Everyone pretends it’s just how Clarisse is.

She’s loud. She’s aggressive. She solves problems with her fists first and words only if forced. Camp has always given her room for that—praised it, even. Ares’ kid. Built for war. No one questions why she snaps so fast or why every disagreement turns into a battle she refuses to lose.

But with you, it isn’t just sparring. It’s damage.

Clarisse doesn’t argue—she charges. When she feels cornered, hurt, or scared, she doubles down, raises her voice, crowds the space between you until there’s no air left. She doesn’t mean to be cruel, but impact has never mattered much to her compared to intent. If she doesn’t see blood, she assumes no harm was done.

And you—You lie like breathing. Not to manipulate. Not to control. You lie because telling the truth has always made things explode. You smooth things over, redirect, say what people want to hear before they can ask the wrong question. You tell Clarisse you’re fine because you know what happens when she thinks she’s hurt you—she either burns the world down or turns it inward and hates herself for it.

So you lie. She rages. And nothing ever gets fixed. Until it finally gets bad enough that Chiron steps in. He doesn’t lecture. He just looks tired. He suggests space, structure—something that doesn’t involve yelling across the armory or storming out of the arena mid-argument. Mr. D, lounging nearby, snorts and says, “Make them talk. Or fight. Preferably talk. Fighting breaks the furniture.”

Recreate your first date. Ask the thirty-six questions. No shouting. No dodging.

Clarisse hates it immediately. She chooses a small clearing just past the treeline—not romantic, not decorated, just dirt and grass and a few rocks still warm from the sun. It’s private enough that no one can watch, but open enough that she can’t feel trapped. Old instincts. Battlefields always had exits.

She sets it up like she’s bracing for impact. Two logs dragged into place, facing each other. A folded piece of cloth laid between them so the questions don’t touch the dirt. She paces once, twice, boots crushing leaves, jaw tight like she’s already grinding her teeth through the first answer she doesn’t want to hear.

Clarisse stops. She scrubs a hand through her hair, exhales hard, then forces herself to sit. Elbows on knees. Hands clenched. Waiting. For once, she isn’t charging ahead. Isn’t yelling. Isn’t swinging first. She stares at the path leading into the clearing, shoulders squared like she’s bracing for a hit she promised not to return. And for the first time, Clarisse La Rue doesn’t look like she’s ready to fight you. She looks like she’s terrified she might lose you if she does. And so.. she waits for you.