A Midsummer Night’s Dream

by ANY_yadaysysyy

Summary:

After a gala kiss that left them both stunned, Damian and Anya escape the city for a week at Becky’s countryside villa. Alone together and surrounded by friends… and a few unexpected exes, sparks fly, secrets slip, and the line between friendship and something more begins to blur.

Chapter 1

Summary:

Becky and em and Ewen come up with a plan, Damian and Anya stargaze.

Becky’s car was red, big and everything a girl could ever want…but not when said girl is interested in going to camping. “ ugh, there’s mud on the wheels !” Becky cried as she stomped her foot dramatically on the ground, Anya looked at her friend, “ Becky, that’s the point, they’re supposed to be dirty” she deadpanned.

 

“ besides, I told you we should just stay in your villa, that way we can be clean and mud free” Anya continued as she unloaded their bags from the car and placed them on the ground.

 

Becky huffed. She had planned this so she could help Damian and Anya settle their…differences in a more intimate and quiet environment.

 

Anya still wasn’t sure if she could face Damian after what they did. She kissed him and he kissed her back. UGHH, now it’s so complicated, Damian had spent weeks trying to talk to her but Anya had been avoiding him like the plague.

 

Becky caught on to their searing tension , long story short: she, Ewen and Emile are conducting “ operation DAMIANYA” ! ( credits to Ewen for forming the couple name). Anya got so tired of her best friend trying to set her up with Damian but it was also endearing at the same time.

 

“ hey, girls !” A familiar voice shouted, knocking Anya out of her reverie. She didn’t have to turn around to know it was Ewen practically clawing his way through the mud to get to Becky. “ hey~” Becky replied in a singsong voice, giving him a side hug that lasted longer than three seconds. Interesting, Anya thought as she observed the two.

 

“ hey, Anya” a deep voice whispered close to her ear, making her jump as she flailed her arms around to protect herself. Damian looked down at her with a smirk, his dark hair tousled, hazel eyes gleaming with something so delectable-wait ! No, don’t go to the gutters now, Anya !

 

“ hey…buddy” she laughed awkwardly as she tapped his shoulders. It was so awkward even Emile looked away with a wince. Damian scrunched his nose, wondering what could have possibly possessed Anya to use the term, buddy and act awkward. Anya forger was the least awkward person he’d ever met. She would go up to a stranger and ask if they could be friends.

 

He didn’t like that one bit. They’re far from “buddies” at this point, Damian finally, finally figured his shitty feelings out and realised that he doesn’t hate Anya forger. It only took twelve years and a forbidden kiss for him to come to this conclusion, thank you for asking.

He just regretted not saying anything to her after that kiss, he’d just stared at her and now, Anya probably hated him.

————-

The sun was lazily sinking toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of burnt orange and gold, when Damian and Anya finally reached the clearing that would serve as their campsite. Damian hefted the massive tent bag onto his shoulder, feeling like a pack mule.

 

“So… uh… I guess we should start setting up the tent?” he asked, trying not to sound desperate.

 

Anya, crouched down and tangling herself in a piece of rope, gave him a slow blink.

 

“Mhm. Sure. That… works, I guess.”
Damian blinked back. “That works?”

 

“That works,” Anya repeated, like a mantra, eyes fixed on the rope as if it might suddenly unravel itself and explain the meaning of life.
Damian dropped the bag with a thud.

 

“Right. So… I’ll start over here, I guess.”
Over by the bushes, Ewen, Emile, and Becky were crouched down behind a tree, whispering furiously.

 

“See? I told you,” Becky said, pointing toward Damian. “He’s already panicking. Look at him, poor boy. He doesn’t even know where to start with the tent.”

 

Ewen grinned. “And she’s… well, she’s doing that thing she does. Avoiding him like he’s the plague.”

 

Becky clapped her hands softly. “Perfect. That’s our window. Time to accelerate the plan.”

 

Emile frowned. “Uh… accelerate?”
“Yes,” Becky hissed. “Flirt with her. Distract her. Make Damian jealous. Classic bait-and-switch.”

 

Ewen chuckled. “Speaking of jealousy… remember first grade? When we were all sent to fetch water on our own?”

 

Becky snorted. “Oh no. Here it comes.”

 

Ewen grinned. “Damian got lost because Anya couldn’t tell left from right!”

 

“Hey!” Becky protested, holding up a finger. “That’s not entirely fair. She was five! And very cute, if I may remind you.”

 

Ewen ignored her. “Anyway, the result was Damian wandering in circles while Anya cheerfully picked flowers because she had no idea she was going the wrong way. Classic.”

 

Becky covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. “And that, my friends, is why we reverse-engineer. Emile goes flirting. Damian gets jealous. History repeats itself, but with a modern twist.”

 

“Are we evil?” Emile asked, doubtfully.
“Yes,” Becky said proudly. “But in a fun, very effective way.”

 

Meanwhile, Damian was crouched over a tangled corner of the tent, muttering to himself. “Okay… okay… poles… fabric… why is camping like rocket science?”

 

Anya sat cross-legged a few feet away, meticulously inspecting the stakes like they were a rare species of bug. Damian tried to edge closer.

 

“So… Anya, um—”
“Mmhm,” she replied, eyes glued to a stake.
“Right. So… tent?”
“Mhm.”

 

Damian exhaled. “Okay… maybe later.” He turned to glance at Emile, who had sauntered up to Anya with the casual ease of someone who had been born to annoy Damian.

 

“Hey, Anya,” Emile said, flashing a grin. “Need a hand with those stakes?”
Anya looked up, brow furrowed. “Uh… sure.”

 

Damian gritted his teeth. He tried to move
closer, but Becky leaned out from behind a tree and whispered conspiratorially:

 

“Tip one, Damian: don’t hover. You look like a lost puppy.”
He scowled. “I am not a lost puppy.”
“Tip two,” Becky continued, ignoring his glare, “a little jealousy is healthy. Watch him squirm.”

 

She pointed at Emile, who was now dramatically kneeling beside Anya and pretending to struggle with a stake. “See? Your chance to shine.”

 

Damian’s jaw tightened. “I will not be outshined by him.”

 

Anya, oblivious to the scheming, had now somehow managed to tie herself in a knot with the rope. “Uh… Emile, can you… untangle this?”

 

Emile pretended to fumble, deliberately brushing close to her as he worked. Damian’s fists clenched.

 

“Need… water,” Anya muttered.
“Water?” Emile’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Sure! Let’s get some.”

 

Damian, trying to maintain dignity, muttered, “I… uh… I’ll go too.”
“No need,” Anya said. “Emile’s fine.”
Becky snorted behind a bush. “Ohhh, this is perfect.”

 

The three of them—Anya, Emile, and Damian—trudged along the narrow path leading to the stream.

 

Damian was like a shadow, silently fuming, while Emile chatted animatedly about anything that came to mind, leaning in just a little too close to Anya every now and then.

 

“You’re always so… organised,” Emile said, handing her the bucket. “I admire that.”
“Uh… thanks,” Anya mumbled, still cautious.
Damian bit his lip, feeling his knuckles whiten.

 

Becky’s voice rang in his mind: Tip three, Damian—don’t look obvious. Subtle glances, subtle touches. Show her you care without being a stalker.

 

Damian growled silently. Subtle. Right.
Finally, they reached the edge of a cliff that overlooked a valley so wide it made Damian feel dizzy.

 

The sky was a dark now, velvet canvas sprinkled with millions of stars.

 

“There are lots of stars here, huh,” Anya said softly, letting the bucket rest beside her.
Damian, feeling an urge to impress, flopped down beside her and tilted his head toward the sky.

 

He smiled thinking of the Stella lake at Eden. The first ever field trip where he had fun without worrying about studying.

 

“Did you know… that some of those stars are so far away, their light started traveling before the dinosaurs went extinct?”
Anya blinked. “Wow. Okay… that’s… interesting.”

 

They sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, watching the sky. It was just the two of them and the skyline of berlint city . “ it’s crazy to think we’re so far from the city” Damian muttered as he focused on a particularly bright star straight ahead.

He could feel her gaze on him like a caress. “ yeah…the view is to die for though” Anya replied. It was quiet again.Then, a shooting star streaked across the horizon.

 

“Damian! Quick, make a wish!” Anya exclaimed, her eyes wide.

 

Damian gave in and he closed his eyes, ignoring her abrupt change in attitude and, without thinking too hard, whispered, “I… want to kiss her.
Again.”

 

Anya’s jaw nearly hit the ground. “What?!”
He opened his eyes, flushing. “Uh… I mean… just… the wish. Not… literal—”

 

“Look, Anya,” Damian said, cutting himself off, voice calm but sharp. “About—”

 

“Yea, lapse of judgment. I get it. We should head back,” she said smoothly, standing up and brushing off imaginary dust.

 

Damian exhaled, leaning back on his hands. “Yeah,” he muttered, utterly defeated.

 

Behind the safety of the trees, Becky, Ewen, and Emile were silently cheering. Becky whispered, “Phase one complete. But oh, the fun has just begun.”

 

Damian, utterly oblivious to the scheming, followed Anya down the trail, his mind a tangled mess of stars, wishes, and the overwhelming desire to somehow make her notice him… just a little more.

 

And somewhere in the distance, Emile was grinning like a cat who had just knocked over a vase—mission accomplished.

