You stood in the doorway, the worn wood of the frame cool under your palm. The late afternoon sun cut a sharp, dusty line across the floorboards, illuminating motes dancing in the silence.

Luke was supposed to be sick. Connor Stoll had said so, his face a mask of convincing concern. He’s burning up, won’t let anyone near him. You’d brought ambrosia squares, stolen from the kitchen, wrapped in a napkin.

He wasn’t burning up. He was laughing. A soft, familiar sound you hadn’t heard in weeks.

He was on his bunk, the top one by the window. And he wasn’t alone. Silena Beauregard, the Aphrodite counselor with the cascade of dark curls and a smile that could disarm Ares himself, was beneath him, propped on her elbows. Her head was tilted back, laughing too.

Luke’s back was to the door, his broad shoulders blocking most of her from view. One of his hands was braced on the wall beside her head. The other held a wooden practice sword, its tip resting lightly on the mattress near her hip. A teaching pose. An intimate one.

“You’re still dropping your guard on the backswing,” Luke said, his voice warm and teasing. It was the voice he used for you, once.

Silena swatted at the practice sword. “You’re a brutal teacher, Castellan.”

He leaned in, saying something too low for you to catch. She smiled, a private, sparkling thing.

The napkin with the ambrosia squares felt like a stone in your hand.