How to Lose Luke Castellan in 10 Days
Part five — V. How to: Give in
pt1, pt2, pt3, pt4, you’re here
Luke Castellan x daughter of aphrodite reader
6.3k New York feels like freedom: food, clothes, drinks, kisses. It’s stupid to think demigods like us get to keep normal lives, but at least I can admit the truth. I’m in love with Luke Castellan.
Tags. Inspired by how to lose a guy in 10 days, rom-comish, BLOOD AND INJURY, angst, suggestive, mentions of alcohol, cursing, fake dating, mutual pining
a/n. Just started new semester guys so I haven’t posted in a while but that’s because this is a big one. Idk how people feel about longer chapters but we’re already coming to the end….
It’s strange seeing Luke in normal clothes.
Honestly, it’s strange seeing any of us in normal clothes—myself included. I don’t really have clothes. I came to camp young, and after a while your brain just accepts that bright orange is a neutral. Camp Half-Blood T-shirts stop feeling like a uniform and start feeling like a personality trait.
Still. It’s nice not to look like a traffic cone.
I make a mental note to add shopping to the list. Preferably before I convince myself that owning anything not orange counts as character development.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Luke and I are sitting on a bench, splitting a hot dog because he bought one and immediately decided it was “too much food,” which feels fake but whatever. Percy is standing at a nearby cart, staring at the toppings like they’re written in another language. He hasn’t moved in a while.
Across the path, Annabeth has her arms crossed, watching him with the expression of someone who knows this is their fault somehow.
Luke has a folded map of New York balanced on his knee. He’s already drawn on it in Sharpie, which feels both unnecessary and very on brand. I’m half listening, half watching the trees sway overhead, when he taps my leg with the marker.
“So,” he says. “Where to, princess?”
I look at him. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
He shrugs. “Feels right.”
“You don’t hate the attention.”
I take another bite of the hot dog. “Do you say that to everyone, or am I special?”
He laughs. “Gods, no. Do you think I’m that bad?”
He sighs. “Okay. Fine. I’ve made some choices.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“But I’m not like that anymore,” he adds, quick. “I’m reformed.”
He grins at me anyway. “You’re the only one I’m looking at.”
I don’t respond. I just roll my eyes and steal the last bite of the hot dog.
It’s not that Luke has a reputation. He doesn’t. But he’s… Luke. He’s easy with people. Confident. The kind of guy who would’ve thrived in a frat if life hadn’t gone sideways.
“Luke Castellan,” I say, flat, “you are exhausting.”
He laughs. “Start circling.”
I take the Sharpie out of his hand before he can poke me again.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
We grab lunch somewhere small and loud, the kind of place where the menus are laminated and the tables wobble. Percy orders too much. Annabeth comments on the layout of the room like she can’t help herself. Luke keeps stealing fries off my plate until I threaten him with violence.
After lunch, we don’t really decide where to go.
That’s kind of the problem with New York. Every time you think you’ve picked a direction, something else catches your eye. A street performer. A record store. A guy yelling that you cant make eye contact with.
Luke keeps the map folded in his back pocket now, checking it less and less. Annabeth and Percy drift ahead of us, stopping every few blocks to argue about something quietly intense. I don’t ask.
Luke and I fall into step behind them, shoulders brushing every so often. It happens enough times that neither of us comments on it anymore.
At some point, I notice it.
It’s not bad. Just… tired. Faded in that way clothes get when they’ve been washed a hundred times and loved through several bad decisions. The sleeves are stretched. The hem is a little warped.
Luke catches me staring. “What?”
I tilt my head. “How long have you had that shirt?”
He looks down at himself. “I don’t know. A while?”
He shrugs. “Since before camp, maybe?”
He takes two more steps before realizing I’m not beside him anymore. He turns back, confused. “What?”
“That shirt,” I say slowly, “has been through trauma.”
“Luke,” I say, “it looks like it fought in a war.”
He squints at me. “You’re being dramatic.”
Annabeth glances back. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing,” Luke says quickly.
Annabeth scans Luke up and down and settles on Luke’s graphic peeling t-shirt. She seems to come to the same conclusion as me. “Oh gods get rid of that thing I remember it from when i was seven”.
“I’m taking him shopping,” I say at the same time.
Percy brightens. “Oh. This I want to see.”
Luke groans. “No. Absolutely not.” He grips his shirt in his hands “what’s wrong with my shirt I like this shirt”.
