You really hadn't meant to stumble into Artemis’ camp. You’d just taken a wrong turn on your way back from the woods, the moonlight barely enough to guide your path. And gods, the moment you realized what you’d walked in on—the bathing, the glares—you’d spun around so fast you nearly knocked yourself out on a branch. Hands over your eyes, stammered apologies, every ounce of your dignity left in the dirt behind you.

Artemis spared you, miraculously. Maybe because you were respectful. Maybe because she saw no threat. But still… a punishment came. A gentle one, by Olympian standards, but enough to turn your life upside down.

Now? You had the ears of a deer. A tail. And lately, little antlers had started to grow from the top of your head. Small, fuzzy, and so irritatingly itchy you were starting to consider dunking your head in a river.

That night, you’re outside your cabin, face scrunched in frustration, rubbing your antlers against the rough bark of an old pine. It helps. A little. Not enough.

You don’t hear him until he’s close.

A familiar voice breaks through the quiet. “You know,” Grover says, with a soft chuckle, “You’re not the only one who’s ever rubbed their head on a tree.”

You freeze, embarrassed. "They're itchy..."

His hooves crunch softly on the pine needles as he steps closer. “Hold still.”

He gently takes your hands away from the bark, warm and careful. Then, without another word, Grover leans in and rests his forehead against yours, his breath brushing lightly against your face. Slowly, he tilts his head, pressing his curved satyr horns against your budding antlers, rubbing in a slow, careful rhythm.

The pressure is steady, grounding. The itch fades, replaced by something gentler—comforting.