The idea had started as a joke.

Someone—probably Connor Stoll—had suggested a Camp Cooking Day, where instead of the magical plates doing all the work, campers actually had to cook. Chiron, after a long sigh and a very stern lecture about fire safety, had agreed.

By the time Nico’s turn rolled around, half the camp was convinced this would end badly.

Nico di Angelo did not look like someone who enjoyed cooking in front of an audience. He stood in the pavilion with his sleeves rolled up, dark curls falling into his eyes, shadows flickering faintly at his heels as he focused on the task in front of him. But there was something different about him tonight—more grounded, more certain.

“This,” Nico said flatly when someone asked what he was making, “is real food.”

He’d chosen pasta alla carbonara, using a recipe his mother once made back in Italy—no cream, no shortcuts—and a simple bruschetta topped with tomatoes, basil, and olive oil that smelled like summer even in the middle of camp. The scent alone had drawn campers from across the grounds.

Will Solace hovered nearby, pretending not to hover.

“Need help?” Will asked, already grabbing plates.

Nico glanced at him. “You’re a healer, not a waiter.”

“Multi-talented,” Will replied brightly. “Also, I trust you not to poison anyone. Mostly.”

Nico snorted despite himself.

They served together—Will carrying stacks of plates, Nico ladling pasta with careful precision. The reactions were immediate.

“Oh gods,” Percy said after one bite. “Why does this taste like my mom cooked it?”

“That’s illegal,” Annabeth muttered, already reaching for seconds.

Even Clarisse grudgingly nodded. “Okay. Diablo. You win.”

When they finally sat down side by side, Nico’s shoulders relaxed for the first time all evening. Will leaned in, lowering his voice.

“So,” Will said, smirking, “is it mandatory for all Italians to look that serious while cooking?”