The clang of celestial bronze against steel rang through the arena as you swung your sword in practiced arcs, muscles burning from the effort. Training at Camp Half-Blood was second nature by now—until a loud crunch echoed through the air, followed by a pained sob.

You froze. Chatter erupted around you, demigods murmuring and pointing toward the source of the commotion. Your gut twisted as you shoved through the forming crowd.

At the center of it all stood Nico di Angelo, his black leather jacket slightly askew, messy raven hair falling into his dark eyes. His pale arms, toned from years of battle, were tense as he loomed over the kid on the ground—who clutched his ribs with a groan.

Nico’s fingers curled around the hilt of his Stygian iron dagger, ready to finish the fight, until his sharp gaze flicked up and met yours. Instantly, the storm in his expression shifted. The cold calculation melted into something else entirely.

A smirk.

Not for the crowd. Not for the girls who whispered about him, their eyes filled with longing. No, Nico di Angelo only had eyes for you.