Chapter 2

Summary:

Day two of the trip turns into chaos: the group’s camping plans are ruined by rain, leaving everyone soggy, cold, and frustrated. They head to Becky’s villa, where Damian struggles with his unresolved feelings for Anya, avoiding her after their recent kiss. Anya, meanwhile, is navigating her own embarrassment and awkwardness.
Tensions rise when Anya’s exes, Tertius and Freddy, unexpectedly arrive at the villa, reigniting old rivalries and jealousy. Becky, Ewen, and Emile watch the drama unfold, plotting to subtly manipulate the situation to bring Damian and Anya closer.

Notes:

This chapter is quite long cus I had to make Damian and Anya closer or else every thing is gonna feel rushed, I apologise but this was honestly so fun to write and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Ch 2

Day two was the incarnation of chaos. Their tents were flooded from the rain, food supplies ruined. Becky, Ewen, Emile, Damian and Anya stood in the middle of the forest, which looked like someone tried to rob them but changed their minds last minute.

 

“ I tol—”
“—yeah, Anya, I get it, you were right, I was wrong!” Becky snapped, throwing her muddy hair over her shoulder with a dramatic flourish. “Pack up our things, guys! We are going to my villa, it’s just down the road.”

 

“We didn’t even last twenty-four hours,” Emile muttered as he followed Ewen, both boys dragging bags that looked like they had gone through war.
Anya sighed, shaking off water from her sleeves.

 

“I told you camping wasn’t my thing. Nature hates me.”
“Nature hates all of us,” Ewen grumbled as he tripped over a half-collapsed tent pole.
“Okay, drama queens,” Becky huffed. “Move.”

 

Anya turned to Damian, who was staring at their destroyed tent like it had personally offended him.

 

“So… ready to go, Damian?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

 

“Mhmm. Yeah.” Damian’s voice was low, unreadable.
But he kept glancing at her—quick, tiny looks—like he couldn’t help it.

 

They walked in silence down the muddy trail toward the villa. The air was thick with damp leaves, humidity, and unspoken words.

 

Anya hugged her jacket closer. “Becky’s villa better have hot water.”
“It does,” Damian murmured, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “And heated floors.”

 

She raised a brow. “You’ve been there?”
“A few times,” Damian said. “When we were kids. For… a tea party that involved Ewen drinking perfume.”

 

“I THOUGHT IT WAS LEMONADE!” Ewen shouted from ahead.

 

“Exactly,” Damian deadpanned.
Anya snorted.
Damian’s heart did something stupid and painful.

 

Anya didn’t know why but something changed since the previous night under the stars. Damian had avoided her their way back to the campsite, didn’t even glance at her. They were supposed to share the same tent but he bribed Emile with snickers and shared a tent with Ewen, Anya had to listen to Emile talk about the different layers of chocolate they use to make snickers, some of it didn’t even make any sense.

 

Becky’s villa appeared through the fog like a mansion ripped out of a magazine—huge windows, warm lights, steam rising from the heated patio.

 

“HOME!” Becky declared, arms outstretched.
“Wait,” Emile said, squinting. “Did you just… leave the lights on for 24 hours?”
Becky shrugged. “Security purposes.”

 

“Becky, that’s how horror movies start,” Anya whispered.
Inside, the villa was warm—like a hug they didn’t know they needed. The floor heating made Anya gasp dramatically as she stood barefoot, soaking in the warmth.

 

Damian watched her with a soft, helpless smile before he caught himself and coughed.

 

Becky clapped her hands. “Okay! Rooms. Damian and Ewen in the east wing. Emile—guest room near the stairs. Anya—”

 

“I want the room with the balcony,” Anya said.
Becky froze.
Damian froze.
Emile froze.

 

Because the room with the balcony…
…was right next to Damian’s.

 

Becky grinned slowly—far too slowly.
“Well, well, WELL!” she sang. “What a coincidence.”
“It’s literally not—” Anya began.
“Hush,” Becky whispered, patting her cheek. “Let destiny cook.”

 

“ it’s too bad my villa has so many rooms, I would’ve definitely put you with Damian, Anya” Becky snickered as Anya elbowed her, sneaking a glance at Damian, hoping he hadn’t heard that. She sighed, looking at a jittery Becky. “ look, while we’re here, I don’t want you to do anything to make Damian and I… I don’t know, be together, I don’t think he would-“ “-but you would, huh” Becky cut her off with a laugh.

 

“ hey Ewen, mind if I take your room-“ “-nope, no, Damian, bossman, you have to take that room now.” Damian stared at Ewen. “Why-“ “ please, do it for me, my room has that tiny refrigerator things and you know how I love tiny refrigerators” Ewen laughed, running his hands through his hair, a thing he always did when he was planning something. “ you want me and Anya-“ “shhhh, Damian, shhhh” Ewen placed a finger on his lips, and with one, final look, he walked off,leaving Damian confused. Weirdo.

 

The thing is, Damian thinks that Anya regrets the kiss. She avoided the topic completely yesterday. So, he thought he should keep his distance so he wouldn’t make her uncomfortable. As much as he wanted her to reciprocate his feelings, he didn’t want to pressure her. Maybe he’d even leave soon. Get away from here as far as possible.

 

As they went upstairs, Anya slipped on the last wet step.
“Woah—!”

 

Damian caught her arm immediately, steadying her, pulling her close in one fluid motion.

 

They froze.
Her breath hitched.

 

His eyes flicked to her lips for half a second—just long enough for her brain to short-circuit.

 

“S-sorry,” she muttered, stepping away too fast.
“Yeah… no—it’s… fine,” Damian said, wishing he could disappear into the floor.
Becky, watching from the top of the stairs, whispered triumphantly:
“Phase two… activated.”

 

The villa’s doorbell rang.
Becky gave the smuggest smile the world had ever seen. “Ah. They’re here.”
“They?” Damian repeated, expression stiff.

 

Becky twirled a strand of hair. “Oh, just some guests.”
Before Damian could ask more, Becky practically flew down the stairs to the entrance. Anya, curious, followed right after her.

 

Damian lingered at the top of the staircase, heart sinking.
Two figures stepped inside—both tall, handsome, annoyingly well-dressed despite the mud outside.

 

Tertius of Septevia
.Yes. Prince Tertius. Crown, titles, the whole royal-package deal.
And next to him—

 

Fredrick “Freddy” von Hargen.
Heir to some shipping empire. Rich. Charming. Stupidly smiley.

 

Damian felt something cold crawl down his spine.
“Tertius?” Anya blinked. “Freddy? What are you—”
“Anya!” Tertius’s voice lit up like a stage spotlight. He took her hand and kissed
it. “It’s been far too long.”

 

Damian’s jaw locked so hard a diamond might’ve cracked.
Freddy stepped forward with that annoying princely grin.

“You look lovely, Anya. Even covered in mud.”
Damian’s hands curled into fists.
Anya, oblivious, laughed. “I look like a wet mop.”
“She’s humble as always ,” Freddy sighed dramatically. “Adorable.”
Damian nearly combusted on the stairs.

 

Damian glared at Becky, who was smiling like someone told her they’d buy the whole of earth and name it after her, she also looked
Slightly confused?. Ewen and Emile stood next to Becky, they looked…constipated ? Damian wasn’t sure, all he could see was how Tertius’s hand lingered on Anya’s and the way Freddy’s eyes roamed around Anya’s legs. Curse her beautiful legs.

Tertius took Anya’s bag from her hands. “Allow me.”
“Oh—you don’t have to—” 
“Nonsense.”

 

Freddy stepped in behind her. “Do you still like strawberry shortcake? I brought some.”

 

“Oh my god, you did?” Anya said, delighted.

 

Damian stood stiffly by the wall.
She never smiled at me like that.
Becky sneaked beside him and whispered:

 

“Jealousy looks good on you.”
“I’m not jealous,” Damian muttered darkly.

 

“Sure, sweetheart. And I’m not orchestrating this entire thing to force you two to talk.”
Damian sighed, frustrated. “She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
Becky sighed more dramatically than necessary. “Boys. Always misinterpreting everything.”

 

Damian turned and stormed to his room, too pissed to make eye contact with those bastards. How could Becky betray him like this ? After he’d donated his limited edition Ralph Laurent shirt like a martyr to her fashion brand. Ugh.

 

Why Tertius for gods sake, even Freddy was tolerable. Tertius was as smug as they could get. Anya dated both of them in eleventh grade, she dated Tertius a month after her break up with Freddy, all Damian could say was that she had the heart of steel, even Damian waited a few months before moving on from his exes, the last girl he dated was Elaine Kentucky, tenth grade, daughter of some big shot politician.

 

He broke up with her after he found out she was seeing his brother, Demetrius, behind his back. It got really messy. Damian finally made it to his room, he hadn’t been here in a while. He missed it,sorta. It was on the east side of the villa and It this balcony which had this killer view of the meadows, endless stretches of grass and you could even make out the faint outline of the berlint tower.

 

The door creaked as he closed it shut, the sound greeting him like an old friend. Damian inhaled-cedar and oak, his favourite scent. The only thing which was different from the last time he was here was him, otherwise, everything remained the same-the
walls were painted a soft slate-grey with matte finish, cool and grounding, while the furniture brought warmth:
• a low Tuscan chestnut-wood bedframe, sleek and smooth,
• charcoal linens with a subtle herringbone pattern,
• and a thick cashmere throw in deep forest green folded perfectly at the foot of the bed.

 

A large window framed the forest outside like a painting. It had heavy Italian velvet curtains, midnight blue, which looked absurdly luxurious for a countryside villa, but the blackbells clearly didn’t do anything halfway.

