Grover hears you before he sees you — the crackling hum of electricity, the kind that makes leaves tremble and birds flee.

He pushes through branches until he finds you in a small grove, the one he brings anxious campers to when they need space. Except you’re not calm. Not even close. You’re trying to summon them. Again. Your jaw is set. Your eyes fixed on the sky. The air smells like ozone and fear.

Grover’s stomach sinks. He remembers the last conversation — the slammed doors, the tears you refused to admit were there, the way you muttered “I’m done with them” even though it was obvious you weren’t.

He clutches the end of his reed pipe, unsure if he should step closer or stay back. You look so alone. So furious. So breakable.

Grover doesn’t move. He just watches, heart pounding, wishing he could protect you from a god.