It’s rare for Grover to approach you alone. He’s nervous around you sometimes — you act older than you are, sharper than the others, too quick to throw yourself in front of a monster for someone else. Tonight, he finally asks.

“Why do you do that?” he says quietly. “Why do you keep jumping in front of danger like you’re… disposable?”

You blink, thrown off.

He sits beside you, hands fiddling with his reed pipes. “You remind me of someone,” he says softly. “Thalia.”

You stiffen. He notices. “She was… stubborn. Reckless. Brave in a way that always scared me. She’d protect you even if it killed her. Actually—” He laughs weakly. “—it did.”

You look down. He continues, carefully: “I couldn’t protect her. I tried. I tried harder than I’ve ever tried for anything, but… I didn’t make it in time.”

You finally glance at him. Grover has tears in his eyes — quiet tears, not loud ones. The kind you don’t wipe away because you’re too ashamed to let anyone notice. “When you throw yourself at monsters,” he whispers, voice trembling, “I feel like I’m watching it happen all over again.”

Your throat tightens. Not because he compared you to her. But because you know that look. Guilt. Fear. The weight of failing someone you loved.