 

The desk was distinctly German — minimalist, functional, and absurdly tidy. A leather writing pad sat centered, pens aligned with near military precision. A small travel stack of books rested neatly in the corner, mostly political theory, economics, and one classic Italian poetry anthology he would never admit he liked.

 

The room smelled faintly of bergamot and cedar — his cologne — mixing with the earthy scent of rain drifting in through the cracked window.
At the side of the bed sat a leather overnight bag, dark espresso brown, with the gold “D.D.” monogram stitched so discreetly it almost felt modest for someone like him.

 

Damian walked in, taking in the space with a tired sigh.
Neat. Ordered. Familiar.
Just German enough to feel grounded.
Just Italian enough to feel quietly indulgent.
A perfect contrast to the chaos outside — and to the storm brewing in his chest.

 

Damian stepped onto the balcony, the cool air hitting his face. The villa curtains flowed gracefully behind him, but the quiet of the meadow below felt like the only place he could think. He wondered if he could buy this estate from the Blackbells once he was older.

 

He leaned against the railing, staring at the faint outline of Berlint Tower in the distance.

 

Thoughts swirled like the wind: Father’s expectations, the Desmond name, Demetrius always one step ahead, Tertius and Freddy… and the impossibly complicated little Forger who had managed to turn his world upside down in a single kiss. What was he even doing here ?

 

“Why does everything have to be so…” he muttered under his breath, fists clenched, heart racing.

 

He heard a door open suddenly.
“Oh—oops,” a voice said.
Damian turned sharply. Anya stood there, dripping wet, a towel wrapped tightly around her, looking utterly mortified.

 

“I thought this was the bathroom,” she added quickly, stepping back a fraction.
Damian’s brain short-circuited. His usual composure, the icy mask he wore for years, crumbled in an instant.

 

“Y-you… this… this isn’t—” he stammered, unable to finish the sentence.
Anya’s cheeks flushed a perfect shade of pink. “S-sorry! I’ll just… go,” she said, trying to twist around to leave without actually looking at him.

 

Damian, still leaning against the railing, ran a hand down his face. He could feel his pulse hammering like a drum. And yet, even in his panic, one thought persisted louder than all the rest: Why does she have this effect on me?

 

Before either of them could say anything else, Becky’s voice echoed faintly from somewhere in the villa:

“Phase three… in motion!”
Damian groaned, covering his face. Anya peeked at him from the adjoining doorframe, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

 

Becky slammed her bedroom door shut the moment all three of them were inside. Ewen and Emile stumbled in after her like they were escaping a crime scene.

 

“Okay,” Becky hissed, pacing. “WHAT—THE—HELL.”
“This wasn’t part of the plan,” Emile said immediately, hands flying up. “This was NEVER part of the plan. Bringing in Freddy and Tertius? Not part of the plan!”

 

Ewen pointed at Becky like she was an active explosion.
“You said Phase Two was jealousy. You did NOT say Phase Two was ‘summoning Anya’s entire ex-boyfriend roster like Pokémon.’”

 

“They’re not her roster!” Becky snapped.
“Becky,” Ewen deadpanned. “She dated BOTH of them. Back-to-back. That’s literally a roster.”

 

Becky groaned and threw herself face-first into her pillows.
“It wasn’t supposed to be THEM.”

 

Emile crossed his arms. “Then who exactly did you intend to invite?”
“I don’t know!” Becky yelled into the pillow. “SOME other boy! ANY other boy! Literally anyone who isn’t a prince or a billionaire heir!”

 

Ewen shook his head. “Tertius walked in like he owned the place. He literally bowed. Who BOWS in a villa?”
“He bowed to ANYA,” Emile stressed. “He bowed to Anya like she’s his future queen.”

 

Becky sat straight up.
“Okay shut up, you’re giving me heart attacks.”

 

Ewen plopped onto her desk chair and spun once. “I swear, Damian’s eye twitched like he was about to vaporise both of them with laser vision.”
“One of his eyebrows was literally shaking,” Emile added.
Becky pointed at both of them.

“See?! This is VERY BAD. If Damian freaks out even a little, he shuts down emotionally. And then? Poof! No progress!”

 

Ewen suddenly perked up, eyes bright.
“Oh! Speaking of emotional shutdown,” he said cheerfully. “Did I tell you Anya walked into Damian’s room this morning wearing nothing but a towel?”
Becky’s head whipped around so fast her hair smacked Emile in the mouth.
“She WHAT?!”

 

Emile choked on Becky’s stray hair. “WH—WHAT—WHICH ROOM—WHEN—WHY—WHAT—”

 

Ewen leaned back smugly, like he’d been waiting his whole life to drop that sentence.

“Yup. Just walked right in. Fresh out of the shower. Dripping. Towel. Everything.”
Becky grabbed his arm. “DID THEY TALK?! DID THEY TOUCH?! DID THEY KISS AGAIN?!”

 

“No,” Ewen said, kicking his feet up dramatically. “They stared at each other like two confused chickens, panicked, then Anya screamed—like, full banshee shriek—and ran out.”
“…That tracks,” Emile whispered.

 

Becky slapped a hand across her own forehead. “OH my god. This is WORSE. Damian’s going to think she regrets everything TIMES A MILLION.”
Ewen nodded seriously.
“He looked like a Victorian widow. Like he’d just lost the love of his life in a tragic boat accident.”

 

Becky stood and gripped Ewen by the shoulders.
“Ewen.”
“Yes?”
“If these two idiots don’t end up together by the end of this week, I’m jumping into the Berlint River.”

 

Ewen smiled softly. “I’ll jump with you.”
Becky blinked, startled.
Emile stared slowly between them.

“…what is happening here?”
“NOTHING,” Becky and Ewen said in unison, snapping apart so abruptly they nearly tripped over each other.

 

Becky coughed and fixed her hair. “A-ANYWAY. Back to the plan.”

 

“Yes,” Emile muttered, still side-eyeing them suspiciously. “The plan. Which we no longer have because you accidentally invited a prince.”
Becky stomped her foot.

“I DIDN’T invite a prince! My mom did! I asked for ‘a distraction’ and she thought I meant ‘Tertius.’ It’s not my fault her brain is stuck on royal matchmaking mode.”

 

Ewen groaned. “And Freddy? Where’d HE come from?”

 

“Saw Tertius’s plane land,” Becky said. “Apparently he didn’t want to ‘let a royal steal Anya out from under him again.’ His words, not mine.”
Emile slapped both hands over his face.

“So Phase Two is officially off the rails.”
Becky threw her arms up.
“Yes! Phase Two is BURNING. It has exploded. It is dead.”
Ewen sighed. “Now what?”

 

Becky crossed her arms, jaw set.
“Now,” she said with dangerous confidence,
“we enter Phase Three.”
“Which is?” Emile asked nervously.

 

Becky grinned like a villain.
“Sabotage.”
Ewen leaned back and smirked. “Oh no… it’s happening again.”
“What?” Becky snapped.
“That face,” he said. “That hair flip. That scary spark in your eyes.”

 

“She’s going feral,” Emile whispered.
Becky pointed aggressively.
“You two. Help me or leave.”
Ewen stood up immediately, brushing imaginary dust off his sweater.

“I’ve been ready for war since 7 a.m.”
Becky blinked, impressed despite herself.
“…Okay general.”
They both paused. Held eye contact.
The air got weirdly warm.
Emile waved a hand between them.

 

“HELLO? I’m still here? While you two flirt like divorced parents?”
“WE ARE NOT FLIRTING!” Becky and Ewen yelled at the same time.
Which, of course, only made Emile raise an eyebrow.
Becky shook her head hard. “Whatever. Focus. Phase Three: keep Tertius and Freddy from breathing near Anya but also use them to make Damian jealous.”

 

“And keep Damian from imploding,” Ewen added.
“And keep Anya from thinking Damian hates her,” Emile finished.
Becky smirked.
“Boys, grab your helmets.”

 

Ewen cracked his knuckles.
“Because?”
“Because,” Becky declared,
“we’re going into battle.”
“ oh, and how do you guys know what happens in Damian’s room ?” Becky added
“ don’t ask” Ewen and Emile replied in unison.

 

Anya sat in the tub, face incredibly red. She could still see the way Damian’s perfectly arched eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline. His hairline made her wonder how he was even related to Donovan Desmond. Anya forger walked in on Damian Desmond, wearing nothing but a towel. Some could even say she was fully bare. Ughh, the humiliation. Her throat was sore from the squealing episode she had in the shower. She was pretty sure she broke some squealing record.

 

Not only was she in the room next to Damian. She was in the room adjacent to Damian. It was connected. She wanted to disintegrate and bring Becky with her. First, the abrupt appearance of her ex boyfriends and this- walking into Damian’s room in a towel. She didn’t even mind the ex boyfriend’s part, Freddy was a sweet guy and Tertius…made her over the top declarations. She broke up with the former because he didn’t suit her…what she liked to call “ fiery spirit” and the latter…just wasn’t it.

 

After stepping out of the tub, Anya towel-dried her hair and rummaged through her suitcase. She finally settled on something that’s for the indoors-a pair of pink shorts and a white T-shirt with bondman’s face on it. She walked out of the room and bumped into a hard body. She rubbed her head, “ sorry” she ,muttered, staring into a pair of blue eyes. “Oh, Tertius” she smiled as he took her hand and placed a kiss on the back of it.

 

“ my lady, you look as pretty as ever” he said as they started walking toward the stairs. “ thank you, oh and what brings you and Freddy here ?” She asked as they went to the dinning room and sat next to each other at the table. He seemed caught off guard by the question, “ w-well, Fredrick and I were looking for great adventure and…we stumbled upon this beautiful villa.” He explained, raising his arms dramatically to the air.

