The group is gathered around the campfire — everyone talking over each other, laughing, replaying the most recent quest like it was a fun school trip instead of a near-death experience.

Leo’s perched on a log, waving his hands dramatically.

“—and my favourite part,” he says, grinning, “was when that drakon thing tried to toast us and I just—WHOOSH—hit it with that fireburst? Gods, did you see its face?”

Everyone laughs. Everyone except you.

Because it’s always like this. Leo talking. Leo shining. Leo being the star without even trying. And every time, you feel something small and ugly tighten in your chest.

He keeps going. “Honestly, that whole fight? Kinda iconic. I mean, not to brag—well, okay, maybe a little—”

That’s when you snap. “Leo,” you cut in sharply.

He blinks. “Yeah?”

You don’t raise your voice, but it slices through the chatter like a blade. “My favourite part,” you say, jaw clenched, “was when you weren’t in the fucking group.”

Silence. Actual silence.

The fire crackles awkwardly. Someone drops their marshmallow into the dirt. Even the nymphs look away like oh gods.

Leo’s smile falters. Just a little. The others stare at you — shocked, unsure, not sure if you’re joking or finally breaking.