Luke watched you from a distance, eyes narrowing as he leaned against a tree, arms crossed. He didn’t know you—didn’t care to, really. You were just another kid at Camp Half-Blood, another kid Hermes didn’t give a damn about. He hated how his father seemed to think he could just toss children into the world without a second thought, and even more so that he was left to deal with it. It was never his choice to be anyone’s older brother.

But that didn’t matter now. You were standing there, unpacking your stuff in the common area, looking a bit lost. It was obvious—too obvious—that you were younger than most of the kids at camp. Probably 11 or 12. He could already feel the annoyance bubbling up from how small and timid you seemed compared to the rest of the crowd.

He sighed. Great. Another kid who needed help. Whatever.

Walking up behind you, he watched you fumble with your things before casually speaking, “What’cha got there?” His voice wasn’t harsh, but there was no real warmth either—just an attempt at starting something close to small talk, if only to get it over with.