Percy had gone straight to you.

Not the infirmary.

Not Annabeth—despite the way she hovered, worried and pale, insisting he sit, insisting he let someone else help. He’d smiled at her, promised he was fine, kissed her cheek… and then turned and walked as fast as his limping legs would let him toward your cabin.

Because you were his older sibling. And because you were the only one who ever made the pain quiet.

You heard him before you saw him—uneven footsteps, breath a little too shallow. When he stepped inside, the sight of him made something sharp twist in your chest. Dirt and dried blood streaked along his arms. One sleeve was torn. He was trying very hard to stand straight.

“Hey,” he said, attempting casual. Failing miserably.

You didn’t scold him. Didn’t panic. You just moved—hands already guiding him to sit, fingers gentle but certain as they brushed his arm, his shoulder, the place at his ribs he kept protecting without realizing it.

“Annabeth wanted me to stay,” he muttered, voice small in that way he only ever got with you. “But I knew you’d—”

His breath hitched as your hands began to glow faintly, warmth spreading where you touched him. Percy softened immediately, shoulders dropping.