 

“ you stumbled upon the blackbell countryside estate ?” A deep voice asked. From behind them. Shivers ran down Anya’s spine. Dear lord. Damian sat opposite Anya, she could feel his eyes burning into her skull, she refused to look at him. “ y-“ “ I see we are all here “ Becky announced as she walked in and at at the head of the table, Ewen and Emile at her left and right. “ geez, when did you three become a thing” Anya muttered. “ since always, Anya dear.” Becky replied, “ oh, hey guys” came Freddy. Becky raised her eyebrows, “ oh-“she snapped her fingers like some unhinged aristocrat “-Freddy, almost forgot, please, have a seat”.

 

They all took their seats.

 

Anya, tragically, sat between Tertius and Freddy.
Damian sat directly across from them.

 

Becky intentionally sat at the head of the table, Ewen and Emile flanking her like two goblins ready to sabotage at command.
Tension buzzed like the villa was built on a giant beehive.
Freddy leaned slightly closer to Anya. “You’ve grown lovelier. Time has been kind.”

 

Damian stabbed a piece of bread so violently that the fork bent.
Tertius rested his chin on his hand, eyes softening. “Do you remember the first time we came to this region? You made us stop the car to look at those strawberry fields.”

 

“I was thirteen, Tertius ,” Anya reminded.
“It was adorable.”

 

Damian stabbed another piece of bread. This time the fork snapped.
“Are you—” Ewen paused, staring at Damian’s weaponized cutlery. “Dude.”
“Fine,” Damian muttered, dropping the mangled fork.

 

Becky coughed politely. “So! Since we’re all here, I thought we could play a friendly dinner game! A bonding activity.”
Anya narrowed her eyes. “No.”

 

“Yes,” Becky insisted. “It’s called Two Truths and a Dare.”
“That’s not the game,” Emile whispered.
“It is now,” Becky hissed.

 

Tertius smiled, resting an arm behind Anya’s chair. “I’ll go first.”
Damian’s eye twitched so violently Ewen almost leaned over to hold it in place.

 

“Truth one,” Tertius began dramatically, “I once climbed the highest tower in Septevia… shirtless.”

 

“Why?” Anya asked, deadpan.
“To embrace the wind.”
Emile face-palmed. Hard.
“Truth two: I still write poetry.”

 

Freddy snorted. “He means declarations of love to women who don’t want him.”
“I will joust you,” Tertius said with complete sincerity.
“Boys,” Becky snapped. “Stop flirting.”
Freddy and Tertius both sputtered.

 

Damian crossed his arms, looking done with humanity.
“And my dare,” Tertius finished proudly, “is for Anya to choose a partner to—”
“No,” Becky interrupted immediately. “Pick someone else. Anyone else.”

 

Tertius sighed dramatically. “Fine. Ewen.”
Ewen blinked. “What—why me—”
“You must serenade the table.”

 

Anya clapped instantly. “YES PLEASE.”

 

Ewen closed his eyes like he was preparing for death. Then, he exhaled and began to sing in the lowest, most tortured monotone ever produced by a human:
“Twinkle… twinkle… little… star…”

 

Emile choked on air.
Anya laughed so hard she slapped the table.
Damian… almost smiled.
Tertius looked offended. “That was not romantic.”
“It wasn’t meant to be,” Ewen croaked.
Freddy raised his hand. “My turn.”

 

Everyone groaned.
“Truth one: I once wrote Anya a love letter sixteen pages long.”
Anya dropped her spoon. “OH MY GOD—FREDDY.”
He shrugged. “I had feelings.”

 

Damian muttered, “Past tense?”
Freddy smirked. “Truth two: I still have it.”
Damian’s hand tightened on his glass.

 

“And my dare…” Freddy looked right at Anya. “I dare Anya to tell us who she liked first—me or Tertius.”
The table went SILENT.
Anya froze.
Tertius smoothed his hair. Freddy leaned forward.

 

Ewen whispered, “Oh no.”
Emile whispered, “Oh yes.”
Damian stared straight ahead, expression blank, but his knuckles were white.

 

Anya swallowed.
“Well… technically, I first liked—”
“ME,” Freddy said confidently.
“No,” Tertius said at the same time.

 

Becky smacked her palms on the table. “WRONG. You’re both wrong.”
Both boys turned, utterly betrayed. “What?”
Becky pointed at Anya with maximum smugness.

 

“Anya’s first crush was Bondman.”
Anya covered her face with both hands, groaning. “BECKYYYY.”
Damian blinked.
Bondman.

 

Of course. That explained the shirt she was wearing.

 

Ewen whispered, “Honestly? Respect.”
Tertius looked personally victimised by a fictional spy.
Freddy looked jealous of a cartoon.
Damian… quietly smiled into his glass.
Finally, Becky clapped again. “Okay! Damian’s turn.”

 

Damian stiffened. “No.”
“Yes,” Becky insisted. “Speak.”

 

Everyone turned to him.
Damian’s mind raced.
Truth. Truth. Dare.

 

He lifted his gaze, eyes landing on Anya just for a second too long.
“Truth one,” he said, voice low, “I hate being lied to.”
Tertius and Freddy shifted awkwardly.

 

“Truth two…” His jaw flexed. “I don’t like people touching what’s mine.”
The table froze.
Ewen choked on air. Emile stared at the ceiling.
Tertius’s face went red with anger. Freddy narrowed his eyes.
Anya’s heartbeat went insane.

 

“And the dare?” Becky whispered, leaning forward.
Damian looked straight at Anya.
“I dare Anya… to walk with me. Outside. Now.”
The entire table went silent.
Anya swallowed hard.
“…okay.”

 

She stood.
Damian stood.
Becky mouthed: PHASE FOUR. BEGINS.
Ewen whispered: “This is better than TV.”
Emile whispered: “Shut up.”

 

Tertius scowled. Freddy slumped. Becky practically vibrated.
Anya followed Damian toward the back villa doors, the rain pattering softly outside.

 

She wasn’t sure what waited out there.
But she knew one thing:
Damian wasn’t running anymore.
And neither was she.

 

They stepped out onto the back terrace, the morning air still cool and damp from the storm. Mist rolled low across the grass, the villa’s gardens glittering with leftover raindrops.

 

Damian stopped near the stone railing, hands tucked into his pockets like he wasn’t sure what else to do with them. Anya hovered beside him, close enough that their arms almost brushed.
Almost.
But not quite.

 

For a moment neither said anything.
Anya scuffed her shoe against the tile. “…You didn’t have to drag me away like that.”

 

Damian exhaled sharply. “Yeah. I know. Sorry.”
She blinked. He apologised first? That was new.

 

“It was getting out of hand,” he muttered. “They kept bringing up your… past. And I didn’t like it.”
Anya tilted her head. “Why?”
Damian’s jaw tensed, then relaxed. “I just—didn’t want them putting you in a weird spot. That’s all.”

 

It wasn’t the full truth.
But she could tell it wasn’t a lie either.
“I wasn’t in a weird spot,” she argued gently. “I mean… okay, maybe I was a little.”

 

Damian shot her a deadpan look. “Anya. Freddy literally asked you which one of them you liked first.”
“…yeah, okay, that was pretty weird.”

 

A small laugh escaped Damian. She looked up at him at the sound—soft, real, not the polished Desmond laugh he used for photos.
And for the first time since the gala, the tension between them eased.
Just a little.

 

Anya leaned her elbows on the railing, looking out at the misty fields. “You know… you’ve been avoiding me.”
Damian went still.
She didn’t push.
She just waited.

 

He sighed, low and uneasy. “I know.”
“Why?”
His fingers drummed once against the stone before stilling. “Because I thought you were avoiding me.”

 

Anya blinked hard. “What? No, I wasn’t—okay maybe I was but only because I thought you were—”

 

They both stopped.
Then groaned at the exact same time.
“…this is stupid,” Anya said.
“Incredibly,” Damian agreed.

 

There was a pause. Not heavy. Just… honest.
Damian looked down at the gardens again. “About that night. I just thought… maybe you regretted it.”

 

Anya’s breath caught.
Her voice softened. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you didn’t say anything after.” He swallowed. “You just acted like nothing happened.”

 

Anya’s fingers curled around the railing. “I didn’t know what to say.”
“Neither did I.”

 

They finally looked at each other. Really looked.
Not through awkward glances.
Not through jealousy or tension or assumptions.

 

Just… eye contact. Morning light. Real honesty.
Anya’s voice went small. “I didn’t regret it, Damian.”
Damian’s eyes widened—and then softened in a way that hit her low in her stomach.

 

“…good,” he said quietly. “Because I didn’t either.”
A beat.
Then—
“BUT,” Anya added quickly, waving her hands, “that doesn’t mean we have to, like, do anything right now. We should just… get normal again. Be okay with each other.”

 

Damian nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that. Being okay.”
“Good.”
“Good.”

 

They stood there for a second, both pretending the air didn’t feel warm suddenly.
“Should we head back?” Anya asked.
“In a minute.” Damian glanced at her, almost shy. “It’s… nice out here.”

 

Anya smiled. “Yeah. It is.”
And for once, their silence wasn’t awkward.
It was peaceful.
It was them.

 

“So, you used to visit this place, I remember you saying” Anya broke the silence, eyes focused on the vast blue sky above. “ yeah, there’s a Desmond coastal estate nearby and I used to visit Becky. But I actually just wanted to run across the meadows” he laughed, thinking fondly about that bygone era.