I grab his wrist before he can escape. “You owe me.”
“For emotional damages,” I say. “And also for stealing my fries.”
He sighs like he’s being led to his execution. “You’re enjoying this.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
We stumble into an Urban Outfitters before Luke can find something to save himself.
He stops just inside the entrance, hands shoved in his pockets, scanning the place like it might jump him. I can see him physically react at the loud pop music.
“I hate it here already,” he says.
“Relax,” I tell him, already flipping through a rack. “It’s just clothes.”
I grab a plain cropped t-shirt and hold it up against his chest.
“I will absolutely ruin it.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
I find him a couple of other nice shirts and jeans and shove him toward the fitting rooms before he can come up with another excuse. “Go. Try it on.”
He disappears behind the curtain, muttering something about betrayal and false pretenses.
While he’s gone, I wander.
I don’t mean to start picking things up, but I do. A tank top. Jeans that look like they belong to someone with a social life. A skirt that’s pink and very short, except I’m not at camp, and nobody here knows me as anything other than a girl killing time in a store.
It’s strange—being here. Doing this. I feel like a wooden puppet halfway through becoming real. Like I missed half my life and I have to relearn what I like and want.
I drift toward the music station, flipping through CDs and records. Names I don’t recognize. Artists I’ve never heard of. It’s weird, realizing how much of the world keeps going when you’re stuck in a bubble. If I ever left for good, I’d probably have to lie and say I grew up in another country just to explain how far behind I am.
I pick up a couple anyway, planning to show Luke later.
It’s stupid—it’s just a shirt. But it fits him in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Clean. Sharp. And hits him right above the hip. He looks— hip? Like he belongs somewhere with sidewalks instead of training arenas.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Okay. I hate that you might be right.” When he raises his hand the shirt lifts up revealing a happy trail that i have to pretend to not turn red at.
I smile, satisfied. “Turn around.”
I hold up a jacket—light brown, suede. Too nice. Too expensive. Very much not camp-approved.
He squints at it. “You’re enjoying this.”
He studies me for a second, then shrugs and slips it on.
It suits him way too well. Percy, who has been pretending not to watch, leans over a rack.
“Wow,” he says. “You look like you have a credit score.”
Luke laughs. “I don’t like that I feel old.”
I step closer, reaching up without thinking to fix the collar. My fingers brush his neck.
It’s only a second, but it stretches.
“There,” I say, dropping my hand too fast. “Better.”
He doesn’t move. “You do this often?”
“Decide how people should look.”
I shrug. “Only people I care about.”
Something in his expression shifts—softer, quieter. “You’re tricky to figure out.”
I pretend to get very interested in a rack of graphic tees. “So I’ve been told”.
“Your turn,” he says suddenly.
He plucks a skirt from my arm. “Fitting room. Go.”
I open my mouth to protest, then close it.
Inside the fitting room, I change quickly, half-expecting it to feel wrong. It doesn’t. When I step back out, Luke is leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
It’s not dramatic. He just blinks. Then straightens.
“No,” he says quickly. “Just—different.”
His eyes linger for half a second longer at the short skirt than necessary before he looks away.
“Yeah,” he adds. “Very cute”.
My face feels warm. “You’re not subtle.”
In the end, he lets me buy everything. Or tries to protest, then gives up when I tell him my mom would be offended if I didn’t spend her money properly.
He makes it up to me by buying the CDs I was eyeing, even after I insist it’s a waste because I’ve never heard of any of them and what if they’re bad.
“Then we’ll listen to them together,” he says, like it’s obvious.
Outside, the city keeps moving.
Annabeth and Percy are already arguing again.
Luke walks beside me, jacket slung over his arm, glancing down at me every so often like he’s checking something.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
By the time the sun starts dipping low between buildings, we’re running on fumes.
We squeeze in a couple more things—nothing special. Just walking, grabbing dinner somewhere crowded and loud, feet aching in ways training never quite prepared us for. Turns out sword drills don’t translate to miles of concrete.
By the time we make it back to the hotel, Percy and Annabeth barely make it past the door before collapsing into their beds. No arguing. No commentary. Just instant, dead-to-the-world silence.
Luke and I end up alone in our room.
I’m exhausted in the way that settles into your bones, but my brain refuses to shut up. Everything feels too big, too sharp, like I’ve been living inside a closed shell and someone finally cracked it open. The world outside is louder and wider than I ever imagined, and now that I’ve seen it, I don’t know how to unsee it.
