CLARISSE LA RUE

Clarisse La Rue has never believed in anything gentle.

Not in softness. Not in love. Not in the kind of quiet, fragile things people hold onto when the world gets too heavy to carry.

She believes in strength.

In bruised knuckles and split lips. In the weight of a weapon fitting perfectly into her hand. In proving herself over and over again until even the gods have no choice but to look at her and see something worth respecting.

That’s always been enough.

It had to be.

Because anything else—anything softer—was a liability.

And Clarisse doesn’t do liabilities.

So when people whisper about crushes, about fleeting glances and lingering touches, she scoffs. When campers sneak away from the fire to sit too close under the excuse of shared warmth, she rolls her eyes and throws herself back into training.

She doesn’t need that.

She doesn’t want that.

She doesn’t—

Didn’t.

Because there was a time, once, when something had slipped past her defenses before she even knew what to call it.

Before she had the language for it.

Before she understood what it meant.

You.

It had never been loud. Never something she could point to and say this is it, this is what everyone talks about. It hadn’t been dramatic or overwhelming or all-consuming.

It had been quiet.

Steady.

The kind of thing that settles into your bones without asking permission.

The kind of thing that lingers.

And then—

You were gone.

Not in the way people usually leave camp, not with a wave and a promise to come back in the summer. You were gone in a way that left no room for certainty, no timeline to hold onto.

Years.

Years of nothing.

And Clarisse—

Clarisse had taken that emptiness and done what she always does.

She buried it.

Buried it beneath training, beneath anger, beneath the relentless pursuit of something she could actually control. If she couldn’t have you—if she couldn’t even know where you were—then she would make herself into something untouchable.

Unbreakable.

Someone who didn’t need anyone.

She told herself she didn’t love you.

Not anymore.

Not like that.

Because loving something you can’t have is pointless.

Because waiting for something that might never come back is weak.

So she stopped waiting.

Or at least—

She tried.

It didn’t work.

Not really.

Because every time she stepped into the arena, there was a moment—just a second—where she expected to see you at the edge, watching. Every time she came back from a fight, adrenaline still burning through her veins, she’d catch herself scanning the crowd.

Just in case.

It was stupid.

Pathetic.

She hated it.

So she pushed harder.

Fought harder.

Bled more.

If she couldn’t get rid of it, she’d drown it.

And then came the Labyrinth.

She volunteered.

Of course she did.

No hesitation. No second thoughts. Just another chance to prove herself, to do something that mattered, something that would finally—finally—earn her father’s approval.

It didn’t.

It never does.

What it did do was break something.

Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else could see.

Clarisse came back stronger, sharper, more dangerous than ever. That’s what everyone noticed. That’s what they praised.

They didn’t see the nights she woke up choking on air that wouldn’t come.

Didn’t see the way her hands sometimes shook when she thought about the dark stretching endlessly in every direction.

Didn’t see how close she’d come to not making it out at all.

And she never told them.

She never would.

Clarisse doesn’t do weakness.

So she stood there, back straight, chin up, and let them clap her on the shoulder. Let them call her a hero.

Let them believe she was fine.

Because that’s easier.

It always is.

Until—

“Did you hear?”

The words had been quiet. Casual. Almost an afterthought.

Clarisse hadn’t even been paying attention at first, too focused on cleaning her spear, on keeping her hands busy so her mind wouldn’t wander somewhere it shouldn’t.

“—back.”

That got her attention.

Her head lifted slightly, her grip tightening just a fraction as the conversation behind her sharpened into focus.

“—saw them earlier—Infirmary, I think.”

The world didn’t stop.

It didn’t shatter or tilt or shift in some dramatic, obvious way.

It just—

Paused.

For a second.

A single, fragile second where everything felt suspended, balanced on the edge of something she wasn’t ready to name.

You.

You were back.

Her first reaction isn’t relief.

It isn’t joy.

It’s something sharper. Something more immediate.

Panic.

Because this—this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not like this.

Not now.

She had spent years convincing herself that whatever had been between you was gone, buried, irrelevant. She had reshaped herself around your absence, built walls so high and so thick that nothing could get through.

And now—

Now you were here.

And she didn’t know what that meant.

Didn’t know what it made her.

Didn’t know if she wanted to find out.

She tells herself she doesn’t care.

That it doesn’t matter.

That you’re just another person at camp now, nothing more, nothing different.

She almost believes it.

Almost.

Her feet start moving before she makes a conscious decision to.

That’s the part she hates most.

The lack of control.

The way her body betrays her, carrying her across camp without permission, without hesitation, straight toward the one place she knows you’ll be.

The Infirmary.

Each step feels heavier than it should, her thoughts louder, messier, harder to pin down.

What if you’ve changed?

Of course you’ve changed.

Years don’t pass without leaving marks.

What if you don’t—

What if you do?

She grits her teeth, shoving the thoughts down before they can take root.

This is stupid.

You’re just… you.

And she’s just—

Clarisse.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

She stops just outside the Infirmary, her hand hovering near the entrance for a moment longer than necessary.

This is ridiculous.

She’s faced monsters without hesitation. Walked into battles she wasn’t sure she’d survive. Stared down things that should have terrified her and didn’t flinch.

And now she’s hesitating because of you?

Pathetic.

Her jaw tightens, and she pushes inside before she can think about it any longer.

The smell hits her first—clean, sharp, unmistakable. Then the quiet. Softer than the rest of camp, subdued in a way that feels almost unnatural after everything outside.

And then—

You.

Her gaze finds you immediately.

Of course it does.

It’s like nothing’s changed at all.

And yet—

Everything has.

You’re lying there, not how she remembers you, not untouched and whole and untouchable by time. There are signs of it—bandages, the way you hold yourself, the subtle tension in your body that speaks of injuries not fully healed.

Something in her chest twists.

Uncomfortable.

Unfamiliar.

Unwelcome.

She ignores it.

Of course she does.

Clarisse steps fully into the room, boots heavy against the floor, her presence cutting through the quiet like it always does. Heads turn briefly, then look away just as quickly.

No one wants to deal with her right now.

Good.

She doesn’t want to deal with them either.

Her focus stays on you as she approaches, each step deliberate, controlled, like she’s forcing herself not to rush.

Like she’s forcing herself not to—

Something.

She stops a few feet away.

Close enough to see you clearly.

Close enough to remember.

Gods.

It’s been too long.

For a moment, she doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t move.

Just looks.

Takes you in like she’s trying to reconcile the person in front of her with the one she’s been carrying around in her head for years.

Then, because she’s Clarisse—

Because she doesn’t know how to do this any other way—

She speaks.

“You look like literal shit, princess.”

The words come out rough, edged with something that almost sounds like disdain.

Almost.

But her voice is lower than usual.

Less certain.

And when she looks at you—

Really looks at you—

There’s something there that wasn’t before.

Something she never lets anyone see.

Not even you.

Not back then.

Not now.

Something raw.

Something uncertain.

Something that doesn’t belong to the girl who claims she doesn’t care about anything at all.

Her arms cross over her chest, posture shifting into something more familiar, more guarded, like she’s trying to rebuild the walls she walked in without.

“You always this good at getting yourself messed up,” she adds, tone sharper now, safer, “or did you just miss the attention?”

It’s easier like this.

Easier to fall back into old habits.

Easier to pretend this doesn’t matter.

That you don’t matter.

But she hasn’t left.

She hasn’t looked away.

And despite everything she’s told herself—

Despite everything she’s tried to bury—

She’s here.

Looking at you like you’re something she never quite learned how to forget.