 

Back at the dining table, sat a frustrated Becky blackbells and her newly appointed goons trying to comfort her. “ they’ve been out there for a while…wait-don’t tell me they’re shacking on my balcony !” Becky blanched. “ actually it’s only been about three minutes” Freddy spoke up and immediately shrank back down at Becky’s heated glare. “ they won’t do that, exhibitionism is beneath our boss man” Emile said and Ewen smacked him in the head.

 

“Hey, what’s the next plan, becks.” Ewen asked softly, brushing a hand through her hair. “ everything’s working , it looks like Damian is very close to snapping, we just need to push him and Anya a little further…especially Anya, but how” Becky said out loud and she rubbed her chin thought fully, “we-“ “-no, we’re not inviting Damian’s exes, they’re bitches” Becky cut Emile off.

 

“ oh ! Got it ! “ Becky snapped her fingers and stood from her seat like a philosopher. “ but first…Freddy, dear, do you have that letter of yours ?”

Chapter 3

Summary:

Damian goes to Becky for advice and tries to seduce Anya in the pool.

Notes:

So…I’ve decided to extend the chapter a little bit, I'm not sure how long it’s gonna be but it shouldn’t be that long, just until I get the story straight without rushing anything. Chapter 3 is by far my favourite. And I changed the title because, the new one sounds prettier…yeah and I hope you all agree too but if you don’t and prefer the old title, do let me know in the comments or feel free to share anything you would like to in the comments, I would be truly grateful. Have fun reading!!

“I can do this,” Anya mumbled to herself, clutching the cup of hot black coffee like it was a life raft and glaring at the adjoining door—the one with the guy who had officially taken up permanent residence in her brain. Honestly, she wondered if there was some sort of zoning law violation—because she was sure he hadn’t applied for it.

 

She thought about yesterday—the way he’d apologised without blaming her, without guilt-tripping, without that signature icy glare that usually made people feel like they’d committed a minor felony. The way he actually laughed. Freely. Like a normal human being.

 

Which was shocking, because at school he never laughed. Or smiled. Or did anything that remotely suggested he had emotions beyond being impeccably polished and terrifyingly untouchable.

 

She’d always known him as that grumpy rich boy everyone was desperate to cozy up to. The one who teased her constantly. The one whose sarcasm could sting worse than an actual bee. But that boy? Yesterday, he had been… different. Softer. Human. Infuriatingly human.

 

He had started changing after their kiss, which made her wonder if her lips possessed some kind of supernatural power. Maybe they did—because they had just gotten Damian Desmond to apologise. To her. Without a single trace of smugness. Becky would never believe her. Ever. Not even if Anya drew diagrams, created flowcharts, and performed interpretive dance.

 

She shook herself, taking a deep breath, preparing for the task at hand: giving Damian… coffee. Yes, coffee. Her gift of gratitude for saving her from the awkward circus that had been her exes yesterday. Simple. Thoughtful. Totally safe.

 

Except she regretted saying she tolerated Freddy. She did not. Not one little bit.
With that in mind, she twisted the door handle, clutching it like a lifeline, and stepped inside.

 

The moment the door closed behind her, the luxurious scent of bergamot and cedar hit her like a wave. Ah yes. Damian Desmond’s signature cologne,she thought, breathing it in like a guilty addict.

 

The room itself was impossibly beautiful: the velvet curtains swayed slightly even though no windows were open (magic? rich people eccentricity?), the German-Italian-Spanish-Whatever-style walls screamed
sophisticated chaos, and the desks were so tidy she was afraid of touching them.
Then came the sound of his voice, low and rumbling from the balcony:
“Yes, I—Father, it’s just for a few—Of course. Goodbye.”

 

His words sounded like they were literally scorching the air. Anya froze mid-step. Maybe now was not the time for coffee diplomacy. Maybe now was the time to quietly back out and pray he didn’t notice her.

 

And then, of course, she tripped over a perfectly innocent corner of a desk. The cup of coffee flew from her hands, spinning dramatically through the air before crashing into a million tiny pieces across the floor.

 

The sound echoed like a gong, and Anya had a moment of genuine regret for every life choice that had led her here.
Damian came rushing over like someone had yelled, “Demetrius is about to get his eyebrows waxed!” and he had front-row seats.

 

His eyes nearly bulged out of his head when he saw her sprawled on the floor, covered in coffee.

 

Anya stared up at him. And for a moment, she could see it—the uncanny Desmond resemblance to his father Donovan. Ew. Freaking ew.

 

Her brain made a very unhelpful shiver noise on its own.
“An-Anya… hey. So, uh… what’s this?” Damian asked, gesturing at the destruction like it was a crime scene.

 

“Well—” she laughed nervously, wiping coffee off her arm. “I thought I’d spice up your life by bringing you coffee.” She hoped it sounded funny, because she was starting to feel like a very soggy, very caffeinated clown.

 

The corner of his full, soft lips curled in a way that was somehow both a smile and a smirk. “Having you in my life is spicy enough, Forger,” he muttered so softly that if the room weren’t completely silent, she would have missed it.
Her face went hot, creeping all the way down her neck.

 

Damian’s eyes widened—then he flailed his arms dramatically, like he could cast a spell to erase the blush. She waved off his attempts at magic, trying very hard not to notice the way his chest felt impossibly warm right in front of her.

 

She attempted to stand, nearly slipping on the wet floor, but strong arms caught her mid-fall. She could feel the heat through his thin shirt. She blinked up at him—only to be interrupted by Ewen, who popped his head in, did a double-take, and immediately left. Wrong timing, obviously.

 

Damian’s gaze never left hers as he released her. “Thank you for the coffee, Anya. I… appreciate it,” he said, tapping her shoulder. She wanted to roll her eyes but didn’t—because she wasn’t allowed.
“Should we… get going, then?” she asked finally, trying to sound casual.
He gave a curt nod.

 

“Yeah. Let’s go.”
And somehow, in the middle of spilled coffee, strong arms, and almost-death by embarrassment, Anya realized that their silence wasn’t awkward. Not really. It was a little warm. A little… theirs.

 

Becky blackbell was lying on the floor of the terrace, the sun practically cooking her skin. She didn’t mind, she liked the feeling, it was like she was back at the beach every single day. She usually never noticed anything around her when she was in her zone. But she was confused and infuriated that she could immediately feel Ewen’s presence.

 

He was worse than the sun. “ what, Ewen.” Feigned boredom, but secretly hoping it was something juicy. “ operation DAMIANYA is working after all, becks, I literally saw Damian and Anya hugging, in Damian’s room” Ewen whispered as if he was telling her all the government’s top secrets.

 

That caught her attention. A small smile pulled at her face. “ one; never call me ‘Becks’ again, two; where the heck is Emile ? And three; what the hell ?!!! Finally ! Our efforts are bearing fruit” Becky squealed as she sat upright, looking at Ewen through her shades.

 

She noted the way his hair caught in the sunlight, making it practically glow, his skin was flawless- okay! Calm down Becky ! She reminded herself.

 

“ what are we gonna do with the letter we took from Freddy, y’know, the sixteen paged one” he said after a while, eyes lingering on her hair and lips. He was convinced Becky was some goddess, know way would a person look this beautiful sun bathing.

 

Becky tapped her chin with her index finger. “ umm…oh !! We could slip into Damian’s door, that way, he’s not gonna want to leave Anya’s side !” She exclaimed pulling a long white shirt over body, and got up, Ewen behind her heels. “ I thought we were going to make Freddy and Tertius stay away from Anya” this came from Emile, but neither Becky nor Ewen could spot him.

 

“ I’m down here guys” the followed the direction of his voice and were led to an empty water tank. “ Tertius told me we were playing some hiding game, they still haven’t found me” he explained. Becky and Ewen stood there, staring down at him. “ what’re you ? Five ?” Becky muttered as she left the terrace to slip the letter Freddy wrote for Anya under Damian’s bedroom door.

 

“ I’m just keeping up with my youthfulness!” Emile exclaimed. Ewen helped him up and they both followed Becky. “ do you think they’re gonna find me Ewen ? ” Emile asked, Ewen opened his mouth, ned it again said, “ sure, buddy”.

 

Breakfast was…well. Breakfast. Damian observed with a detached sense of satisfaction as Freddy, the human embodiment of a pink frosted catastrophe, shoved a piece of strawberry shortcake toward Anya like some kind of dessert-wielding soldier.

 

She rejected it instantly, and Damian allowed himself a small, private smirk. Finally. Someone telling him to back the fuck off. It’s about time.
The rest of the morning—or what counted as

 

“morning” in this endless social labyrinth—was torturous. Damian and Anya were practically star-crossed in real time. He caught glimpses of her every now and then: green eyes catching the sunlight, pink hair practically glowing like a neon warning sign, and Freddy and Tertius glued to her side like barnacles. And she smiled.

 

That dazzling, ridiculously unfair smile of hers that could outshine the Stella stars at Eden.

 

She should smile at me like that, Damian
thought darkly. Not them. Me. He made a mental note to fix that discrepancy. Soon.
Returning to his room after lunch felt like a small personal victory.

 

He was overstimulated, socially exhausted, and too busy trying not to murder anyone with his glare. Ewen’s “concerned” looks, which were really just judgment wrapped in sunlight and guilt, were especially grating. It’s not my fault he can’t knock, Damian reminded himself, slamming the door behind him. Jesus, people.

 

And then—because the universe enjoyed watching him suffer—there it was. A scattering of papers across the floor, sixteen sheets, maybe more.