Luke’s stretched out beside me on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Do you feel it too?” he asks quietly.
I prop myself up on my elbows, turning toward him. “Feel what?”
“The anger,” he says. “Like… this is our parents’ fault. That we don’t get normal lives. Seeing all this just makes it worse. Seeing what we’re missing.”
I think about that for a second.
Luke has this fire in him that most people don’t notice—or pretend not to. You see it in the way he runs his hands through his hair too roughly, or chews the inside of his cheek until it’s raw. It’s always there, simmering.
He turns his head, surprised.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just keep thinking about how lucky I am. I mean—when else would I get to do any of this? At nineteen?”
I stare up at the ceiling. “I try not to be angry about things that already happened. I think that’s how you end up miserable forever.”
I glance over and catch him blinking hard, like he didn’t expect that. “Sorry,” I add quickly. “That got deep fast. My bad.”
He shakes his head, thoughtful, quiet for a moment longer than usual.
I blink. “Drink? Like… alcohol?”
He sits up, already reaching for his new jacket, rolling his eyes as he nudges my shoulder. “No. Water. Yes, alcohol. Obviously.”
“I don’t even have a fake ID,” I say. “No bar is letting us in.”
He stands in front of the mirror, shrugging the jacket on and checking his reflection like he’s testing a new version of himself. “You’re an Aphrodite kid,” he says. “Charm-speak them. Like you do to me.”
“I don’t charm-speak you,” I say.
He looks back at me, and I have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes from where I’m sitting on the bed.
“Huh,” he says, smirking. “Guess you just charm me, then.”
I groan, rolling my eyes so hard it almost hurts—but I’m smiling anyway.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
I change into one of the new outfits I bought, skirt included. I hesitate for half a second, fingers hovering at the zipper, then pull it on anyway. If I’m going to try convincing a stranger to let two very underage demigods into a bar, I might as well look like I belong somewhere after dark.
Luke waits by the door, jacket on, pretending not to watch me get ready. He fails.
We sneak out of the hotel room quietly, even though there’s no harpies waiting to drag us into the forest or Mr. D taking away our privileges. Old habits die hard. We walk a few blocks before the city shifts everything moving like it’s in on our secret.
We pick a bar that feels right. Loud enough that conversations blur together. Dim enough that everyone already looks older than they are.
My palms go clammy as we get closer to the front. Luke notices without me saying a word. He drapes an arm over my shoulders, casual, grounding. The weight of it settles my nerves instead of adding to them.
He smiles like that’s fair.
When it’s our turn, the bouncer doesn’t even fake a smile.
I open my mouth—and stop.
He looks at us more closely now. Too closely. His eyes linger on Luke, then flick back to me.
“Yeah,” he says slowly. “You two are young.”
“We just look young and want a drink,” I say, carefully. Not pushing. Not forcing. Just letting my voice soften around the edges. “We won’t stay long.”
He crosses his arms. “That’s what everyone says.”
Luke shifts beside me, tension coiling in his shoulders, but he stays quiet. Lets me handle it.
I meet the bouncer’s eyes.
Charm-speak doesn’t crash in. It hums. Low and warm and sincere, like I mean every word even if I didn’t plan them.
“It’s been a long day,” I say gently. “We’re not trouble. You can tell.”
For a second, nothing happens.
Then his expression wavers. Not gone—just… less certain. He exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw like he’s arguing with himself.
“You cause problems,” he says, half-warning, half-resigned, “and you’re out.”
I smile, relief blooming in my chest. “Of course.”
He hesitates one last time then steps aside.
Luke lets out a breath he definitely wasn’t holding.
Inside, the music hits us all at once, loud and alive. Luke leans down, his mouth near my ear.
“Okay,” he says, impressed. “That was terrifying.”
I grin, adrenaline still buzzing. “You should see me when I’m actually trying.”
His arm stays around me as we melt into the crowd.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
We’re a couple drinks in when I volunteer to grab the next round.
I come back with a beer for me and some neon-colored, aggressively fruity thing I know she’ll like—mostly to balance out the shots we absolutely should not have taken back-to-back. I set them down at the booth, grinning like an idiot because my face feels warm and loose and I can’t remember the last time I felt this… light.
We drift back into our conversation from the hotel it without really meaning to.
