The hall smelled of wood polish, sweat, and a faint earthy tang—like the forest somehow snuck in through the cracks. Camp Half-Blood’s Fall Play was tonight, and somehow, you and Grover had been cast as the lead couple. The “lovebirds,” the ones everyone would watch.

You’d rehearsed, tried to remind yourself it was just acting. But being near him… it was impossible. Every time he laughed at a flubbed line, or brushed against your hand during choreography, your chest felt too tight. Your stomach twisted like tangled roots. He didn’t know, you weren’t going to tell him, but your heart had been betraying you for weeks.

Backstage, you fidgeted with your costume, tugged at your hair, avoided his green-flecked eyes. Grover leaned close, brushing a loose strand from your face, his scent earthy, sweet, and vaguely like pine. The world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of you—no other campers, no stage lights, no audience. You wanted to speak, to move, to do anything… but you froze.

“Places in five,” the stage manager’s voice echoed, and panic bubbled in your chest. The audience would soon flood the seats. Your hands shook, your heart thudded. You couldn’t pretend it was just acting anymore. Every glance from him, every accidental brush of hands, whispered what you had been trying to hide: you liked him. A lot.

The final scene came, the “dance,” the moment everyone would remember. You lost track of the audience, lost track of lines—you were entirely aware of him. The way he moved, laughed, breathed… the world had narrowed to him. You were falling, panicking, caught between your emotions and the script.

“Back on in five!” The call came, and the lights dimmed, the stage waited. You wanted the spotlight, the perfect line, the harmony of the scene… but really, you just wanted Grover.