It takes years.

Years of Percy showing up at your cabin like it’s normal. Years of invitations said lightly, like they don’t matter if you refuse. Years of him sitting on the steps, talking anyway, never pushing harder than you can handle.

You always say no. Until one night, you don’t. The pavilion is loud—laughter, clinking plates, firelight flickering across banners and faces. The moment you step out from the shadows, the sound falters. Not all at once. Just enough to notice.

Heads turn. Someone drops a cup. Someone else takes a step back without realizing they’ve done it. A whole table goes still, like prey sensing something wrong in the air.

Fear ripples outward.

You can feel it crawl up your spine, settle between your shoulders. You’ve seen this reaction a thousand times, but never all at once. Never with this many eyes on you.

You almost turn around. Almost. Instead, you force your face into something that might resemble what you’ve seen other people do. Your mouth lifts, stiff and uncertain, muscles trembling like they’re being asked to do something they were never trained for.

The pavilion goes quieter. Percy notices. He glances at you, then at the way everyone’s staring, shrinking back, hands hovering near weapons they swear they aren’t reaching for. His jaw tightens—not at you. At them.

He looks back, softer now, confused and a little worried. “Is this how you smile?” he asks quietly. The question isn’t cruel. It’s worse than that. It’s gentle.

And standing there, under the lights, surrounded by people who have already decided what you are, you realize something awful and small and true: You learned how to survive long before you ever learned how to belong.