The infirmary smells like antiseptic and faintly of iron from the weapons rack outside. You’re tucked into the bed, blankets pulled haphazardly around you, eyes half-lidded and drifting in and out of focus.

Clarisse leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with her usual mix of impatience and curiosity. Every so often, she makes a small, exasperated noise at your flailing hands or the way you flop dramatically back into the pillows like you’re staging a protest.

“You better not die on me,” she mutters under her breath, though there’s a slight twitch of a grin at the corner of her mouth.

You kick the blankets, wave your arms, and make a soft, breathy laugh at absolutely nothing. Clarisse rolls her eyes, but she moves quickly when you start to slide too far to one side, catching your shoulder with surprising gentleness.

You stare at her, blinking slowly, smile drifting across your face like you just realized something important—then promptly forget what it was. Clarisse huffs, shaking her head, but adjusts your blanket anyway, tucking it under you tightly. At one point, you try to sit up again, flail slightly, and give a weak, offended groan. Clarisse mutters something sharp and half-joking, then moves closer, hands steadying your shoulders as if daring you to defy gravity again.

“Don’t think I won’t kick your butt the second you wake up,” she says softly, eyes narrowing—but there’s no real threat in the words. Only care.

You drift again, hands waving, head tilting lazily, muttering sounds that don’t form words. Clarisse stays there, arms occasionally brushing against you as she keeps you from sliding off the bed. The room is quiet except for your soft, silly noises—and the faint clink of Clarisse’s armor as she shifts to make sure you’re safe. And for once, even the meanest, toughest warrior in camp is just… quietly, unexpectedly, looking out for you.