 

They looked worn, handled with the kind of obsessive care that made Damian want to scream. He bent to pick them up gently, because smashing fragile paper was almost as heinous as smashing his mother’s china. Almost.

 

Then he saw the heading. And his blood pressure spiked.

 

Freddy’s letters to Anya Forger—complete with hearts, doodles, and possibly a small rainbow. A fucking rainbow, how could Anya have dated someone like this.

 

Dear Anya,
Your hair is like the pinkest bubblegum shade I’ve ever seen. The shade of your hair puts lemonade #FCBACB to shame. I want to run my hands through your cotton candy hair and your mouth—

 

Damian’s fist crushed the page like a man possessed by both fury and disbelief. He could not. Would not. Read another goddamn word.

 

The rest of the letters didn’t stand a chance. They were torn to shreds and scattered into the void like confetti at a funeral.

 

He was fully aware, with a creeping horror, that someone—Freddy, the little bastard—had deliberately slipped these under his door.

 

His knuckles ached from gripping the paper, his veins throbbed, and suddenly a dreadful, undeniable thought struck him.
Maybe…maybe he still cares. Maybe I still…care.

 

He swore he had avoided acknowledging it before.

 

Avoided the uncomfortable truth about whether Freddy had meant “having feelings for her” in the past tense. But now? Freddy was weaponizing nostalgia, pink hair, and dessert letters.

 

And Damian was officially done standing on the sidelines.

 

There was only one conclusion: Freddy von Hargen was trying to get back together with her. On Damian’s watch? Not a chance.
And thus, the gears in Damian Desmond’s brilliant, terrifyingly sarcastic mind started turning.

 

He would pursue Anya. Openly. Fearlessly. Cowardice is for the weak.
But of course…he couldn’t do it alone. He needed backup.

 

And there was exactly one person who could assist in his diabolical, romantic scheming. Only one person who had the brains, the audacity, and the sheer chaos-level energy to help him pull this off.

 

And said person, he was pretty sure, has already started scheming since the start.
Becky Blackbell.
This was going to be…entertaining.

 

“ you want my help to become closer to Anya ?!” Becky exclaimed as she hopped around Damian, earning a stern glare from Ewen. Damian knew Ewen had a thing for Becky ever since third grade, he never accepted his own feelings but it was pretty obvious to Damian, especially with the way he now does everything Becky asked him to. The man was whipped. Still, he couldn’t help but smirk at Ewen’s reaction.

 

“ whoa, okay, hold on,-“ Ewen said, coming closer to Damian, putting both his hands on Damian’s shoulders, “-why the abrupt change in attitude ? You never, ever ask for help, least of all when it comes to courting a girl” he continued as he looked at Damian through narrowed eyes.

 

Damian looked at both of them, shocked but mostly confused,“ how aren’t you guys surprised? And who the fuck says ‘courting’ nowadays ” He said. Becky and Ewen stared at him like he was a five year old kid showing them his artwork-mildly annoyed but mostly amused.
“ it’s really obvious, bro, everyone knows that Damian Desmond has the hots for Anya forger” came Emile, holding a bag of chips. “ god, Emile, stop popping out of nowhere like that !” Becky cried, hitting Emile’s arm.

 

“ but either way, Desmond, we’ll help you.” Becky said as she walked to the table, beckoning everyone to follow her. “ here’s what you have to do while we take care of the rest, just as we’ve been doing all along” she singsonged. “Okay, step one: actually flirt with her. And I don’t mean that tragic little ‘H-Hey… A-Anya’ you do—” she said, pitching her voice several octaves lower in a horrible imitation of him, “—I mean real flirting. The kind you accidentally use on literally everyone except the girl you like. Use that one.”

 

“Step two: look, Anya obviously likes you back, so you’re totally safe to initiate tiny touches. Nothing creepy—just the soft, accidental-on-purpose ones. Brush her hand. Fix a leaf in her hair. Let your fingers linger for like half a second longer than necessary. Just enough to make her heart commit a tiny crime.”

 

“And step three: engineer alone time. I don’t care how. Sabotage Freddy or Tertius if you see them with her, as in, steal her a way from them, pretend you need help with something, ‘ you need help moving your furniture’ or Whatever. Just make sure it’s you and her in the same space long enough for feelings to do their job. This should be relatively straightforward cause you two are literally room neighbours.” Becky leaned across the table, giving him a stern expression, “ if I find out you’ve hurt her, or tried something weird…I will end you” she said the last part cheerfully, with the utmost sincerity.

 

Damian tried to let all of her steps sink in, he looked at Ewen who was watching him with the smuggest expression, Emile who was staring at the chandelier on the ceiling, Becky who stole some of Emile’s chips and immediately recoiled. Damian stood up from his chair and left, giving Becky, Ewen and Emile a great full glance, suddenly overcome by this overwhelming determination-determination he hadn’t felt at all when it came to Anya forger.

 

He’d spent years teasing and making fun of her. He hadn’t realised his feelings then. But at that gala party, everything changed, she was just out of reach and he closed the distance between them and finally kissed her, pouring years worth of emotions into the kiss. He could still feel the softness of her lips every time he closed his eyes, the twinkle in her eyes so warm, it made his chest tighten with great feeling. He’d never felt what he felt for Anya with any of the girls he’d dated. They were all demands from his father, date a wealthy girl and choose one to marry, secure the Desmond line. It’s what his father wanted of him.

 

Damian was tired of that. Listening to every demand made by his father, just yesterday he had called Damian, demanding he return to Eden to focus on his studies. Screw him, Damian thought as he went to the pool area out in the vast backyard. The backyard was mostly a wide expanse of grassland and a huge pool which was closer to the house, there was also some

 

There was also some ridiculous garden arrangement—roses, orchids, hydrangeas—basically everything rich people planted to show off that they had money and free time. Damian didn’t care about any of that.
His eyes were looking for only one thing.
Or rather… one person.

 

Anya Forger, sprawled lazily on a beach chair by the pool, sun hat tilted over her face, legs stretched out, the sunlight catching her hair like rose-gold fire.

 

Holy. Shit.

 

He had a really good view of her from his balcony earlier, so he knew she’d be here. A wonderfully good view. Not inappropriate—just… stupidly distracting. Like someone had taken a photo of her and turned the saturation up by 300%.
He dragged a hand down his face.

 

He was in trouble.

 

Because the mental image slammed into him: Anya sunbathing. From his balcony.

 

He’d gone out to get fresh air, only to see her stretched out on exactly the same chair, wearing sunglasses, sipping something fruity, looking like she belonged on a magazine cover called People Who Are Ruining Damian Desmond’s Sanity.

 

He had stared for a full minute. Maybe two.
He wasn’t proud of that.
…Okay he was a little proud. But he’d been subtle. Incredibly subtle.
(He hoped.)

 

And now she was there again—close, real, very much in reach. No Freddy. No Tertius. No chaos brigade.

 

Just her, sunlight, and a pair of legs he was not going to look at again because he was a gentleman.
…He looked once more anyway. Quick. Scientific purposes.

 

Get your shit together, Desmond, he told himself.
He inhaled sharply.

 

Becky’s words replayed in his head like a tutorial level in a romance game:
Flirt. Touch. Alone time.

 

He could do that.
He was Damian Desmond.
He could absolutely do that.

 

Probably.
Maybe.
Hopefully.

 

He straightened his shoulders and put on the Mask. The one that worked on literally every girl in Eden.

His perfect, practiced, elegant, “I’m totally calm and not losing my mind over one girl” expression.

 

He walked toward her like he hadn’t spent the last ten minutes rehearsing in his head.
Anya pushed her sunglasses up slightly when she noticed him approaching.
“Oh. Hey,” she said, blinking at him like she wasn’t the most dangerous

 

distraction he’d ever encountered.
Damian’s heart did a weird flip.
Focus. Step one.
Flirt.

 

Real flirting. Becky said he already knew how.
He cleared his throat, sliding effortlessly into the voice he used with diplomats, professors, anyone he needed to charm.

 

“Morning, Forger,” he said, letting a lazy half-smirk tug at his lips. “Didn’t know sunbathing was part of your morning routine. Not that I’m complaining. The view is… impressive.”
Nailed it.

 

Anya’s eyebrows shot so high they practically joined her hairline.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Oh.

He really nailed it.
A spark of warmth spread through his chest. Emboldened, he took the empty beach chair next to hers. Close enough that his knee almost brushed hers.

 

Her breath hitched.
Step two.
Light touches. Linger. Make her heart commit a tiny crime.
He reached over casually, pretending that a small leaf that had fallen onto her shoulder and he made a show of throwing it away.

Then let his fingers graze her skin just a heartbeat too long.
She stared at him like he’d just spoken ancient runes directly into her soul.
“Leaf,” he said simply,pointing at the direction he threw it in.
“Oh. Th-thanks,” she muttered, her cheeks warm.

 

His stomach did a victory somersault.
Yes. Good. Excellent. Steps working.
He leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head, pretending to be relaxed while every nerve in his body screamed with awareness of her.

 

Then he added softly—just loud enough for her to hear over the breeze—
“You look like you’re enjoying yourself. Mind if I join you awhile?”
Anya swallowed hard.
Her fingers fumbled with the edge of her towel.
“No. I mean—yeah. I mean—sure. You can.”

She cleared her throat. “Sit. I mean. You’re already sitting. So. Stay sitting?”
Damian bit back a laugh.
She was adorable.

Alright, Desmond, he thought smugly.
Step three begins now.
Be alone together.
Just long enough for the feelings to do their job.
And god—did he want them to.

