LUKE CASTELLAN

The Hermes Cabin is quieter than usual.

That alone should have been the first sign something was wrong.

Normally the cabin is chaos—dozens of campers packed together in a space never designed to hold so many people. Someone is always laughing, arguing, or trying to steal someone else’s socks. Bags hang from bedposts, shoes are scattered everywhere, and half the campers never seem to sleep.

But today the cabin is strangely calm.

Most of the campers are outside finishing afternoon training, leaving the bunks nearly empty.

Except for one.

Luke.

You pause in the doorway for a moment, listening.

The late afternoon sunlight filters through the windows, casting long golden bars across the wooden floor. Dust floats in the air. The room smells faintly like campfire smoke and the lingering sweetness of strawberries from the fields.

And underneath that—

Heat.

You can practically feel it radiating from across the room.

Luke lies sprawled across his bunk, one arm hanging loosely off the side of the bed. His orange Camp Half-Blood shirt has clearly been abandoned somewhere on the floor, leaving him shirtless beneath a thin blanket that’s been kicked halfway down the mattress.

His skin is flushed.

Too flushed.

Even from the doorway, you can see the fever burning through him.

You sigh quietly and step inside.

You and Luke have known each other for years—long before either of you ever set foot in Camp Half-Blood. Before monsters. Before prophecies. Before any of the chaos that came with being a demigod.

Back when the world had been simpler.

You had grown up together.

Best friends since childhood.

And for a long time, that’s all you were.

Until a few months ago.

That was when Luke had finally worked up the courage to ask you out.

The memory makes a faint smile tug at the corner of your mouth even now.

He’d been so nervous.

Which had been almost funny, considering Luke Castellan is usually the most confident person in any room.

But right now—

He looks awful.

Luke almost never gets sick.

In fact, you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve seen it happen.

But when he does get sick…

It’s bad.

Really bad.

Two weeks, sometimes.

High fevers.

Barely moving.

And stubborn beyond reason.

Luke refuses medicine.

Refuses food.

Refuses help.

You had learned that the hard way the first time it happened.

This time, at least, you were prepared.

You walk quietly across the cabin and sit down on the edge of his bed.

The mattress dips slightly under your weight.

Luke doesn’t wake.

For a moment, you simply watch him.

His usually sharp features are softened by sleep. Damp strands of hair cling to his forehead, darkened with sweat. His breathing is slow but uneven, each inhale sounding just a little heavier than it should.

You reach forward carefully.

Your fingers brush lightly against his forehead.

The heat there makes your stomach tighten.

“Gods, Luke…” you murmur quietly.

The fever is already raging.

And this is only the beginning.

Your hand moves gently through his hair, brushing the damp strands away from his face.

He shifts slightly at the contact, his brow tightening.

A faint groan escapes him.

Then—

“…You’re hovering.”

His voice is hoarse and rough with sleep.

Your eyebrows lift.

“So you’re awake.”

Luke cracks one eye open, squinting at you through the dim light.

“…Barely.”

His voice sounds terrible.

Like he swallowed gravel.

You lean back slightly, folding your arms.

“You’re burning up.”

“I’m fine.”

You stare at him.

Luke stares back.

Even half-delirious with fever, he somehow manages to look stubborn.

You sigh.

“You’ve been sick for four days.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

Luke closes his eyes again.

“…Doesn’t count if I slept through most of it.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Typical.

Your gaze drifts over him again, concern settling deeper in your chest.

His breathing is too warm.

Too heavy.

Sweat glistens faintly across his shoulders and collarbone, and the thin blanket twisted around his waist does absolutely nothing to hide how miserable he looks.

You reach for the glass of water sitting on the small crate beside his bed.

“Sit up.”

“No.”

“Luke.”

“I said—”

“Sit up.”

Your tone sharpens just enough that his eyes open again.

He squints at you.

“You’re bossy.”

“And you’re sick.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re hallucinating.”

“I am not—”

“You just tried to argue that sleeping through being sick means it doesn’t count.”

Luke stares at you for a long moment.

Then he exhales slowly.

“…That’s a fair point.”

You hold out the glass.

“Drink.”

Luke eyes the water like it personally offended him.

“I’m not thirsty.”

“You’re dehydrated.”

“I’ll survive.”

“You’ll pass out.”

“…Already did that.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Luke.”

He sighs dramatically but pushes himself up slightly against the headboard.

The movement clearly takes more effort than he wants to admit.

You notice the way his shoulders tense.

The way his breathing stutters briefly.

But he doesn’t complain.

He never does.

You hand him the water.

Luke takes a reluctant sip.

Then another.

And another.

Eventually he hands the glass back.

“Happy?”

“Moderately.”

He leans his head back against the wall again, eyes half-closed.

For a few minutes, neither of you speak.

The quiet in the cabin is peaceful.

Outside, you can faintly hear swords clashing in the arena and someone shouting instructions.

Luke’s voice breaks the silence.

“…You didn’t have to come check on me.”

You glance at him.

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes,” you repeat calmly, “I did.”

Luke cracks one eye open again.

“You have better things to do than babysit me.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

“…Literally anything else.”

You lean back slightly on the bed.

“Luke.”

He sighs again.

“You’re impossible.”

You smile faintly.

“And you’re sick.”

“Still fine.”

“You’re sweating through the mattress.”

“…It’s hot.”

“You’re delirious.”

Luke huffs weakly.

“You’re dramatic.”

“Drink more water.”

“No.”

You pick up the glass again.

“Luke.”

He groans softly, dragging a hand across his face.

“You’re relentless.”

“You’re welcome.”

Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitches.

You watch him carefully.

For all his stubbornness, Luke looks exhausted.

The fever has clearly drained what little strength he has left.

His eyes drift closed again after a moment.

Your voice softens.

“Get some sleep.”

“I was sleeping.”

“Properly.”

Luke doesn’t respond.

His breathing gradually slows again, evening out as he slips back into sleep.

You sit quietly at the edge of the bed, watching him for a while.

Your hand drifts back to his hair again, brushing it gently away from his forehead.

The fever is still burning.

But at least he’s resting.

Outside, the sun dips lower toward the horizon.

The light through the windows turns warmer.

Softer.

And you stay right where you are.

Because if Luke Castellan is going to spend the next two weeks stubbornly refusing to take care of himself—

Then someone has to make sure he survives it.