CLARISSE LA RUE

Clarisse La Rue has always been inevitable.

Not in the way storms are—loud, sudden, overwhelming—but in the way gravity works. Constant. Unyielding. Pulling everything into its orbit whether it means to or not.

And somehow, impossibly, that pull found you.

You never remember a moment where it began. There was no single turning point, no dramatic shift where enemies became allies or strangers became something more. It simply… happened. One day, she was the girl everyone warned you about—too aggressive, too volatile, too much—and the next, she was standing beside you like she had always been meant to.

Like the space next to you had been carved out with her in mind.

She never calls you their best friend.

Clarisse doesn’t deal in titles like that. Doesn’t soften things with sentiment or make declarations she can’t fight her way out of.

But she seeks you out.

That’s how you know.

She finds you after training, when her knuckles are bruised and her patience worn thin, muttering under her breath about someone who pissed her off. She finds you at meals, dropping into the seat across from you without asking, stealing food off your plate like it’s an unspoken agreement. She finds you at night, when the camp quiets and the fire burns low, sitting just close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

And sometimes—only sometimes—she talks.

Not the sharp, biting remarks she throws at everyone else. Not the competitive jabs or the blunt observations. Something quieter. Rougher around the edges.

Real.

Lately, those conversations have started to circle around one person in particular.

Chris Rodriguez.

You don’t mean to notice how often his name comes up.

At first, it’s easy to brush off. Clarisse complains about everyone—why would he be any different? Another idiot at camp, another person not living up to her expectations.

But then it keeps happening.

“Rodriguez messed up drills again today.”

“He thinks he’s funny. He’s not.”

“He doesn’t listen.”

You hum along, nodding in the right places, offering the occasional comment when it’s expected. You don’t think much of it.

Not at first.

Because you know Chris.

You’ve spoken to him enough times to understand the kind of person he is—charming in an easy, effortless way. The kind of person people gravitate toward without thinking too hard about it.

You understand that better than most.

You’re used to being watched. Noticed. Followed. It comes naturally, the way you carry yourself, the way people turn their heads when you walk into a room. Attention sticks to you like sunlight, warm and constant.

You don’t compete for it.

You don’t need to.

So when Clarisse talks about Chris, you tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just another name.

Just another complaint.

Just another person who will fade into the background eventually.

Except—

He doesn’t.

And neither does the way she says his name.

You notice it one afternoon, the shift so subtle it almost slips past you. You’re sitting on the edge of the arena, watching a few campers spar, when Clarisse steps into the ring.

Chris is already there.

You don’t think anything of it at first. It’s normal. People train together all the time.

But then she looks at him.

And something in your chest tightens.

It’s not obvious. Not something anyone else would catch. Clarisse isn’t soft, not even when she cares. There’s no gentle smile, no obvious affection.

But there’s… focus.

Attention.

A sharp, unwavering kind of interest that feels too deliberate to be casual.

You tell yourself you’re imagining it.

You must be.

Because the alternative doesn’t make sense.

It doesn’t align with everything you thought you knew.

The lingering touches—her hand brushing yours and not pulling away immediately. The way she stands just a little closer to you than necessary. The looks she gives you when she thinks you’re not paying attention, something intense and unguarded flickering beneath the surface.

You didn’t imagine that.

You couldn’t have.

And yet—

Now she’s watching him like that.

You scoff under your breath, crossing your arms, your gaze sharpening as Chris says something you can’t quite hear. Whatever it is, Clarisse reacts—rolls her eyes, shoves his shoulder—but there’s something lighter in the movement. Something that doesn’t belong to the version of her you know best.

It irritates you.

More than it should.

You look away before you can dwell on it, forcing your attention elsewhere.

It doesn’t work.

Because once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

The way he brushes her off sometimes, like he doesn’t understand the weight of her attention. Like he doesn’t recognize what he’s been given.

Ungrateful.

That’s the only word that fits.

You grit your teeth, forcing a smile when someone nearby tries to pull you into a conversation. You respond automatically, laugh at the right moments, play the part you’ve always played so effortlessly.

But your focus drifts.

Back to them.

Always back to them.

It doesn’t make sense.

