Lia . 💌

The first time Thalia touched you, you thought she’d stab you. Not metaphorically-her fingers dug into your wrist like she was checking for a pulse, or maybe like she was deciding whether to break the bone.

You froze. Everyone knew better than to get close to her unless they wanted a boot to the ribs or a switchblade pulled on them in the alley behind the diner.

"You gonna keep staring at my hand or what?" Thalia's voice was all annoyance, but her fingers didn’t let go-if anything, they tightened.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting her cheekbones in a sickly glow. Up close, you could see the split in her bottom lip, the faded bruise along her jawline. She smelled like motor oil and spearmint gum.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you watched the way her thumb moved-not threateningly, but absently, tracing the thin blue veins under your skin. Like she was mapping them.

The jukebox in the corner skipped tracks, and someone laughed too loud at the counter. Thalia’s eyes flicked up to yours, and for a second, there was something raw there, something that didn’t fit with the stories people told about her. Then she blinked, and it was gone. "Don’t get used to this," she muttered, but she didn’t pull away.

Later, you’d realize that was the moment everything tilted. Not when she finally let go, or when she shoved past you to light a cigarette outside, but right then-her calloused fingers still wrapped around your wrist, her breathing too steady, like she was holding something back. You didn’t know it yet, but she was already yours. And you were already hers.

The second time Thalia touched you, it was raining. Not the soft kind-the kind that came down like nails, turning the parking lot into a slick black mirror. You were smoking under the diner’s awning, shoulders hunched against the cold, when she appeared beside you like a shadow.

No warning. Just Thalia, her knuckles brushing yours as she reached for your cigarette. You let her take it. Her lips wrapped around the filter, and you watched the ember flare between her fingers.

“You’re gonna get sick,” you said, nodding at her soaked leather jacket.

She exhaled smoke through her nose, grinning around it. “You offering to keep me warm?”

You should’ve laughed. Should’ve rolled your eyes. Instead, you reached out and flicked a raindrop off her collarbone. Your fingertip lingered. Thalia went still-not like she was about to bolt, but like she was waiting to see how far you’d go. The cigarette burned between you, forgotten.

Later, in the backseat of your shitty car, she’d press you into the upholstery with the heel of her hand and bite your neck hard enough to bruise. You’d gasp, and she’d freeze, like she’d shocked herself. “Tell me to stop,” she’d demand. You wouldn’t.

But that was later.

Now, under the awning, her breath hitched when you tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear. Thunder rolled overhead. The diner’s neon sign buzzed, painting her cheekbones in pink and blue.

“You’re gonna get sick,” she echoed, but her hand was already sliding up your sleeve, fingers finding your pulse point again.

You leaned in.

She didn’t pull away.

The third time Thalia touched you, it wasn’t accidental. She didn’t pretend she was reaching for something else or blame it on the cramped backseat of your car. She just looked at you-really looked-and then dragged her palm up your thigh like she was daring you to flinch. Her nails were bitten down to the quick, but they still left indents in your skin through the fabric of your jeans. You didn’t move.

Outside, the rain hammered the roof like it was trying to get in. Thalia’s mouth was a hard line, her breathing too controlled. You knew better than to speak. Instead, you traced the scar above her eyebrow-a thin white line she’d never explained-and watched her pupils dilate. Her knee jerked involuntarily, knocking against the gearshift.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she muttered, but her hand curled tighter around your leg, pulling you closer until your hips slotted together.

You could feel her heartbeat where your chests pressed, frantic and uneven. Up close, her eyelashes were clumped together from the rain, and her lower lip trembled-just once-before she caught it between her teeth.

She kissed you like she was trying to lose a fight.

All teeth , her fingers twisting in your hair hard enough to hurt. You let her. Let her push you back against the door, let her hitch your leg over her hip, let her bite your tongue when you made a sound she didn’t like.

The windows fogged up around you, sealing you in with the smell of wet leather and the salt-tang of her sweat.

When she finally broke away, her lips were swollen and her cheeks flushed. You expected her to bolt. Instead, she rested her forehead against yours, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. “Fuck,” she whispered, like it was a confession.

You kissed her again, slower this time.

The fourth time Thalia touched you, it was dawn. Not the golden kind, the kind that crept in gray and hesitant. You were sprawled across the backseat, her leather jacket balled under your head, the scent of her clinging to your skin.

She sat on the hood of the car, smoking, her silhouette sharp against the fading dark. You watched the way her shoulders moved when she breathed, the way her fingers tapped restlessly against her thigh. Like she was counting down to something.

You slid out of the car barefoot, the asphalt cold under your soles. Thalia didn’t turn, but her spine straightened when you leaned against the fender beside her. Close enough that your arms brushed. She exhaled smoke through her nose, her jaw tight. “You should go,” she said, but her fingers curled into a fist against her leg, like she was holding onto the words.

You didn’t answer. Just plucked the cigarette from her lips and took a drag, watching her throat work when she swallowed.

The silence stretched, taut and fragile. Somewhere, a bird started singing-off-key and relentless. Thalia’s knuckles whitened.

Then, all at once, she cracked. Her hand shot out, gripping the front of your shirt, hauling you in until your noses almost touched. “Say it,” she demanded. “Say you’re gonna leave.”

You could’ve lied. Could’ve told her what she wanted to hear.

Instead, you crushed the cigarette under your heel and cupped her face, your thumbs smoothing over the hollows under her eyes. She shuddered. “I’m not going anywhere,” you said, simple as a fact.

Thalia made a sound-half a sob, half a laugh-and then her mouth was on yours, desperate and messy. Her hands fisted in your hair, your shirt, like she was trying to fuse you together. When she finally pulled back, her lips were red, her cheeks wet. You didn’t ask. Just wiped the tears away with your thumbs and pressed your forehead to hers.