It’s hard to know how you’re supposed to feel about the gods when you’re surrounded by their kids—when every story sounds different, and somehow everyone still ends up hurt.
She stares into her cocktail, ice clinking softly. “It’s different for me,” she says. “My mortal dad didn’t want me. He left, started a whole new family like I was a rough draft.”
“Camp,” she continues, “being with my mom and my siblings—that’s the closest I’ve ever come to feeling loved.”
Something twists in my chest.
And then, like an idiot, I open my mouth.
“Oh,” I say lightly, nodding at her glass. “Right. Mommy’s favorite.”
The second the words are out, I want to shove them back in.
She looks at me. Really looks at me.
“You’re not going to understand,” I add, trying to laugh it off.
Her face falls—not dramatic, not angry. Just hurt.
“Is that what you think of me?” she asks.
I swear quietly. “No—gods, no. I just—”
She shakes her head. “Everyone acts like the gods are perfect. Like being claimed fixes everything.”
That catches me off guard. Talking shit about the gods feels easier out here, away from camp, away from consequences.
“My mom’s not perfect,” she says. “And I don’t even know if I like the special treatment.”
I scoff before I can stop myself. Years of trying to matter to a dad who never looked back bubble up fast and bitter.
“I know,” I say quickly. “I know that sounded bad. I just—when you grow up being ignored, it’s hard not to resent anyone who gets… anything.”
She studies me for a moment, then nods. “Yeah. I get that.”
She hesitates, then adds, “You know my sister Victoria?”
“She hates me,” she says flatly. “Ever since my mom claimed me like that. The gifts. The attention. She goes out of her way to make my life worse.”
“I love her,” she says. “I love all of them. But once—my mom forgot her birthday. Completely. Tried to fix it the next day with this stupid teddy bear.”
She laughs softly, humorless.
“I told Victoria it didn’t mean our mom didn’t care. And she said—” Her voice drops. “She said she was going to knock me off my pedestal and take my place.”
I stare at her. “That’s… brutal.”
“I haven’t talked to her since,” she admits. “She whispers when I walk by, Laughs with her friends, spreads rumors—“.
I feel something hot and sharp rise in my chest. I can only compare it to protectiveness.
“That’s not your fault,” I say immediately. “None of it is.”
She shrugs, but it’s practiced. Like she’s been doing it a while.
I reach for her hand without thinking, thumb brushing her knuckles. She stills, then looks up at me.
“You know,” I say slowly, “I used to think hating my dad was the only thing keeping me going.”
“I thought if I stopped being angry, it meant he won,” I continue. “Like he got to ruin me and walk away.”
“And now?” she asks quietly.
“Now I think… maybe the real win is living well anyway,” I say. “Being better than them. Not because they deserve it—but because we do.”
She lets out a breath, something easing in her shoulders.
“That’s kind of how I see it,” she says. “You either live with the hate, or you show them how little power they actually have.”
I smile, small and real. “Guess you’re rubbing off on me.”
She lifts her glass. “To messed-up parents.”
I clink my beer against it. “And becoming something better anyway.”
The bar noise swells back in around us—sticky tables, bass rattling the walls, half-finished drinks sweating onto napkins. Somehow, sitting across from her, the anger doesn’t feel as heavy anymore. The kind I’ve carried my whole life. The kind that kept me sharp and alive and furious.
For the first time, I’m not just thinking about surviving. I’m thinking about after. Leaving camp. Going to school. Getting a job. Wanting things that don’t end in dying young out of spite.
The drunker we get, the lighter everything feels. We stop talking much—just laughing, swaying, bumping into each other like gravity is bringing us together. Stuff I’d usually never do. Stuff I’d pretend was beneath me.
But she’s the only person I see in the room.
And it hits me, all at once, like I’ve missed something obvious. I could see something real with her. The bet doesn’t change that. It only says she has to fall in love with me. No one said I couldn’t fall first.
So I let myself fall. Fully. Recklessly. I’d scrub every cabin toilet at camp if it meant she’d keep looking at me like this. I know the alcohol knocked my walls down—but I also know she’s the reason I won’t put them back up. Sober or not.
She looks different now. Looser. Unselfconscious. Like she doesn’t care who’s watching. She rests her head against my chest because she knows no one is.
That familiar hunger curls in my stomach—the same one that’s been there since she sat in my car.
She’s giggling about something when I spin her around, dramatic on purpose, just to hear it again. She looks at me, smiling—and then her eyes drift past my shoulder.