 

They sat in silence for about five minutes. Anya was flustered and confused. ‘what’s gotten into him all of a sudden ?’ She thought, sneaking a glance at him. He was looking at her with that smug expression which made her blood boil back when they were younger but now it was making her internal organs summersault.

 

He was flirting. OPENLY.
Yesterday he was… normal. Today he was acting like the leading man in some dramatic summer romance film.

Is he playing with me?
Damian suddenly sat upright, startling her.

 

Without breaking eye contact—not even for a second—he grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth movement.

Anya’s brain immediately shut down.
A full system reboot.
He tossed the shirt aside and dove into the pool with a clean, practiced grace that made her jaw fall open. Water splashed everywhere.

“Damian! What—”
“C’mon, Anya! I dare you to, uh… water yoga with me,” he said, pushing his wet hair back with one hand, looking like sin dipped in sunlight.

 

Water yoga?
What the hell even was that?

 

She stared at him. He grinned up at her, mischievous glints in his amber eyes.
Anya could not tell whether he was stupid, bold, or trying to seduce her by force of confusion alone.

 

“I am not doing water yoga,” she said firmly.
“So you’re scared,” he replied immediately.
Her eyes widened.
He did not just challenge her pride.

 

“I’m not scared—!”
“Oh?” he taunted, splashing water in her direction. “Then get in.”
“Damian, stop—!”
But he didn’t.

 

He splashed her again, harder this time.
Anya screeched and shot to her feet.
“That’s it! You—I—Damian!”

 

He laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen, eyes crinkling, droplets sliding down his jawline in a way that should have been illegal.
She gripped the edge of the pool, slowly dipping her feet in—testing the water.
“There you go,” he said softly, watching her with an expression so warm she lost

 

her breath for a second.
She eased herself down another inch.

 

And then Damian reached up—
his hands shot to her waist—
and he pulled her in.
“DAMI—!”
SPLASH.

 

She came up spluttering, hair plastered to her face. He swam closer, grinning like a menace.

 

“You pulled me in!!” she gasped, pushing water at him.
“You were taking too long,” he said, voice low, teasing, tugging her gently closer with both hands still at her waist.

 

She splashed him again; he splashed back; she lunged at him; he caught her wrist; they both half-laughed, half-shrieked.
And then—
somehow—
she ended up in his arms.
Chest to chest.

Her hands on his shoulders.
His arms wrapped securely around her back, holding her steady.
Her heart thudded so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
She could feel the hardness of his toned muscles from years of soccer training, flexing against her body.

 

The world went quiet except for the water rippling around them.
Anya’s breath caught.
His face was inches away.
Their noses almost brushed.
Damian swallowed, voice suddenly shaky in a way that gutted her.

 

“Anya,” he whispered, like her name hurt to say.
“I swear… I’m trying so hard not to—”

 

He cut himself off.
His jaw clenched.
It was like he was physically holding himself back from something he desperately wanted.
Her lips parted.

 

“Not to what…?” she asked softly.
He leaned in—closer, closer—their lips touching
And then—

 

SPLAT.

 

Something large, wet, and unpleasant hit the water next to them with a massive splash.

 

They jolted apart as cold water slapped their faces.
“BULLSEYE!” Freddy yelled from the balcony.
“Ha! Right in the middle!” Tertius cheered, holding what looked suspiciously like an entire inflatable flamingo.

 

Anya stared at them.
Then at the floating mess in the water.
Then back at them.

 

Her face turned red—not the cute kind. The murderous kind.
“Are you TWO—SERIOUS?!!” she yelled, voice cracking with pure fury and embarrassment.

 

Freddy and Tertius froze.
Damian opened his mouth—probably to yell something scathing—but Anya beat him to it.

 

“I’m DONE,” she snapped, pushing wet hair out of her face as she climbed out of the pool.

She didn’t look back.
Not once.
Damian watched her disappear inside.

 

Then slowly—very slowly—he turned his head toward Freddy and Tertius.
His glare could have melted metal.
“Oh… crap,” Freddy whispered.
Tertius squeaked.

 

Damian didn’t insult them. Didn’t bark. Didn’t even yell.
He simply said:
“You ruined something important.”
And walked away.

 

Back inside, he found Becky, Ewen, and Emile in the lounge room, snacking like they had not just destroyed the last five years of his emotional stability.
Becky glanced up. “How’d it—”
Damian pointed at her, dripping wet, furious, and somehow still heartbreakingly lovesick.

 

“Becky,” he said solemnly, voice low with agony, “we need a plan.”
Ewen blinked. “A plan for what exactly?”
Damian scrubbed a hand down his face.
“She left because of Freddy and Tertius. We were—”

He hesitated, flushing.
“We were close. Very close. And they ruined it.”
Becky stood up so fast her chair screeched.

 

“Alright,” she declared. “Operation DamiAnya Part Two: Revenge Edition is officially beginning.”

 

Emile raised his chips.
Ewen sighed.
Damian exhaled.

 

“ seriously though why can’t we just kick them out ?” Ewen asked
Becky groaned, “ my mom said we can’t afford to get on the bad side of the septavian royalty and the von Hargens, so I have to be nice”. She paused. “But, don’t worry Damian, by the end of the week you’ll get your girl” she said, “ aw, that’s sweet of-“ “ if you’re not a freaking loser that is” she cut Damian off, snapped her fingers dramatically, “ boys !” Ewen and Emile immedia followed her without missing a beat.

 

“ wait, you guys are supposed to support me ! Ewen ! Emile ! You Bastar-“ Damian shouted and was cut off by Ewen, “we answer to Becky now, Damian !”. “ muhahaha” Emile did something that was probably supposed to sound like an evil laugh.

 

They left the lounging room, leaving Damian to ponder about ways he could make Tertius and Freddy regret ever pissing him off.

Chapter 4

Summary:

Basically a continuation of day three. They play a drinking game and Damian gets drunk.

It was almost the end of the day before anyone realised.

 

Ewen had somehow been put in charge of setting the table—Becky’s idea, obviously—much to his misery and Becky’s undeniable amusement.

 

He wiped the glass surface with the focus of a war general, though his eyes kept darting toward the couch, where Becky lounged reading a magazine.

A magazine she was on the cover of.
He’d already read it. Twice. Not that he’d ever admit that.

 

“Hey Ewen, how’s dinner duty?” came the voice of a smug bastard.

 

Ewen shot Damian a death glare. Damian still smelled faintly of chlorine from earlier, which only added to the whole rich boy who accidentally fell in a pool with the girl of his dreams aesthetic. Ewen almost pitied him. Almost.

 

Damian had been pining over Anya for years—quietly, dramatically, pathetically.

 

Honestly, Ewen had agreed to Operation DAMIANYA partly to put Damian out of his misery, and partly because it meant Becky would actually talk to him.

 

So yes. Ewen was just as pathetic, if not more.

 

“Shut up,” Ewen replied sweetly. “Or I’ll make
you arrange the cutlery on the table.”
Damian’s face twisted like he’d been handed a dead rat.

“Absolutely not,” he said flatly. “I will never set tables. I don’t care who tells me to. I don’t care if it’s the Queen. It’s beneath me.”

 

He paused, then added with full Desmond disdain,
“And also, I don’t trust any of you with sharp objects, so really, I’m doing everyone a favor.”

———

 

The sky was drenched in green and gold, the last light of day stretching itself lazily across the horizon.

 

Damian Desmond lay on the terrace floor with his hands behind his head, staring at the sky like it held all the answers he’d never been brave enough to ask for. Or more like it owed him money.

He thought about the way Anya had looked at him earlier before they were rudely intrupped —like she was just as affected as he was, like she wanted it, like if she didn’t kiss him, she’d combust.

He replayed it over and over, the soft parting of her lips, the way her eyes stayed on his, pink hair catching the sunlight like it was woven from something holy. The moment itself had been everything .

 

he felt it everywhere.
It unfurled in his chest, stubborn and helpless. It tightened something around his ribs. It settled behind his sternum like a truth he had never asked for.
He exhaled slowly.

 

God, he was pathetic. He’d survived political dinners, interrogation-level tutoring from his father—

but one look from her and suddenly he was six again, fumbling, flushing, pretending he wasn’t staring.

He’d spent years pretending he didn’t care about her, or maybe he just never knew. But He cared. Cares.

He lifted a hand toward the sky, fingers spread, as if he could hold the fading light.

 

As if any part of him believed the universe would give him something simply because he wanted it badly enough.

 

He wondered what it would be like if she smiled at him—
really smiled at him—
the way she smiled at the boys hovering around her in the villa.

 

He wondered if she had any idea how hard he fought to keep his voice steady, how carefully he held himself in her presence, terrified that if he moved the wrong way the truth inside him would spill out everywhere.
He closed his eyes.

 

He hoped she would look at him
like he looked at her.
Like she was the only thing on the horizon worth chasing.

 

“Whoa,” Damian heard a small voice behind him.
He didn’t even need to turn. Only one person in the universe said “whoa” like that—half awe, half concern, one hundred percent likely to throw his emotional equilibrium into chaos.

Anya.
Anya stood in the doorway, bathed in gold light like she had been painted into the evening.

 

For a second he forgot how to inhale.
“You’re not coming for dinner?” she asked, stepping closer, arms wrapped around herself like she wasn’t sure if she had permission to be there.

 

“I wasn’t hungry,” he said.
And then, because he was Damian Desmond, and he had control issues:
“It seemed loud downstairs.”

 

She smiled—soft, knowing.
“It’s chaotic. In a… Becky sort of way.”
He huffed out a laugh.

