid, jaw locked, her heart beating so hard she feared you heard.

"It's cold out here," she said, voice firmer now, almost authoritative, but with a subtle tremor at the end. "Better you go back inside."

The words hit like a cold arrow. You felt a drop of disappointment, small but sharp, settle in your chest, like ice melting slowly. You did not know exactly what you were expecting: for her to stay, to say more, to repeat the hand-on-face gesture, that… something beyond a practical goodbye. But "go back inside" sounded like an end, as if she was hiding again.

You just nodded, murmuring an almost inaudible "okay," took a step back and turned to the door, heart tightening with that feeling of broken expectation.

Clarisse watched it all with narrowed eyes, heart pounding against her ribs like an uncontrolled war drum. She closed her eyes tightly, cursing herself silently in her mind: coward, idiot, fearful Ares daughter. An Ares daughter feared nothing. Not monsters, not war, not beautiful women who looked at her as if she was worth it, women who bandaged her hurt hands and kissed her fists as if they were something precious.

Before you could take the second step, her hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist firmly, not rough, but decided, warm fingers closing like a cuff that did not want to imprison, but hold. The pull was quick, unexpected, making you spin and let out a surprised yelp that died in the air when her lips collided with yours.

It was just a peck, brief but intense. Clarisse's lips were soft, unbelievably soft for someone so rough all the time, warm and slightly trembling against yours that were still cold from the night. She tasted the salty of your tears mixed with the natural sweet of your mouth, the warmth of your breath fusing with hers, entire body shivering when you stood on tiptoes to adjust to her height.

Her arms slid immediately to your waist, wrapping you with instinctive possessiveness, bandaged hands pressing against your back, pulling your body against hers as if afraid you would escape, feeling the heat of your thin pajamas against her t-shirt fabric, the subtle tremor of your muscles, heart beating fast against her chest.

When you pulled apart, just a few centimeters, foreheads remained pressed, both eyes closed, noses brushing casually in an accidental caress that made the air between you seem electric. Panting breaths mixed in the cold air, her soap smell still strong, now mixed with yours.

With the rest of courage she could gather, voice coming hoarse, almost breathless, chest rising and falling fast, Clarisse whispered against your mouth.

"Wanted to do it the right way, take you on a date first. But Jesus… I think I couldn't hold out anymore."

You could not hold it. A low, light laugh escaped your lips, not mocking, but pure joy, relief, finding grace in her awkward and honest way.

"You can still take me on a date," you replied, voice soft, slipping your arms around her neck, fingers tangling in soft curls and caressing her nape with a delicacy that made Clarisse shiver from head to toe, a visible tremor climbing her spine, making her shoulders tense and heat explode in her stomach, something new, unknown, that left her dizzy.

"Alright… okay, cool," she replied half groggy, clearing her throat right after, clearly not knowing what to do with her hands (still gripping your waist hard), with her body (pressed to yours), with the closeness making blood pulse in her ears.

Her eyes blinked fast, lost, as if in completely unknown territory, your body lotion smell invading her senses, your skin heat burning through thin clothes.

She dominated arenas, captured flags, decapitated monsters with sword-sized teeth. But Clarisse La Rue was a complete novice at love, and that was obvious in every inch of her tense body, in short breath, in the way fingers tightened and released your waist as if not knowing the right strength.

You held back another laugh seeing how lost she seemed, vulnerable in a way no one ever saw. But you would teach her. Teach everything about love to the war god's daughter.

"Good," she said finally, voice trying to sound firm but coming halting, "better you go sleep and… we talk about this tomorrow."

You raised your gaze slowly, eyes still wet and shining with residue of tears and that raw emotion pulsing in your chest like an exposed heart. They locked immediately on her lips, plump, slightly swollen from the quick first peck, with a pinkish tone contrasting tanned and warmed skin, so inviting they seemed to beg for more contact. Tempting too much.

You bit your own lower lip slowly, teeth sinking into soft, moist flesh, an instinctive gesture only intensifying growing need in your stomach, like butterflies turning hurricane. Your eyes half-closed in a needy, almost pleading expression, pupils dilated in porch dimness, reflecting faint moonlight filtering through distant trees.

Clarisse felt the impact of that look straight in her chest. Her own eyes widened for a fraction of second, heart pounding against ribs with force echoing in ears, too loud, uncontrolled. The whiny voice coming from you caught her off guard, like a low blow in a fight she thought she dominated.

"Okay…" you whispered, voice low, drawn out, with sweet and imploring tone making Clarisse's nape hairs stand, electric tingling descending arms. "…but give me one last kiss."

The words came like a soft purr, vibrating in cold air between you, and Clarisse swallowed hard, throat dry and tight, feeling heat rise up neck to cheeks. She nodded once, hoarse, lips parting without sound, as if words had fled her. She leaned slowly, hesitant, offering another chaste peck, controlled, safe, the kind not leaving her so vulnerable.

But you would not accept control that easily.

