Chapter Text
The silence between them was soft and unhurried—like the slow drip of honey as Damian spread it across warm bread.
Outside, the forest murmured quietly, leaves whispering against the windows of Melinda Desmond’s towering treehouse mansion.
The rain from the night before had left everything damp and alive, sunlight filtering through the canopy in fractured beams of gold.
The world felt far away here—no Becky, no Ewen, no Emile, no chaos. Just them.
Suspended in green and quiet.
Damian stood at the counter by the stove, his back to her.
He’d come out of the shower without a shirt, dark hair still slightly damp, skin warm and faintly flushed.
He moved with a kind of absent concentration, shoulders flexing as he wrestled with the stubborn butter container like it had personally insulted him.
Anya watched him.
Really watched him.
The slope of his shoulders.
The way his muscles shifted beneath his skin when he leaned forward.
The small scar near his ribs she hadn’t noticed before.
It struck her—soft and sudden—that Damian Desmond, heir to half the world, terrifying academic menace, professional scowler… was standing in a treehouse kitchen making her breakfast.
And he was beautiful.
Her chin rested in her palm, eyes tracing every line of him shamelessly. She didn’t even try to hide it.
Damian felt it.
He stiffened slightly, the spoon pausing mid-scoop.
“…You know,” he said without turning around, voice dry, “staring is generally considered rude.”
Anya smiled, lazy and unapologetic. “I’m appreciating.”
He snorted softly. “That’s not helping your case.”
She tilted her head. “You’re my boyfriend. I think I’m allowed.”
That made his ears burn.
He finally turned to face her, butter knife in hand, one eyebrow lifted in mock severity.
“You’re going to make me mess this up.”
She glanced pointedly at the perfectly buttered bread. “You’re doing great.”
His eyes flicked to hers. Then—very deliberately—down to the way she was sitting on the counter, legs swinging, wearing one of his shirts like it was custom-made for her.
“Well,” he said, smirking despite himself, “if you keep looking at me like that, I’m charging you a fee.”
She blinked. “For what?”
“For distracting the chef.”
Anya laughed, warm and bright, and
hopped down from the counter. She padded over to him, stopping just a little too close.
“Worth it,” she said softly.
Damian swallowed. His gaze lingered on her
face, the way the sunlight caught in her eyes, the ease of her smile.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I guess it is.”
And for a moment—surrounded by wood and light and forest silence—the world felt impossibly small.
And perfectly theirs.
“ so” anya said taking a bite out of her bread, it melted in her mouth, the sweetness of the honey was perfect for the slight saltiness of the butter, she moaned in delight, casing Damian to nearly choke on his food, “ yeah ?” He asked, barely recovering.
“ are we gonna talk about your mom’s mysterious notebook ?” She continued, giving him a notable look, her eyebrows raised and her emerald eyes sparkling with curiosity.
His mother had fucking emailed him to get her some random notebook while he was in the middle of a trip.
She had barely contacted him for nearly six months but now that she wanted something, she’d sent him an email that would suggest they are business partners rather than mother and son.
Damian knew—knew—that he should say no.
He knew he should finish eating, clean up, maybe even suggest they head back since the rain had eased.
He knew opening his mother’s notebook was probably crossing some invisible line she’d drawn years ago.
But Anya was looking at him like that.
Curious. Soft. Bright-eyed. Honey still on her lips like a weapon.
And Damian Desmond had never, in his entire life, been good at telling Anya Forger no. Not like she’d ever taken no for an answer, but still.
He exhaled through his nose, already defeated.
“…You’re impossible,” he muttered.
Her smile widened instantly. “You love that about me.”
He did. Horrifyingly so.
He reached for the notebook on the table.
It was smaller than he expected—soft blue leather, worn at the corners.
Melinda Desmond’s name was embroidered on the cover in delicate gold thread, the stitching faintly uneven, like it had been done by hand.
His fingers hesitated.
This wasn’t just a notebook.
This was… hers.
The version of his mother that existed before him.
Before the cold dinners. Before the empty silences and perfectly arranged distance.
Anya leaned closer, shoulder brushing his. “You okay?”
He nodded once. “Yeah. Just—this is weird.”
“Then let’s be weird together,” she said simply.
Of course she would say that.
He opened it.
