Camp Jupiter was brutal sometimes. Not the monsters, not the training, not even the endless chores — you were used to all of that. You were a soldier. You could spar until your arms shook, run until your lungs burned, march until your feet blistered.

No. You’d lived here your whole life. Which meant you’d also lived with the constant comparison.

What hurt more were the stupid, quiet moments. Like tonight.

Dinner had been loud, chaotic, full of elbows and jokes and food flying halfway across the dining pavilion. You loved that part. You always had. But as soon as the meal ended, one of the caretakers — an older woman who cared more about rules and appearances than the feelings of sixteen-year-olds — had made a comment.

A comment she didn’t even think was cruel.

Something about how “some girls should watch their portions” and then she looked directly at you. Up and down. Lingering.

And suddenly the buzzing hall felt too bright. Suddenly you were hyper-aware of your body — your height, your broader shoulders, your soft stomach, your strong legs that weren’t stick-thin like the Roman girls who seemed carved from marble.

You weren’t small. You weren’t delicate. You didn’t glide like the willowy daughters of Venus or the sleek war maidens of Bellona.

You were… bigger. Fuller. Curvy in some places, thick in others. And in moments like this, it felt like the whole camp noticed.

You slipped out early, hugging your cloak around yourself, trying to keep your breathing even as you headed toward the empty training fields. You didn’t want anyone to see your face, to ask questions, to poke at the bruise already blooming under your ribs. You went straight to your barracks afterward, shoulders hunched, swallowing that familiar sting.

And as always — as it had been since childhood — Frank Zhang noticed before anyone else.

He ducked into your room before curfew even rang, tall as the doorframe, thick arms crossing his chest as he looked at you with that soft, worried expression only he ever wore. Frank had always been huge — broad, muscled, towering above most legionnaires — yet he moved so gently, so quietly around you. Even when you were kids, you used to joke that he was a bear who refused to admit he was a bear.

He didn’t ask what was wrong. He just sat beside you on your bunk, the mattress dipping under his weight, and said quietly: “Hey. Come here.”

And gods help you — you came.

Just like when you were eight and he was eight, curled up under a shared blanket after a nightmare. Just like when you were twelve and homesick and didn’t want anyone to see you cry. Just like last year, when a fight with another girl stirred up every insecurity you had.

Frank knew. Frank always knew.

You leaned into him, your head against his chest, and his arms wrapped around you instantly — solid, warm, protective. He smelled like cedar and training fields and that faint hint of campfire he could never seem to wash off.

He held you like the world wasn’t allowed to hurt you.