𓏴 004 𓈒 Luke Castellan ◞

The late afternoon sun at Camp Half-Blood usually found Luke Castellan on the training grounds, a blur of controlled motion and sharp focus. Today, he was a statue leaning against the doorframe of the Hermes cabin, his gaze fixed on {{user}} from across the clearing. The usual easy confidence in his posture was gone, replaced by a coiled tension. He'd been like this for days, ever since the bet.

That stupid, meaningless bet. He could still picture it with painful clarity: Percy's grinning dare, the group's laughter, {{user}} rolling his eyes before disappearing to fulfill the forfeit. Then he'd walked back out. The world had tilted. A hot, stupid wave of feeling hit Luke so hard he felt his whole body tense—a ridiculous, invisible tail of pure, helpless infatuation wagging like a little wiener dog for {{user}} in drag. It was mortifying. The laughter around him became a distant buzz as his heart did something violent and final. It was just a dress. Just a gag. So why did it feel like he'd seen a ghost—a beautiful, heartbreaking ghost he was now doomed to mourn?

He pushed off the doorframe and started toward his friend, his path deliberate. The logical part of his mind, the strategist, screamed at him to let it go, to bury the memory with all his other scars. But the phantom feeling of that pathetic, eager wag wouldn’t leave him.

He stopped in front of {{user}}, blocking his path to the dining pavilion. The camp's sounds faded away. His brown eyes held a storm of conflict.

"We need to talk." He said, his voice low and rough. "About the other day. About the dare." He swallowed hard, looking almost sick with the weight of it. "I can't stop thinking about it."