She let out a shaky breath. “Fuck,” she whispered again.

The fifth time Thalia touched you, it was deliberate-not with the hunger of before, but slow, like she was memorizing the shape of your palm. Dawn had bled into morning, the diner’s neon sign flickering off as the sun climbed. She held your hand between hers, callouses catching on your skin, and said, voice rough, “I don’t know how to do this.” Not can’t. Don’t know how. Like it was a skill she could learn, if you’d teach her.

You turned her hand over, pressed your lips to the scar across her knuckles-the one she’d gotten punching through a window when she was sixteen. Her breath stuttered. “You’re doing it right now,” you said against her skin.

She made a noise like a wounded animal, fingers twitching in yours. “No one’s ever-” She cut herself off, jaw working. The admission hung between you, sharp as a blade.

Thalia looked away, throat bobbing. “I want to.” Three words, and it cost her. You could see it in the way her shoulders tensed, like she was bracing for a blow. “Fuck. I want to.” Louder this time. You didn’t smile. Didn’t tease. Just squeezed her hand and said, “Then we’re dating.” Simple. Fact.

She laughed-a startled, punched-out sound-and dragged you in by the collar. Her kiss was less teeth this time, more lips, hesitant and achingly soft. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright, pupils blown wide. “Yeah,” she rasped. “Okay.” Like it was that easy. Maybe it was.

Thalia didn’t say I love you first. She said, “I think about you when I’m not with you,” like it was an accusation, her voice scraping raw over the words. You were in the diner’s back booth, her boot hooked around your ankle under the table, the cracked vinyl squeaking every time she shifted. She wouldn’t look at you-just stabbed her fork into her pancakes like they’d wronged her. “It’s fucking stupid,” she muttered, syrup soaking into the cuts on her knuckles.

You reached over, slow, and wiped it away with your thumb. Her breath caught. “It’s not,” you said. Simple. Fact.

She dropped the fork. It clattered against the plate loud enough to make the waitress glance over. Thalia’s fingers flexed, then curled into fists. “I don’t-” She stopped, swallowed. Tried again. “I don’t know how to be soft.” The admission came out jagged, like she’d ripped it from somewhere deep. Outside, a truck rumbled past, shaking the windows.

You didn’t touch her. Didn’t push. Just waited.

Thalia’s throat worked. Then, all at once, she slumped forward, her forehead thumping against your shoulder. “Teach me,” she mumbled into your shirt, her voice so quiet you almost missed it. Her hands hovered at your sides, trembling. “Please.”

Your heart cracked open. You lifted a hand to her hair-hesitant, giving her space to bolt-but she only exhaled sharply, her body going pliant under your touch. “Okay,” you whispered, threading your fingers through her dark strands. “Yeah. Okay.”

She lifted her head just enough to glare at you, eyes wet. “Are we-?” She couldn’t finish, but the question hung between you.

You kissed her then, right there in the booth, her syrup-sticky hands clutching your shirt. She made a noise against your lips-half relief, half terror-and then she was kissing you back, clumsy and desperate. When you pulled away, her cheeks were flushed, her lips bitten red. “We’re dating,” you told her, wiping a smear of syrup off her chin.

Thalia blinked. Swallowed. Nodded once, sharp. “Yeah,” she rasped. Then, quieter: “Good.”

The waitress dropped the check with a pointed cough. Thalia flipped her off without looking, but her fingers tangled with yours under the table, holding on like she’d never let go.

Outside, the sun was too bright. Thalia squinted against it, her free hand shoved deep in her pocket. “So,” she said, kicking a pebble. “What now?”

You squeezed her hand. “Whatever you want.”

Every correction involves touch. A hand on your shoulder. Fingers around your wrist. Adjusting your arms. And she always holds on just a second too long before pulling away like it meant nothing.

If you ever thank her, she visibly freezes for half a second—before scoffing and brushing it off like you just insulted her.

She watches you when she thinks no one notices. From across the arena, the pavilion, the cabins. The second you look her way, though, her expression hardens instantly.

Other campers are convinced she dislikes you. Clarisse does absolutely nothing to correct that assumption.

If anyone else even tries to pick on you, Clarisse shuts it down immediately. Loudly. Aggressively. But she’ll act like it’s about respect, not you.

She somehow always ends up near you. Not close enough to start a conversation—but close enough to hear you, to keep an eye on you.

Conversations between you are… confusing. You’ll say something normal, and she’ll respond with something blunt, borderline rude—only for her tone to soften just slightly at the end, like she didn’t mean for it to come out that way.

She gets visibly frustrated during sparring—not because you’re doing badly, but because she’s distracted. She misses hits she normally wouldn’t. Overcompensates by going harder.

When she gets too close—like really close—she’s the one who pulls away first. Abruptly. Like she just remembered herself.

Compliments from her don’t sound like compliments. “At least you didn’t completely mess that up” is the closest you’ll get—and it always comes with a quick glance to see how you react.

She remembers small things about you without realising it. Your usual weapon. Your schedule. The way you react to certain jokes. It slips out sometimes—and she immediately gets defensive when it does.

If you ever laugh around her, she goes unnaturally quiet. Not annoyed—just… still. Like she doesn’t trust herself to react properly.

The idea that you might genuinely dislike her bothers her more than she’d ever admit—but instead of fixing it, she doubles down on acting the same way.

She has tried—once or twice—to talk to you normally. It never lasts long before she panics and defaults back to being sharp and intimidating.

When you’re not around, she’s restless. Irritable. Looking for something—or someone—to focus on.