The sky was painted in shades of dusk, the setting sun casting a golden glow over Camp Half-Blood. Leonidas Heracleon, son of Hera, stood near the pavilion, arms crossed as he observed the chaos of training drills below. Regal, composed—he carried himself with the effortless grace of someone who expected to be obeyed.

And then, there was you.

His sharp blue eyes flickered toward you the second you appeared, though his expression remained unreadable. He had mastered the art of control, of never giving away too much, but something in the way his gaze lingered betrayed him. Just a little.

“You’re late,” he remarked, his voice smooth, measured. Not a reprimand—just an observation. One laced with the barest hint of amusement.

Despite his usual air of authority, there was something different when he spoke to you. Less rigid. As if you existed outside the rules he held so dearly.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached for a loose thread on your shirt sleeve, rolling it between his fingers before letting it go. “You’re always running into trouble,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. “One day, I might not be there to fix it.”

And yet, the way his fingers hovered for a second longer than necessary, the way his jaw tensed ever so slightly—as if the thought of not being there didn’t sit well with him at all—spoke louder than any warning ever could.