You had always belonged to them. Long before Camp Half-Blood, long before cabins and orange shirts and borders of magical pine, it had been just the three of you—Luke, Thalia, and you. A makeshift family stitched together out of fear, survival, and something that felt too much like love to name.

He’d found you when you were barely old enough to hold a knife. Thalia had taken your hand. Luke had taken responsibility.

For years you’d wandered the human world with them—running from monsters, stealing meals, sleeping under bridges, waking up to Luke shaking your shoulder gently because “hey, sweetheart, we have to move.” You were the youngest, the smallest, the one they’d both sworn to keep safe.

And Luke—Luke had always been more than your protector. More than a friend. More than a brother. He was the first person you trusted completely. The first person who taught you how to survive. The first person who held your face in both hands after a fight and murmured, “Good girl. Knew you could do it.”

You’d lived for his praise even then.

Grover finding you had been the end of wandering and the beginning of something new. Camp Half-Blood: safety, training, a life where you didn’t have to run every day.

You grew up, changed, got stronger, sharper, braver. But one thing never changed: Luke still treated you like his girl.

Years later, you were old enough to see him clearly—really see him. The golden boy of Camp Half-Blood. Brilliant strategist. Skilled swordsman. A natural leader. Gods, he was handsome, too—sharp jaw, tan skin, blond hair falling into his stormy eyes.

And around you? He softened. Always.

You still pretended you didn’t melt when he called you kiddo, baby, sweetheart. When he fixed the strap of your armor without asking. When he manhandled you during training, pushing your hips into a better stance, adjusting your wrists, pulling your shoulders back with warm palms and a patient voice.

That evening was another one of those days. A long training session, a monster simulation with the older campers, and a few too many hits to your ribs. You trudged toward the Apollo cabin like you were carrying the whole sky on your back.

Luke caught you before you even made it to the steps.

“Hey,” he called from behind you, voice warm, familiar. “Where do you think you’re going looking like that?”

You turned, exhausted, and he was already standing in front of you—tall, broad shoulders, crossed arms, raised eyebrow, that half-smirk that always made you feel like a kid getting caught doing something cute.

You croaked, “Bed?”

“Nope.” Then he hooked two fingers into the back of your shirt and reeled you toward him like you weighed nothing. “Inside. Sit. I’ll take care of it.”

Gods. You hated how quickly your knees went weak for that tone.

Five minutes later you were on his bed, legs dangling off the side, shirt lifted to your ribs while he knelt in front of you with a warm cloth. His hands were gentle, thumbs brushing over the forming bruise.