The first few pages were sketches—little doodles in the margins. Swirls. Stars. A badly drawn heart that looked aggressively unprofessional. Damian frowned.
Then he turned the page.
A photograph slipped loose and fluttered onto the table.
They both stared.
“…Is that,” Anya said slowly, “an ice cream truck?”
It was.
Not the modern kind. The old-fashioned ones from the nineties—white paint chipped at the edges, bell hanging crooked at the side, the kind you pushed instead of drove.
And behind it—
A young woman stood smiling.
She was unmistakably Melinda. Younger. Softer.
Her Hair was pulled back messily except, it was red, her hazel eyes were just like Damian’s but a little more slanted, her lips were curled into a carefree smile, one Damian had never seen before, her face sun-warmed and bright-youthful.
This was the polar opposite of his mother but it was truly her all the same, but long ago. Her smile was so radiant he could feel its warmth from the picture itself.
She wore a pastel-striped apron and was mid-scoop, laughing at something just out of frame.
Across from her stood a young man.
Dark-haired. Tall. Hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.
Donovan Desmond.
He was the exact replica of Demetrius except Donovan had more hair at the front.
They were looking at each other like the rest of the world had politely excused itself. They were smiling at each other, like they’re the only ones they see and nothing else mattered.
Anya’s breath caught. “They look… in love.”
Damian didn’t answer.
Because his brain was short-circuiting.
That didn’t make sense.
His mother was the daughter of a high-profile French fashion designer. Raised in ateliers and runways and marble halls. Not—this.
Not ice cream trucks and sunlit smiles and chipped paint.
He flipped the page.
I ran the truck again today.
Melinda’s handwriting was neat but lively, slanted slightly to the right, like she was always leaning forward into life.
Papa would faint if he knew. Mama would disown me. But I’ve never felt freer. I wear a red wig and gloves so no one would recognise me.
Esmé, my attendant, drops me off at our usual spot near the Pont des Arts bridge, where I’d set up my truck. She promised not to tell anyone.
Je vous le jure, ma dame ( I swear myself to you, my lady) she’d said to moi albeit too dramatically for my tastes.
Anya read over his shoulder, eyes widening. “She had a secret ice cream business.”
“She had a secret life,” Damian murmured.
Another page.
He came back today. The serious one. The one who orders vanilla like it’s a commitment.
Another photo.
Donovan, younger, sitting on the curb with a cone in hand, suit jacket folded beside him, expression caught somewhere between confusion and wonder.
The page blurred—and suddenly, the past unfolded.
The sun was merciless that afternoon.
Melinda wiped her hands on her apron, laughing as she leaned out of the truck.
“You’re staring again,” she teased.
Donovan cleared his throat, straightening like he’d been caught doing something improper. “I’m not.”
“You are,” she said cheerfully. “You always do. Like you’re afraid the ice cream will disappear if you blink.”
“I just—” He hesitated. “I’ve never seen anyone work like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like they’re in love with it .”
She paused.
Then smiled—not polite, not practiced. Real.
“Well,” she said, handing him his cone, fingers brushing his for just a second, “it does. People come to me when they’re sad. Or bored. Or lonely. Ice cream fixes a lot of things.”
Donovan looked at her like she’d just handed him a revelation instead of vanilla.
“I’m Donovan,” he said suddenly.
“I know,” she replied. “You look like a Donovan.”
He laughed before he could stop himself.
That was the moment, really.
Anya sniffed quietly, blinking. “That’s… kind of cute.”
Damian swallowed.
They kept reading.
We ran away today.
Not dramatically. Just… quietly.
Ostania is colder. But it’s ours.
Damian’s chest tightened.
He knew how that story ended.
He knew the marriage turned distant. Quiet. Icy.
But this—this version of his parents—this wasn’t in any history book. This wasn’t in the house he grew up in.
Anya reached for his hand, squeezing gently.
“She was happy,” she said softly. “Once.”
He nodded.
“…Yeah.”
And for the first time, Damian didn’t feel angry at the notebook.
He felt grateful.
Because maybe—just maybe—love didn’t disappear.
Maybe it just… changed.
And sitting there, in a treehouse far from the world, with Anya beside him and the forest breathing around them—
Damian realised something strange and steady:
He wanted what they’d had.
And this time—
He wanted to do it right.