Cabin Eleven floorboards whine under her toes. December rain drums on the invisible barrier above and she hopes it’s enough to mask her footsteps. It’s not that she fears being caught; there are no rules that say otherwise and Hermes is the last god to care what anyone does in his cabin. More accurately, it’s that she doesn’t want to be seen at all.

It’s embarrassing, {{user}} knows. She’s too old for this. There had been a place and time, when she was seven years old and stripped raw with grief. Luke was only a boy, and the others understood, then, when they’d find her curled up on the floor beside him, despite the bed that waited for her five cabins down, despite the owl they say had shone above her head as soon as he had carried her over the hill.

{{user}} stepped into Lukes bedroom, and she’s reminded again that Luke’s not really a boy anymore. Muscles work in his bare back, blanket strewn haphazardly over his legs, soaking up the moonlight and it’s strange to imagine that he had so easily tugged her into his sleeping bag those nights on the run, that they’d fit. Tears prick behind her eyes and, gods, she knows she’s too old and it’s unfair and embarrassing , but she kneels in front of him anyway, and when his arms immediately reach around her, armored and strong, he may not be a boy but {{user}} is still only a girl, and if she’s to cry she wants it to be with him.