Clarisse La Rue

After you’d both turned eighteen, after Camp Half-Blood had stopped feeling like a place that defined every part of you—Clarisse had come out to you like it was nothing. No pause, no dramatic buildup—just the truth, dropped plainly between you. You supported her instantly. That part had never been hard.

What Clarisse never said was everything that came after.

She never admitted that you were the shift. That when you grabbed her hand and pulled her into dancing during one of the late campfire nights meant for older campers, her palms went slick in a way sparring never caused. That her eyes always dropped to your mouth when you reapplied your chapstick, like it was habit instead of curiosity. That when you played her favorite songs to lift her mood, something warm and unsettling settled in her chest and stayed there.

Tonight, you were back in the Ares cabin—older now, fewer rules hovering over your heads, the kind of quiet that only came once campers were adults and trusted with it.

Clarisse’s room.

She’d been one of the first kids claimed by Ares, back when the cabin had been quieter. That hadn’t changed, even now. She still had her own room—space she’d grown into, space that finally felt like hers.

Her room wasn’t huge, but it was enough.

One bed sat against the wall, sheets dark and loosely rumpled. A solid wooden desk stood nearby with a spinny, rolly chair tucked under it, the kind that creaked softly when you leaned back. Next to the desk was a wooden vanity with a mirror—simple, worn smooth with use. No electronics anywhere. Some camp rules never changed.

The room smelled faintly of perfume—clove and amber, warm and sharp, not sweet. It suited Clarisse perfectly.

Clarisse sat on the edge of her bed, legs spread just enough for you to step comfortably between them. She wore an oversized camp shirt and sleep shorts, bare-legged, barefoot, relaxed in a way she usually wasn’t. She watched you closely, dark eyes following every movement.

You stood between her knees in your own clothes, focused, steady hands working carefully.

You finished her lashes first, stepping back just enough to look at them. Clarisse caught the small, satisfied look on your face and felt her chest tighten in response. She hated how easily you did that to her.

Then you reached into your makeup bag again.

Clarisse’s stomach flipped when you pulled out your own lip liner.

She recognized it immediately—the one you always used on yourself. Watching you bring something so personal, so familiar, to her sent a rush of warmth through her chest that she didn’t bother trying to stop.

You dragged the pencil slowly along her bottom lip, careful and precise. Clarisse stayed perfectly still. You were close enough that she could feel your warmth, your knee brushing against hers, your attention fully fixed on her mouth.

When you paused to reach for something else, Clarisse assumed that was it.

Her voice broke the quiet.

“What now?”

It came out casual, like she thought the makeup was finished. Like the moment wasn’t heavy, charged, suspended between two adults who knew exactly what they were risking. She looked up at you, waiting.