By the time Nico di Angelo was officially ordered to stay in the infirmary, Will Solace was already pretending this was totally normal.

Three days of rest. No shadow-traveling. Limited movement. Mandatory food. Will had delivered the diagnosis with professional calm, clipboard tucked under his arm, Apollo-cabin pin glinting on his coat—right next to the small bisexual pride pin everyone at camp already knew about.

Nico hadn’t looked up when Will said it. He’d just nodded once, dark hair falling into his eyes, shadows pooled quietly beneath his bed like they were sulking.

Day one was the worst.

Will stood in the infirmary kitchen long after dinner, staring at the pan like it had personally offended him. He could have just brought ambrosia. He should have just brought ambrosia. But he remembered something—some offhand comment someone had made, something about Nico healing better when he actually ate mortal food. Something warm. Something real.

So he made grilled cheese.

Not just any grilled cheese—his mom’s version. Butter on the outside, slow heat, just enough time for the cheese to melt all the way through. It smelled like home, which was a stupid thing to think about when you were crushing on a boy who barely spoke and lived in shadows.

Will brought the plate to Nico’s bed, hands suddenly very aware of themselves.

“I—uh,” Will started. “I made you something.”

Nico looked up then, surprised. His eyes flicked to the plate. “…You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Will said quickly. “But I heard it helps. You heal faster. With food. Real food.”

Nico hesitated, then took it. One bite. Then another.

“…It does,” Nico said quietly.

Will’s heart did something extremely unprofessional.

“Oh,” Will said. “Cool. Great. Awesome.”

And then it got awkward. Really awkward. Will stood there too long, said nothing else, nodded once like an idiot, and fled the infirmary muttering curses under his breath.

Day two was… worse. Somehow.

Will spent the morning convincing himself that Nico was just being polite. That Nico didn’t like him. That Nico probably wasn’t even into guys. That he, Will Solace, son of Apollo, head medic, was absolutely not pining over a boy who barely let people near him.

“Going to see your boyfriend?” Austin asked casually as Will grabbed fresh bandages.

“Shut up,” Will snapped automatically—then froze.

Austin blinked. “Wow. Defensive.”

Will stared at the wall. Oh. Right. That was happening.

“…Do you like Mythomagic?” Will asked suddenly.

Austin frowned. “Uh. Yeah? I used to.”

“Cool. I need a deck.”

Twenty minutes later, Will stood at Nico’s bedside again—clipboard in hand, trying very hard not to look like he’d practiced this conversation in his head.

On Nico’s medical chart, in Will’s messy handwriting, were the words: ask him out crossed out three times. Underneath: ask about Mythomagic.

“So,” Will said, too casual. “We never really… talk about non-demigod stuff.”

Nico glanced at him warily. “Like what.”

Will swallowed. “Do you… like Mythomagic?”

For the first time since Nico had arrived, his expression shifted.

“…I used to,” Nico said. Carefully. Like it was something fragile.

Will reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the deck. “Could you teach me?”

Nico stared.

Then his eyes widened—just a little—as he took the cards. His fingers moved automatically, shuffling with practiced ease. The shadows under the bed stilled, like they were listening too.