I almost grab her chin to make her look back at me.
“Oh my gods,” she says. “They have a photo booth. We have to go. Please.”
She doesn’t wait for my answer. Just grabs my arm and pulls.
I wouldn’t have said no anyway. I want this moment burned into my brain.
The booth is definitely meant for one person, maybe two if they like each other. She ends up on my lap, squished close, her face pressed near mine so we fit in the frame. That hunger flares again, hotter now.
Second—the flash goes off before we’re ready.
Third—we’re looking at each other.
By the fourth, I stop pretending I have any self-control.
We’ve kissed before. At camp. Soft. Teasing. Performative. This is none of that. I pull her in, needing more, like she’s the only thing that could quiet this feeling. Her mouth tastes like ambrosia. She melts into me like she’s been waiting for it. Her hand fists in my hair, grounding herself—or me.
A needy sound tears out of my chest before I can stop it.
The flash goes off for the last photo. We don’t notice.
If we were anywhere else, I don’t think I’d stop. But somewhere in the back of my brain under the alcohol and the adrenaline—I realize I want this done right. Also, I’m not thrilled about getting arrested for public indecency because gods know I want it to go there.
She has to cup my face and push me back to actually get me to stop kissing her.
My lips feel swollen. I probably look wrecked. I can blame the alcohol later. Even though I know I’m just drunk on her.
She’s breathless when she speaks. “Castellan, I should tell you something.”
I nod like I’m listening. I’m not. I’m staring at her lips. Pink and full.
She tilts my chin up, forcing my eyes back to hers. “Yeah?”
She exhales. “Never mind.”
We finally untangle and look down at the photo strip.
Every picture’s perfect. She disagrees—points at the second one, caught off guard. “That’s a terrible angle.”
She tries to snatch it from my hand.
“You can cover it on your copy,” I say, holding it out of reach. “I’m keeping the original.”
She glares at me, half-hearted, knowing exactly how this ends. It only takes one hand to stop her from climbing all over me to get it.
I tuck the strip carefully into my pocket like it’s something precious.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The trip feels like it ends almost as soon as it begins. Ever since Luke and I made out in the photobooth, it’s like the floodgates have opened. Quick kisses at stoplights. Stolen ones when the kids aren’t looking. Longer ones when they definitely are. They groan every time. I savor every single kiss anyway.
Still, there’s a quiet shame burning in my chest, keeping me from fully letting go. Being drunk was one thing. This is different. I can tell now that his feelings are getting involved, and I don’t know what happens when the tenth day comes and goes.
It’s a stupid bet. I could walk away whenever I want and let my pride go with it, because whatever I’ve found with Luke feels bigger than something so silly. But what would he do if he found out? Laugh it off. Call it funny. Or hate me for making everything feel fake. I don’t know, and not knowing scares me more than monsters ever have.
Our second day in New York, we let the kids decide what to do. Museums. The aquarium. Wandering without a real plan. We make a quick stop at Coney Island before the sun dips low, then head back to pack up and return to camp.
Luke insists on winning me a massive, ugly pink teddy bear. He immediately regrets it when he’s trying and failing to shove it into the back of his car.
By the time we’re back on the road, the sun has fully set. The kids are louder than they were on the way into the city, buzzing with sugar and adrenaline. Being on a trip like this has turned us into something dangerously close to a family, and I’m grateful in a way that aches.
Luke makes me put my new CD into the radio.
Kesha — Animal starts playing.
My first instinct is embarrassment, but to my surprise, everyone’s into it. The energy in the car shifts, like the world suddenly feels ten times bigger and overdue to be explored. Percy insists we play the album again so we can all learn the words, and soon we’re yelling lyrics off-key and laughing at ourselves.
It starts as a sprinkle, then turns into a steady downpour.
Luke takes his hand off my thigh and grips the wheel with both hands, leaning forward and focusing on the road.
Then a heavy thud on the roof.
Luke stiffens, probably thinking the car’s hydroplaning, until it happens again. This time sharp talons punch through the roof, ripping metal and making all of us yelp.
I glance in the rearview mirror and see a harpy clinging to the top of the car, wings beating wildly in the rain.
“Fuck my car, man,” Luke groans.
The kids scream in the backseat, and that scares me more than anything. Sure, they’re demigods. Strong. Powerful. But they’re still kids.
