Lunch at Camp Half-Blood was supposed to be loud and bright — clattering plates, kids shouting over quests and training scores, laughter echoing off the marble walls. You used to love that sound. It used to mean you were somebody.

Now it just made your stomach twist.

You walked in late, sandals scuffing the floor, tray trembling just a little in your hands. The whole place seemed to pause for half a heartbeat — just long enough for you to catch the smirk from across the pavilion. The new kid — the one you’d pulled into your group out of pity — was already sitting in your usual spot.

They laughed at something one of your old friends said. Your old friends laughed back.

You hesitated, then forced yourself to smile. It’s fine, you told yourself. They saved you a seat. They must’ve.

You stepped closer, tray balanced, trying to ignore the whispers that followed you. The embarrassment from earlier — the training slip, the spilled nectar, the whole camp’s laughter — still clung to you like smoke.

“Hey,” you said, light, easy, like nothing was wrong. “Mind if I—”

The new kid didn’t even look up. One of your friends — someone who used to braid your hair before capture the flag — gave a tight, fake smile. “You can’t sit with us.”

It hit like a blade slipped under the ribs.

For a moment, nobody breathed. You blinked, tray wobbling in your hands, trying to process the words.

Then you laughed — sharp, brittle. “Right. Yeah. Because that’s mature.”

They didn’t answer.

Your eyes stung. You told yourself it was the smoke from the firepit. You turned fast enough that your hair whipped over your shoulder, tray slamming onto the nearest empty table.

Only one person watched you go — Will Solace, sitting a few rows down, his fork frozen mid-air. He saw the way your jaw trembled when you thought no one was looking. The way you blinked fast, refusing to let it happen.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched you walk away without lunch, shoulders rigid, pretending you didn’t care.

But he saw. He always saw.