In the middle of the kiss, with lips still pressed to hers in a light peck, you whispered against her mouth, warm and moist breath brushing sensitive skin, making her shudder.

"No… a real kiss."

Before Clarisse could process, before she could pull back or advance, your hands rose quickly to her face. Fingers fit into her cheekbones, warm and firm against smooth and heated skin, and you pulled her to you with urgency leaving no room for doubt. Clarisse let out a surprised sound, a hoarse and muffled grunt deep in her throat, half shock, half surrender, when your lips met again, but this time nothing chaste.

You took initiative, parting her lips with yours slowly, tongue tracing lower contour with provocative slowness, moist and hot, inviting her into rhythm. Clarisse hesitated for a second, awkward, initial movements rigid, as if her body, used to precise and brutal strikes, did not know how to be gentle.

Her lips moved against yours uncertainly at first, opening and closing in mismatched fit, shampoo and woody soap smell invading your senses. She held back her own moan, heat spreading like fire through her belly.

But you guided, persistent: tongue sliding inside her mouth slowly, exploring with slow curiosity, tracing roof of mouth, brushing hers in experienced movements making air heavier, more electric. Clarisse responded gradually, lips opening more, body relaxing against yours, bandaged hands on your waist tightening firmer, fingers digging into thin pajama fabric, feeling your skin heat underneath, subtle muscle tremor.

The kiss gained depth: lips opening and closing in slow, rhythmic pace, fitting perfectly, like puzzle pieces always knowing where to go.

You bit her plump lower lip slowly, teeth sinking into soft and full flesh with light pressure, but enough to draw hoarse and surprised sound from her, muffled moan vibrating against your mouth. Clarisse's entire body reacted: hands tightened more, pulling you against her until bodies pressed, hips pressing hips, heat mixing in wave rising through her chest.

She tilted her head slightly sideways, deepening the kiss, and that was when her tongue, hesitant at first but now more confident, brushed yours in a particularly delicious way: slow and moist movement, pressing tip against yours, exploring with hot pressure sending sparks through your body.

You could not hold it, low and needy moan escaped your lips, muffled against her mouth, vibrating directly on Clarisse's tongue. The sound was soft, hoarse, like pleasure-loaded sigh, and echoed inside her like revelation. Clarisse froze for half second, eyes snapping open, wide and dilated in dimness, chest heaving, and then something inside her broke completely, like a dam bursting.

Life was not just training and spinning a spear.

It was not just metal clang against metal, sweat running down back during hours of practice, metallic blood taste in mouth after hard victory. It was that: the sound you made when she kissed you right, a moan reverberating in her chest like sweeter victory than any captured flag.

It was your mouth taste, moist and hot, way your tongue danced with hers in languid movements, sending shivers down spine making knees weak. It was heat rising in belly, tingling in bandaged hands now sliding down your back, tracing spine curve with possessive pressure, fingers tangling in nape hair to keep you pressed, anchoring to something real and soft.

Clarisse kissed you as if discovering a new world, awkward at first, but now hungry, movements gaining fluidity, entire body throbbing with sensations she never allowed herself to feel: brush of your breasts against her chest through thin clothes, thigh tremor when you pressed closer, your lotion smell mixing with hers, creating something new and intoxicating.

When you finally pulled apart, air running out in lungs, chests rising and falling in unison, foreheads pressed again, sweaty and hot, heavy breaths mixing in night cold like fog. Clarisse was trembling entirely, not from cold: swollen and red lips, glistening with kiss moisture, glassy and lost eyes, almost pleading, pupils so dilated brown seemed swallowed by black.

She opened her mouth, tried to say something, anything to break charged silence, but only hoarse and halting sigh came out, air escaping sensitive lips.

You smiled slowly, thumbs tracing her cheekbones with deliberate slowness, feeling feverish skin heat, light tremor under fingers.

"Good night, Clarisse," you whispered, voice hoarse and low, loaded with kiss residue.

You leaned again, pressing a few slow and soft pecks on her lips, one, two, three, each longer than previous: lips meeting with moist softness, brushing slowly, residual kiss taste still there.

Hands descended her arms as you pulled away gradually, fingers tracing firm and tense biceps, feeling muscles contract under touch, down forearms, to wrists, where her pulse beat fast against your skin. Finally, you released completely, fingers slipping through hers in last brush, leaving residual tingling in air.

Clarisse stood there, arms falling inert at sides, chest still heaving, eyes fixed on you as you entered the door, silhouette disappearing in cabin welcoming dimness. She brought hand to lips slowly, touching where you had bitten and kissed, feeling throbbing sensitivity, and let out low, incredulous laugh, almost hysterical, sound echoing in quiet night.

"Fuck…" she murmured to herself, pressing forehead to cold and rough porch column wood, icy contrast against hot skin anchoring her back to reality. Heart still racing, entire body throbbing with new and insistent heat, something definitely not anger or training fatigue.

For the first time in her life, Clarisse La Rue did not want to fight.