You don’t get jealous.

That’s not who you are.

You’re the one people look at, not the one who watches from the sidelines.

And yet—

Here you are.

Watching.

Waiting.

Burning.

You try to rationalize it.

It’s not jealousy.

It’s caution.

That’s all.

The Hermes cabin has been… complicated lately. Ever since Luke Castellan turned against the gods, everything tied to that name carries a certain weight. A certain risk.

You’re just being careful.

That’s what you tell yourself.

It has nothing to do with the way your chest tightens every time Clarisse looks at Chris like he matters.

Nothing to do with the way your thoughts spiral late at night, replaying every moment you might have misread.

Nothing to do with the quiet, creeping fear that you were wrong.

That everything you thought existed between you—

Didn’t.

The day of the chariot races arrives like a storm barely held together.

Tension coils through camp, thick and suffocating. Rumors spread faster than wildfire—Percy Jackson has returned, and trouble always follows in his wake. There are whispers about the barrier, about Luke being seen near it, about damage that shouldn’t be possible.

And Chiron is gone.

That alone is enough to make everything feel unstable.

Unpredictable.

But the races happen anyway.

Because that’s what camp does.

It moves forward, no matter what.

You stand at the edge of the arena, heart pounding as the chariots line up. Your focus locks onto one in particular—Clarisse, standing tall, armor gleaming, expression set in that familiar, unyielding determination.

For a moment, everything else fades.

It’s just her.

It’s always been her.

The signal sounds, and chaos erupts.

The race is brutal, fast-paced, relentless. Wheels splinter, campers shout, the ground shakes beneath the force of it all. You cheer without thinking, your voice cutting through the noise as you track her every movement.

She’s unstoppable.

Of course she is.

Even when everything goes wrong—when the sky darkens, when something unnatural tears through the barrier, when monstrous birds descend in a flurry of claws and feathers—you don’t look away.

Because Clarisse doesn’t.

She fights through it.

Pushes forward.

Wins.

The moment she crosses the finish line, something fierce and triumphant surges through you. Pride. Relief. Something deeper, something harder to name.

She did it.

And then—

She’s walking toward you.

Not anyone else.

You.

Your breath catches as she approaches, her expression shifting, the sharp edges softening just enough to reveal something rare. Something real.

Her hand comes up, rough and warm as it cups your face, grounding you in a way nothing else can. She’s grinning—wide, unrestrained, victorious.

And it’s yours.

That smile.

That moment.

It belongs to you.

For a second, everything feels right again.

Like nothing has changed.

Like nothing ever will.

Then the call comes.

Camp is gathering. Urgent. Serious.

The moment fractures.

You follow the crowd, your pulse still uneven, your thoughts tangled as the reality of the situation settles in. The barrier is damaged. There’s a way to fix it.

A quest.

Of course there is.

And when Clarisse’s name is called, something in your chest lifts.

Of course it’s her.

Who else could it be?

Excitement sparks, sharp and bright. You don’t even question it—you know how this works. You know her.

She’ll choose you.

There’s no doubt.

No hesitation.

You’ve always stood beside her.

Always.

“Annabeth Chase and Chris Rodriguez.”

The words don’t register at first.

They hang in the air, distant, unreal, like they belong to someone else’s story.

Then they sink in.

And everything stops.

The cheers, the applause, the movement of the crowd—it all fades into a dull, ringing silence as your mind struggles to catch up.

Annabeth.

Chris.

Not you.

Not you.

Your chest tightens, something sharp and unbearable twisting beneath your ribs. You don’t move. Can’t.

Because if you do, it becomes real.

And you’re not ready for that.

Not yet.

But the moment doesn’t wait for you.

It never does.

The crowd starts to disperse, voices rising, excitement building, but you’re already turning away, your body moving on instinct alone.

You don’t think.

You don’t hesitate.

You just leave.

No one stops you.

No one dares.

Though you can hear it—

Footsteps behind you.

Closing the distance.

Oblivious.

Of course she is.

Your vision blurs as you push forward, your hands curling into fists at your sides. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you need space. Distance. Air.

Because if you stop—

If you turn around—

You’re not sure what you’ll say.