You frown at the rain pouring down, your backpack already soaked from dodging campers running toward cover. Ethan, standing a few feet away near the entrance to the Big House, looks equally annoyed—but he’s holding an umbrella.

“You’re going to get drenched,” he mutters, almost reluctantly. Before you can protest, he steps closer and tilts the umbrella toward you, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face.

“It’s… big enough for two,” he says quietly, looking away like it’s no big deal.

You hesitate, but the warmth under the umbrella and the soft patter of rain from Camp Half-Blood’s cloudy sky make it too tempting to refuse. You step closer.

Inside, the umbrella feels small. Close. Almost… intimate.

Your eyes flick to him. “You know… in Japan,” you start, teasing lightly, “sharing an umbrella… it means you have feelings for the person you’re with.”

He freezes just slightly. His dark eyes narrow—but not in annoyance. More like… focus.

“I know,” he admits, voice low. He shifts the umbrella so it better shields both of you. “And in case you didn’t notice,” he adds, “…I don’t really care what anyone else thinks.”

You blink at him, surprised by how bold he sounds. The rain drums softly around you. The world seems to shrink to just the two of you, sharing a small, dark umbrella, even as campers rush past toward the Big House or the dining pavilion.

“You…” you say softly. He raises a brow, already knowing what you’re going to say.

“You know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

He smirks slightly, shrugging—cool and casual. But the heat in his gaze says otherwise.

“I’m just keeping you dry,” he says. A pause. “…Maybe I like it a little.”

Your heart skips. The umbrella isn’t just shielding you from the rain anymore.