Nico Di Angelo ²

The first memory I have of Daimon is one I try to push into the darkest corner of my mind, yet it always resurfaces, clearer each time. I was sitting at the edge of the woods at Camp Half-Blood, alone, when a shadow fell across my face. When I looked up, there he was, tall and graceful, extending his hand with a lopsided grin. “Pleased to meet you, pretty” he said, grabbing my hand before I could pull away. Then he kissed the back of my hand like I was a princess. A knot twisted in my stomach, and a glowing symbol appeared above his head. Eros had claimed him, and I knew things were about to get complicated. That memory stirs up emotions I’d rather avoid. It marked the start of something I never wanted: a boy I couldn’t shake. Now, as I watch him in the training arena, irritation bubbles up. He practices with his bow, his hair flying. His muscles flex and release like clockwork. It’s infuriating how well he fits in, and worse, he knows it.