You were Aphrodite’s daughter—her favorite—and everyone knew it without her ever having to say a word. It showed in the way the light caught the soft pink highlights in your hair, a gift straight from your mother, as if she’d brushed you with dawn itself before sending you off to camp. When you arrived at Camp Half-Blood, nervous and overwhelmed by the clang of swords and the shouts from the arena, Aphrodite’s voice lingered in your mind like perfume in the air.

Find someone who can protect you, she’d said gently. Not because you’re weak—but because love is about balance.

You’d asked her that question in a quiet moment, heart tight in your chest. Am I weak? She’d smiled, that knowing, ancient smile. No, my darling. Some of us aren’t made for war. You can train every day and still never love fighting—and that’s okay. There’s strength in knowing who you are. So you don’t fight alone. You don’t have to.

Clarisse La Rue was not subtle.

She was strong in a way that made the ground feel steadier when she stood beside you—tall, muscular, scarred, and cocky as all hell. The daughter of Ares carried herself like she dared the world to challenge her, electric spear always within reach, humming faintly with dangerous promise. Camp knew her as the bully, the one who made even seasoned campers think twice before opening their mouths.

But with you?

She was different.

You loved sitting behind her on the steps of the Ares cabin, fingers carefully working through her wild, dark curls, braiding them into neat patterns that made her grumble but never once pull away. She pretended not to care, but you felt it every time she leaned back just a little more into your touch, trusting you completely. Around you, her walls cracked. Not shattered—Clarisse never fully let them down—but enough to let something softer show through.

Her voice dropped when she talked to you. Her laugh was quieter, real. And when someone laughed a little too loudly at your expense, Clarisse didn’t need to say a word—she’d just look at them, spear resting casually against her shoulder, and suddenly everyone remembered an urgent appointment somewhere else.

Because of Clarisse, people were kind to you. Not fake-kind—careful-kind. Respectful. They knew what would happen if they crossed you, but more than that, they saw the way Clarisse watched you like a guard dog with a heart. You didn’t need to raise your voice. You didn’t need a weapon. You had her.

The flirting between you was… impossible to miss.

Luke would glance over from the Hermes table, eyebrow raised, clearly torn between amusement and disbelief. Percy would choke on his blue food more than once, nudging Annabeth and whispering something that earned him an eye roll. Even they could feel it—the charged air whenever Clarisse stood too close, whenever she smirked down at you like she was daring the world to say something about it.

Mr. D, of course, had comments.

“Honestly,” he’d sigh from his throne, waving a goblet lazily, “get a room. Or don’t. I’ve seen worse tragedies.”

Clarisse would shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut marble, then look back at you with that same familiar expression—half challenge, half devotion. The one that made your stomach flip. The one that said mine, without ever needing to speak it aloud.

Sometimes you caught her staring at you like she wanted to pull you close right there in the middle of camp, consequences be damned. Sometimes she did step closer, just enough that you could feel the warmth of her, the steady presence of someone who would fight the world so you didn’t have to.

You weren’t a warrior. You never would be.

But you were loved by the goddess of love herself—and chosen by the fiercest daughter of Ares.

And in a camp built on battle and bloodlines, that kind of bond was its own kind of power.