The giant teddy bear has taken up my spot in the trunk, and thank the gods for that. I shout at Percy to grab my sword from my duffel bag.
I have to repeat myself twice before he listens, too distracted by the way the car swerves under the added weight.
He finally pulls my longsword free and hands it to me.
Luke looks like he’s about to lose it, but the humor still slips through. “Jeez, you brought that thing? You’re lucky we didn’t fly.”
I shake my head, heart pounding in my ears. “Shut up, Castellan.”
Of course this happens now. That’s how it always goes. The second you start to feel like the world is opening up, a monster shows up to remind you it never really lets you forget what you are.
His eyes go wide as he keeps one eye on the road. “Are you crazy? That thing’s going to grab you and eat you.”
“Luke,” I say, steady and serious. “I need you to trust me.”
He hesitates, then exhales. “Fine. My car’s already ruined. What’s some rain on the seats?”
Then I turn to the kids, my voice sharp enough that they both straighten. “Listen. I’m going to stand on the center console. I need you to hold onto my legs and not let go. At all.”
I don’t think they’ve ever heard me sound like this.
“Unless you want me to be monster chow,” I add.
They give shaky smiles, brave ones, but I know they’re scared. So am I.
Luke lowers the convertible roof halfway, keeping the kids covered but leaving him and me exposed to the storm. The movement throws the harpy off balance, and it loses its grip just long enough.
I step onto the center console. There’s barely room. Older cars help, but not by much. Four small hands grip my legs, anchoring me in place.
Rain lashes my face, wind whipping my hair across my eyes as I raise my sword.
The harpy comes back fast, talons outstretched.
The harpy shrieks, wings beating hard enough to rock the car, and I barely have time to lift my sword before she’s on me again. Talons scrape metal, sparks flying as Luke swerves instinctively.
“Hold her steady!” Luke shouts, though I don’t think he knows who he’s talking to.
She lunges. I swing. The blade catches feathers instead of flesh, slicing through one wing and sending her careening sideways. She screams—high and furious—and slams into the side of the car hard enough to make the kids scream behind me.
I dig my feet into the console, Percy and Annabeth’s hands tightening around my calves. The rain soaks through my clothes instantly, cold and slick, but my grip on the sword stays solid.
“Again!” Annabeth yells. “She’s coming back!”
She is. Faster this time. Smarter.
The harpy hooks one talon into the roof and uses it to fling herself straight at me. I raise my sword to block—
Pain explodes across my back, hot and blinding, like fire raked down my spine. I gasp, the sound torn out of me as the force nearly knocks me backward. Percy yelps, arms tightening desperately as I pitch forward instead of back.
I don’t look at them. I don’t think. I just move.
Adrenaline floods my system, drowning everything else out. The pain dulls instantly, like someone turned the volume knob down. I twist on instinct, ignoring the way my back screams in protest, and drive my sword forward with everything I have.
The blade sinks true this time.
The harpy lets out one last shriek, wings beating wildly as her grip slips. She dissolves into dust and feathers that scatter into the rain, gone as suddenly as she appeared.
For half a second, everything is silent except for the rain pounding against the car.
“Roof!” Luke yells. “Percy, Annabeth—pull her down, now!”
Hands grab at me, clumsy and frantic, hauling me back into the seat just as Luke slams the roof shut. The inside of the car fills with the smell of rain and burnt monster dust and adrenaline.
“Did you—did you get it?” Percy asks, breathless.
I nod. “Yeah. It’s gone.”
I can tell something’s wrong by the way I can’t lean back in my seat. My body refuses to let me. I press my forehead against the dash and hunch forward, sweat breaking out cold and sudden. The adrenaline is still doing its job, keeping the pain distant and fuzzy, but I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears like a warning.
Luke pulls over the second a flickering neon sign cuts through the rain ahead.
MOTEL buzzes weakly, the letters stuttering like they might give out any second. It looks like a lifeline.
“No arguing,” he says, already turning into the lot. “We’re stopping.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, even as my back feels… warm. Too warm. Wrong.
Luke parks crooked, barely shuts the engine off before twisting in his seat to look at me. His eyes rake over my face in the dim light.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“That’s just the rain.” I try to sound steady. I know it’s stupid, but I’m scared, and pretending feels easier than admitting it.
Luke is out of the car in seconds. He shoves a wad of cash into Percy’s hands. “Get us a room. Now.”
