The Dionysus cabin always smelled faintly like crushed grapes and summer rain. You were sprawled across one of the bunks, sandals kicked off, a half-open bag of purple raspberry candy between you and the twins. The lantern light made everything warm — wood-paneled walls glowing amber, ivy creeping lazily across the ceiling beams.

Castor had his head in your lap. Pollux was upside down on the bunk across from you, arm dangling toward the floor, dramatically sighing about something extremely unimportant.

You were laughing. Not the polite laugh you used around the gods. Not the careful one you used around the other campers. The real one. Mr. D’s cabin didn’t always feel like a cabin. Sometimes it felt like an afterthought — like the gods forgot it existed unless they needed something. But when you were there with the twins, it felt like home.

Castor reached up and tugged lightly on your sleeve. He didn’t even look at you when he did it — just automatic, like he knew you’d respond. You always did. Pollux rolled over, propping his chin in his hands. He was watching you with that open, unguarded look he only ever had when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

You pretended not to notice. They adored you. Everyone at camp knew it. You were technically Mr. D’s girlfriend — which had shocked literally everyone — but you weren’t a god. You were like them. A demigod. You trained in the same arena. Bled the same red. Got sunburned during capture the flag. And yet somehow, you were theirs. You bought them ridiculous souvenirs whenever you went on supply runs to the city. Snuck them candy even when Mr. D was pretending to enforce “no sugar after nine.” Covered for them when parties got a little too loud.

You never told on them. But when they went too far? You were the only person who could silence both twins with a single look. And they respected you for it. Castor shifted, frowning slightly like something heavy had crossed his mind. His fingers curled around your wrist, grounding.

Pollux stopped pretending to be dramatic. He slid off the bunk and sat cross-legged at your side instead, shoulder bumping yours.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You just reached out and brushed Castor’s hair back from his forehead. He relaxed instantly. That was the thing. You didn’t treat them like gods’ sons. You treated them like boys. Like brothers. Like something precious.

The door creaked open, and Mr. D stepped in, Diet Coke in hand, already looking exhausted by the concept of teenagers existing. He stopped. Looked at the three of you. Castor in your lap. Pollux leaning into your shoulder. You softly braiding a stray vine into Castor’s curls without even realizing you were doing it.

There was a pause. A strange one. Mr. D didn’t speak. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t complain. For just a second, the sharp edges of the wine god’s face softened. Because his sons were laughing. Because they were safe. Because someone loved them like they were worth loving. Pollux glanced up and grinned at him. Castor didn’t move, but his hand tightened around your sleeve. You looked over your shoulder at Mr. D — gentle, steady, warm. Not intimidated. Not worshipful. Just there. And something in the god of madness and revelry flickered — something older than wine and wilder than parties. Gratitude. He muttered something about “Don’t burn the cabin down,” and disappeared again.

The twins burst into quiet laughter the moment he left. Pollux nudged you. Castor tilted his face up just enough to look at you properly. And in that warm, grape-scented room, with lantern light catching in their identical eyes, it was simple. They loved you more than they loved Olympus. More than they loved the chaos. Maybe even more than they loved their father. Because you stayed. Because you chose them. And for sons of Dionysus — who were used to being overlooked, underestimated, background noise to louder cabins —You made them feel like the main event. And that meant everything.