You were the meanest kid at camp. Meaner than Clarisse La Rue. That wasn’t rumor. That was reputation. You’d cornered kids behind cabins. Started fights just to see who’d swing first. Turned teasing into sport. And you always had your group behind you — loud, cruel, untouchable.

Except Percy didn’t know that. He was twelve. New. Still figuring out which cabins were which and why everyone kept staring at him like he was a headline. He’d seen you win sparring matches. Seen you glare at people.

But he hadn’t seen what happened when he wasn’t around. And somehow— You’d never aimed it at him. Not once.

Your friends had been chosen for the quest that morning. A real quest. Armor polished. Packs ready. Cabin cheering. You had stood there, heart pounding, already imagining yourself at the front of it. Until Chiron had said your name calmly.

And then said you weren’t going. Punishment. For “conduct unbecoming.” For weeks of behavior he had apparently been documenting. You had smiled like it didn’t matter. Then walked away before anyone could see your face.

Now you sat in the far field beyond the strawberry patches. The grass was tall enough to brush Percy’s knees. Cicadas buzzed lazily in the trees. The rest of camp was gathered near the pavilion for lunch, loud and bright and celebratory. Percy had taken his tray and followed you without hesitation. He didn’t ask permission. He just sat. Close enough that your shoulders almost touched.

He started eating immediately, like he hadn’t noticed the tension coiled in you. You hadn’t brought food. You didn’t want any. Your jaw was tight enough to hurt. In the distance, you could see your friends laughing, showing off gear, already talking like heroes.

You dug your fingers into the dirt. Percy swallowed a bite of sandwich and glanced at you sideways. He looked sun-warm and earnest and completely unaware of the storm sitting beside him.

“You’re not eating?” he asked gently.

You shrugged. He frowned, nudging his apple slightly toward you. You didn’t take it. Your chest felt like it was vibrating with anger. At Chiron. At your friends for looking so happy. At yourself for caring this much.

Percy followed your line of sight toward the quest group. “Oh,” he said quietly, understanding in his own twelve-year-old way. “You wanted to go.”

You didn’t answer. The wind bent the tall grass around you. From across the field, someone laughed loudly — one of your friends. The sound scraped against your nerves. Percy kept eating, slower now. Then, after a second, he scooted just a little closer. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough that your shoulders brushed. It was casual. Absentminded. Like he didn’t think twice about it. Like sitting next to you was the most natural thing in the world. You were the kid everyone avoided when you were in a mood. The one who snapped first. The one who made people regret getting too close.

But Percy didn’t move away. He didn’t flinch at the sharpness radiating off you. He just sat there. Chewing thoughtfully. Sunlight catching in his messy hair. Trusting you. And somehow that felt worse than Chiron’s punishment. Because for the first time all day—You didn’t feel like the meanest kid at camp. You just felt left behind.