Annabeth jumps out and comes straight to me. She’s practical. Grounded. The kind of person who always knows what to do. Which is why it surprises me when she wraps her arms around me like she’s afraid I might disappear.
I’m still half-slumped in the passenger seat, clothes soaked, hair plastered to my forehead with rain and sweat. She hugs me anyway.
Something in my chest cracks.
I sob before I can stop myself, clutching her back just as tightly. The comfort is overwhelming in the worst and best way, too real, too much after everything.
He’s there instantly, pulling Annabeth back. She doesn’t fight him. When she steps away, her hands are red.
I watch the color drain from her face just as Luke says, urgent and low, “Go. Find Percy. Get the room ready.”
She runs without another word.
Luke turns back to me and reaches to lift me, and I flinch hard, terror spiking at the thought of the pain that’s been waiting for permission to hit. He freezes immediately.
“Hey,” he says softly. Too softly. Like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he’s not careful. “Come on, baby. We have to get you cleaned up.”
I can’t speak. If I try, my voice will break and I won’t stop crying. The pain and the way he says it, gentle and scared, are the only things that get me to nod.
Luke lifts me carefully out of the car. There’s no good way to hold me without brushing my back, and I can’t stop the whimpers that slip out when it happens. It hurts enough to scream, but I bite it down. The last thing we need is someone calling 911.
He moves fast across the lot, head down, slipping past the front desk and into the room. Even through the haze creeping into my vision, I can see his face.
The way his jaw is clenched.
The way his eyes won’t leave me.
And I know the sounds I’m making are breaking his heart.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
When Luke rushes us into the room and Percy shuts the door behind us, he slips straight into counselor mode.
Orders come fast and sharp. First aid kit. Start the shower. Iris message, now. The words blur together because by then the pain has caught up to me, crashing down all at once and stealing my breath.
Annabeth lays a towel on the floor, and Luke helps me down onto my stomach with a care that makes my chest ache. Every movement burns. I bite down hard to keep from crying out.
He pulls his switchblade from his pocket and carefully cuts my shirt away. In any other situation I would be mortified. Right now, I barely register it. He keeps murmuring apologies under his breath, and I’m not sure what he thinks he’s sorry for.
Annabeth helps him clean the wounds, hands steady even though her face is tight with worry. I grip the towel beneath me, fingers digging into the fabric as it soaks up sweat and tears. I’ve been hurt before. Every demigod has. But lying there, I know how close I came to not walking away at all.
We’re far from camp. No ambrosia. No Apollo kids. I know enough to understand what that means.
They press bandages down, trying to stop the bleeding. Luke tells Annabeth he can take it from here, his voice careful, like he’s guarding what little dignity I have left. I’m grateful for that. She squeezes my hand once before leaving to find Percy.
Luke counts under his breath as he lifts me, slow and deliberate, carrying me into the bathroom. He settles me onto the closed toilet lid and kneels in front of me, eyes level with mine. He gently turns my face, checking for anything else, anything he might have missed.
He wipes his thumb beneath my eyes, brushing away tears I didn’t realize were falling. His hands are rough, familiar, grounding. And suddenly the realization hits me so hard it knocks the air from my lungs.
The thought breaks something open in me. I fold forward with a sob, pressing my face into his shoulder. He hesitates for half a second, clearly afraid of hurting me, then cradles my head instead, kissing my hair softly despite the rain and blood and mess of it all.
He’s soaked too. He smells like rain and sweat and fear.
I pull back just enough to kiss him.
The guilt I’ve been carrying washes away, carried off with everything else tonight has taken from me. I know what I want now. No bet gets to touch this. No stupid rules get to take him away from me.
He kisses me like I might shatter, careful and reverent. I grip his hair to remind him I won’t. He kisses me back, deeper this time, desperate in a way that makes my chest ache. If our first kiss was playful and the second hungry, this one is survival. Shared loss. Years of it.
When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathless. His eyes are glassy. I wipe a tear from his cheek, and we let out quiet, disbelieving laughs at how unreal all of this feels.
He helps me stand, staying close in case my legs give out. They don’t, thankfully. He tests the water with his hand before turning back to me, suddenly shy as he takes in the fact that I’m bare and vulnerable in front of him.
After tonight, it barely registers.
I give him a small smile and gesture toward the shower. “I’m going to need help,” I say, my voice rough.
He nods, eyes dropping as he starts to pull off his own clothes.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I figured.”
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