DREW TANAKA

The first time it happens, you don’t even realize you’ve made a mistake.

It’s early—too early for most of camp to be awake—and the showers are still half-steamed from whoever used them last. The air smells faintly of citrus and something floral, probably leftover from the Aphrodite cabin’s usual takeover of the space. You don’t think much of it. You’re tired, half-focused, and operating on instinct more than thought.

So you grab the nearest bottle.

It’s yours—or at least, you assume it is. Same general shape, same spot you always leave your things. You don’t inspect it closely. You just flip the cap open, squeeze some into your hand, and—

“Absolutely not.”

The voice cuts through the steam like a blade—sharp, controlled, unmistakable.

You freeze.

There’s a pause, like the entire room itself is holding its breath. Then, slowly, you turn your head.

Drew Tanaka is standing just inside the doorway, arms crossed, expression carved from something dangerously close to disbelief. Your first instinct is to laugh it off—because this has to be a joke, right?

It isn’t.

Her gaze drops to the bottle in your hand, and her expression shifts from disbelief to something far worse: offense.

“Tell me,” Drew says, stepping closer, each movement precise, deliberate, “that you’re not about to use that.”

You glance down at the bottle. It’s just a generic, all-in-one thing—nothing fancy, nothing terrible. Convenient. Efficient.

“…It’s just shampoo,” you say, a little cautiously.

Her eyes narrow.

“No,” Drew corrects, voice tightening, “it’s not ‘just shampoo.’ It’s a three-in-one.” She says it like it’s a personal insult. “Shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. In one bottle.”

You shrug slightly, still not entirely understanding the severity of the situation. “Yeah. Saves time.”

For a moment, she just stares at you.

Then she exhales—slow, controlled, like she’s trying very hard not to lose patience.

“Put it down.”

The command isn’t loud, but it lands with weight. Drew doesn’t raise her voice when she’s serious. She doesn’t have to.

You hesitate.

That’s your second mistake.

Her gaze sharpens instantly, something flaring beneath the surface—irritation, yes, but layered with something more complicated. Not anger exactly. Not just that.

Expectation.

“Put. It. Down,” she repeats, slower this time.

There’s a strange tension in the air now, something that has nothing to do with the situation itself and everything to do with her. Drew isn’t just reacting to a bottle of soap. This matters to her, in a way that feels disproportionate until you look closer.

So you set it down.

Immediately, the tension shifts—not gone, but redirected. Drew steps forward, reaching past you to pick up the bottle between two fingers like it’s something distasteful.

“I cannot believe you use this,” she says, inspecting it with a faint grimace. “Do you have any idea what this does to your hair? Your skin?”

You lean against the tile, watching her, more amused now than anything. “It cleans it?”

She gives you a look.

“That’s not the point.”

Of course it isn’t.

Drew sets the bottle aside with a level of finality that suggests it won’t be returning to your routine anytime soon. Then she turns back to you, already moving with purpose.

“Wait here,” she says, before disappearing out the door.

You don’t move.

Not because you feel particularly compelled to obey, but because curiosity has settled in. This has escalated far beyond what you expected, and there’s something almost fascinating about the intensity of her reaction.

She’s back within a minute.

Arms full.

Bottles—multiple—each one sleek, labelled, carefully chosen. She sets them down in a neat line on the counter, arranging them with the kind of precision that says this isn’t impulsive. This is practiced.

“This,” she says, picking up the first bottle, “is shampoo.”

She places it down.

“This is conditioner.”

Another bottle.

“And this,” she adds, holding up a third, “is body wash.”

There’s a pause.

Then she looks at you, as if waiting for something.

“…Okay,” you say slowly.

Her lips press together, like she’s deciding whether to be patient or condescending. She lands somewhere in the middle.

“You don’t combine them,” she explains, tone clipped but controlled. “They serve different purposes. Your hair isn’t your skin. Your scalp isn’t your shoulders. This—” she gestures vaguely toward where the three-in-one sits, abandoned and disgraced— “is laziness in a bottle.”

There’s a flicker of something else in her expression then. Not just frustration.

Disapproval.

And underneath that—something quieter. Harder to name.

You tilt your head slightly. “It works.”

Drew’s eyes flash.

“No,” she says, sharper now, “it doesn’t. It just… exists. There’s a difference.”

She steps closer again, close enough now that you can see the fine details—the way her hair is perfectly arranged even this early, the way every part of her presentation is intentional.

Nothing about Drew is accidental.

“Do you know what people notice first?” she asks, voice lowering slightly.

It’s not really a question. It’s a setup.

“Appearance,” she answers anyway. “Details. The way you present yourself. It matters.”

There it is.

Not just about the product. Not just about the routine.

About control. Image. Perception.

You study her for a moment, and something shifts in your understanding. This isn’t just her being particular. This is her being… careful. Deliberate. Guarded, in a way that looks like confidence until you look too closely.

“You care a lot about this,” you say.

It’s not mocking. Not dismissive.

Just an observation.

For a split second, something in her expression flickers—too fast to fully catch, but unmistakably there. Then it’s gone, replaced by that familiar composure.

“Of course I do,” she says, lifting her chin slightly. “Someone has to.”

There’s an edge to it now.

Not defensive exactly—but close.

She turns away briefly, adjusting the bottles again, though they don’t need adjusting. When she speaks again, her voice is steadier, more controlled.

“You represent yourself,” she continues. “And, whether you like it or not, you represent me too.”

That lands differently.

Not possessive. Not entirely.

But close enough to feel the weight of it.

Drew glances back at you, gaze sharp but searching in a way she probably doesn’t realize.

“I’m not letting you walk around like that,” she adds. “Not when I can fix it.”

There’s something almost contradictory in the statement—control wrapped in care, criticism laced with attention.

Her version of affection isn’t soft.

It’s precise. Intentional. Demanding.

She picks up the shampoo bottle again, holding it out toward you this time.

“Use this.”

It’s not a suggestion.

But it’s not entirely a command either—not in the way it was before.

There’s something else there now.

Expectation, yes.

But also… investment.

Like this matters because you matter.

Drew watches you carefully, expression unreadable but focused, like she’s waiting to see what you’ll do. Not just about the shampoo.

But about her.

And for once, the silence between you doesn’t feel tense.

It feels… deliberate.

Like something unspoken is being tested, balanced, understood in real time.