Chiron was sick of yours and Leo’s constant arguing, so he sent you to go talk.

Leo’s workshop is a war zone — gears overturned, tools scattered, something probably on fire in the corner but neither of you care enough to put it out. He doesn’t turn when you come in. Just keeps fiddling with a half-finished automaton like it personally insulted him.

“Leo,” you say.

“Busy,” he replies instantly, too fast, too clipped.

“You’ve been ‘busy’ for three days.”

“Yeah. Funny how that happens when someone’s mad at you.”

“I’m mad because you disappeared. Again.”

He slams the wrench down. The clang is violent. Too loud. “Oh, here we go,” he says, spinning around, eyes blazing. “Let’s talk about how I messed up. Again. Let’s do that. Fun.”

“I didn’t say you messed up,” you snap back. “I said you disappeared. Without a word.”

He gestures wildly. “I was building! I needed space!”

“You could’ve told me!”

“Oh right, because I’m so good at the whole communication thing—”

“You could try!”

He freezes. Just… stares at you like you asked him to perform brain surgery. Then his expression hardens.