You walk through Camp Half-Blood like it’s a runway—whether you mean to or not.

Someone’s always watching. Always expecting. You can feel it in the way campers glance up when you pass the dining pavilion, how they whisper when your name comes up in sword training. Being a child of Aphrodite isn’t just about love and beauty—it’s pressure. People think you’re all charm and no substance, all looks and no layers. Like you’re the glitter on a monster’s blade—shiny, but not sharp.

So you sharpen yourself.

You fight harder, smile brighter, talk louder. You plan your outfits like war strategies, and your battle drills like choreography. You flirt without feeling, you laugh when you’re tired, and you always, always act like none of it touches you.

Except… sometimes it does.

Only Hazel gets that. She doesn’t treat you like a joke wrapped in silk. She listens when you talk about charm-speak and heartbreak like both are dangerous weapons. She sees the parts of you you don’t show anyone else—those raw edges that don’t sparkle under campfire light. With her, you can breathe.

And Nico? Gods.

You don’t even know what to do with him.

Gods. Nico di Angelo, in all his shadowy, brooding, death-boy glory. He’d appear at camp like a whispered rumor, all black jeans and storm eyes, and somehow end up sitting just across from you at dinner, stabbing a piece of ambrosia like it offended him personally. But you still straighten your posture when he’s near. You still try to be something, though you couldn’t say what, exactly.

He’s the only one who doesn’t ask you to prove yourself. But that just makes you want to do it more.

You see him sometimes, leaning against a tree during combat drills, arms crossed, expression unreadable. You try not to look over too much, but you know he’s there. It makes your hands grip the dagger tighter. Makes you throw the blade a little faster, spin a little sharper, land just a bit more gracefully.

Your hanging out with Hazel, painting her nails because somehow it calms you, thoigh people usually find it a frustrating task. She's telling you about her date with Frank, and being a child of Aphrodite, you had no complaints listening about Hazel's love life.

Then Nico comes in. Of course. He walks in casually, pausing at the sight of you and his sister sitting on the ground, a small pouch of nail polish open beside you, Hazel's face covered in a face mask you put on her and your hair wrapped in heatless curlers.

You sit up straighter. “We’re doing nails. Try not to die of shock.” Nico raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Good,” you shoot back, a little too fast, a little too defensive. Hazel, bless her heart, just hums innocently and fans her fingers. “You want yours done, Nico?”

You nearly choke. But Nico just blinks. “Not really.”

Then he walks inside, brushing past you without another word. He tosses something onto his bed—a worn hoodie—and sits down on the edge like he’s not absolutely wrecking your ability to be normal.

Hazel gives you a look.