 

She moved beside him and sat, tucking her knees to her chest.

 

For a few seconds they were quiet. The sun dipped lower.

 

“It’s pretty,” she murmured, looking at the sky.
Damian didn’t even look up.

 

“Yeah,” he said, eyes entirely on her. “It’s beautiful.”
She didn’t notice. Or maybe she did.
Her cheeks warmed.

 

Silence tugged between them—gentle, warm, fragile.

 

Then she swallowed.
“Earlier… in the pool…”

Her voice wavered, then steadied. “We almost— I mean, I wanted—”
Damian stared straight ahead.
“I wanted it too,” he said quietly.
Anya’s heart thudded.

She felt it—the way the moment pressed around them, like the world leaned closer to listen.

 

“It scared me,” she admitted.
“It terrified me,” he replied, far too fast.
She blinked, surprised.

He rubbed the back of his neck and groaned into his hand.
“I mean— not because of you, obviously. Just… I’m not great at—this. Feelings. Or people. Or…”

He made a helpless gesture toward her. “You.”
Her breath hitched.
Before she could respond, she remembered something—sharp and real.

 

“Oh—your phone call.”
Damian tensed.
“In your room. I didn’t mean to overhear, but… you sounded upset.”

 

The words hung in the cool air.
He exhaled slowly.
“My father wants me to leave early. Tomorrow, probably.”

 

Her chest pinched.

 

“You’re leaving?”
“I don’t want to,” he said immediately. “But what’s the point of arguing? He says go, I go. That’s how it is.”

 

“That’s not fair.”
“It’s my life,” he muttered. “Or… the version of it he wants.”

 

Anya shifted closer without thinking.
“Damian… you don’t have to deal with everything alone. You can talk to me. Whenever you need.”

 

His breath stopped.
“Why?” he whispered.

 

“Because I care,” she said simply.
Something in him cracked a little at the edges.

 

He looked at her—really looked at her—and she felt it hit her low in her stomach, warm and terrifying.

 

For a moment, they existed like that.
Two breaths apart.
Two heartbeats leaning forward.
Anya gently nudged his shoulder.

“Stay. At least for tonight.”

 

Damian’s lips parted.
He didn’t answer.

But God, he wanted to.
He wanted her.
He wanted—
“DINNER!” Ewen shrieked from below.
“AND BEFORE ANYONE SAYS ‘I’LL EAT LATER,’ I WILL COME DRAG YOU BY YOUR EYEBROWS!”

 

They both froze.
Anya snorted. Damian dropped his head into his hands.

 

The moment burst like a bubble.
But the feeling lingered—warm, bright, undeniable.

 

She stood and offered him her hand.
“Come on,” she said softly.
After a beat, he took it.

———

Dinner was supposed to be normal.
Keyword: supposed.

 

But the second Anya and Damian came down the stairs together—Damian a little pink from the cold terrace wind, Anya also a little pink but for… different, Damian-related reasons—the room exploded.

 

Freddy froze mid-bite of pasta.
Tertius choked on his drink.
And then—

 

“YOU?!” Freddy and Tertius yelled at the same time, pointing at Damian like he was a war criminal.
Damian blinked.

“…me?”
“My god,” Becky muttered. “Here we go.”
Freddy slammed his hand on the table.
“You disappeared with Anya for forty minutes!”

 

Tertius pointed aggressively at Damian.
“And you didn’t tell any of us!?”
Damian stared.
“Should I have sent a group announcement?”

 

“YES!” both ex-boyfriends yelled.
Anya covered her face.
Ewen wheezed.

 

Becky whispered, “I give it two minutes before someone throws something.”

 

Emile looked at her.
“You know you sound like Ewen’s wife, right?”

 

Both Becky and Ewen choked.
“We’re not—she’s not—” Ewen sputtered.

 

“Married?!?” Becky yelped. “Please. I don’t even like him half the time!”
“You flirt with him CONSTANTLY,” Emile deadpanned.

 

“WE DO NOT FLIRT!” they said in unison.
Then immediately looked away from each other.

 

Freddy barked, “STOP DISTRACTING FROM THE REAL ISSUE.”
Tertius crossed his arms.

“Yeah. What were you two doing?”
Damian: dies internally.
Anya: considers literally jumping out the window.
Ewen, sipping water: “Kissing? Probably.”Damian nearly flipped the table.
“We were NOT— we didn’t— WHY WOULD YOU SAY—”

 

“Because your ears are red and Ewen saw you two hugging in your room,” Becky said calmly, stabbing a piece of garlic bread.

 

Anya kicked Becky under the table.
Becky yelped.
Ewen laughed.
Damian looked scandalised. 
Freddy and Tertius glared.
Emile clapped his hands.

 

“Okay. It’s too quiet. We’re playing a drinking game.”

THE DRINKING GAME FROM HELL
They sat in a circle.

Rules:
If you don’t answer, you drink.
Becky smirked at Ewen.
“Who was your first crush?”
Ewen turned purple.
He drank.

 

Emile pointed at Becky.
“What are you and Ewen?”

 

Becky:
“Delusional enemies.”
But she drank anyway.

Tertius pointed at Damian.
“Do you like Anya?”
The universe held its breath.

 

Damian opened his mouth—
—and immediately downed his entire glass.
Freddy cheered.
“I KNEW IT!”

Anya grabbed the bottle.
“That’s enough for him—”
But the damage was done.

Three rounds later, Damian was slumped against the couch, staring at Anya like she personally invented oxygen.

 

“Okay,” she said. “He’s done.”
“HE IS A LIGHTWEIGHT,” Becky declared.

 

Damian pointed at her.
“You are unusually loud.”
Anya sighed.
“Come on, Damian. You need to lie down.”

 

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders IMMEDIATELY.

“Anya,” he whispered.
“Oh god,” she muttered.
“You smell like stars.”

 

“What does that even mean?”
He leaned into her neck.
“Pretty. Pretty… stars.”

 

His breath was warm.
Anya’s knees betrayed her.
She half-carried, half-dragged him to his room.

Anya could still smell the scent of cedar and spices on him, though they were now masked by alcohol. It was nice. The smell. Not whatever this is.

 

When she got him on the bed, he grabbed her wrist—
—and pulled her down on top of him.

 

She yelped.

He stared up at her, eyes heavy, unfocused, painfully sincere.

 

“Anya,” he whispered again.
“Kiss me. Again.”

 

Her heart stopped.
She brushed back his hair gently, her voice soft but steady.

 

“Ask me that the next time you’re sober.”
He frowned like a betrayed child.
She leaned in—

 

and kissed his cheek.
Then the corner of his jaw.

 

Then, because she was weak and he was warm and this was all too much—
she pressed her lips to the side of his neck.
Damian inhaled sharply.

His fingers curled into her shirt.

 

“That’s cheating,” he murmured.
“Go to sleep,” she whispered.
“I’ll… dream of you.”

 

She froze.
But he was already drifting off, still holding her hand like he needed it to breathe.

 

The room reeked of alcohol and spilled secrets.

Becky Blackbell watched in mild horror as Ewen—very drunk and VERY determined—drew smiley faces on a snoring Emile’s forehead with eyeliner.

 

“Ewen,” she said flatly.

He looked up, grin wide, eyeliner smudged on his cheek.

“Look, Becky. Art.”
She rubbed her temples.
Why was she here.

 

Anya still hadn’t come back from taking Damian to his room, which meant—
Something crashed loudly upstairs.

 

Becky froze mid-sip.
Her mouth twisted in disgust.
“Oh my god,” she slurred. “They’re so making out.”

 

Tertius jolted upright like someone lit him on fire.

“DON’T—say—such—madness,” he hissed through a completely clogged nose, pointing at her as if she’d summoned demons.
Then he immediately collapsed face-first onto her family’s expensive cashmere couch.

 

Ewen didn’t even glance up.
“Nice. He died.”
Becky sighed so deeply she saw God.

This was not a villa.
This was not a holiday.
This was not even a trip anymore.

 

This was a slowly unraveling episode of Love Island, sponsored by trauma, denial, and questionable IQs.

 

She shook her head and blinked hard—her vision already blurring.

 

From the staircase, she saw a soft blur of pink hair and a very flushed face.

 

“Anyaaa…” Becky mumbled approvingly, attempting to stand.

She made it 75% of the way up before gravity punched her in the feelings.

 

And then Becky Blackbell—the girl on three magazine covers and the idol of half of Europe—slumped sideways and passed out.
Finally, mercifully, the chaos dimmed into silence.

 

Until Ewen, still holding the eyeliner, loudly
whispered:
“Emile, your eyebrows are next.”

 

He giggled.
Emile slept on, smiling.

Chapter 5

Summary:

Damian goes to the Desmond coastal estate.

His throat was so dry it could compete with the Sahara Desert, and honestly?
 The Sahara would lose.

 

The taste of alcohol still clung to his mouth, metallic and sour.
Damian groaned, flipping onto his back, the ceiling spinning above him like a cheap carnival ride.

 

What… the hell… happened last night?
And then it hit him.
Like a train.
No—like every train in Ostania colliding at once.
Last night.
Anya.

 

Tertius asking him dumb questions and Damian drinking like his life was on the line, which it totally was at that moment.
His heart plummeted straight into his stomach.

 

“Oh no,” he whispered.

Images flooded his brain, cruel and vivid thanks to his freakishly photographic memory. Anya practically hauling him into his room while he whispered in her ear like a pervert. Fuck.

 

“Anya… you smell like stars.”

 

He slapped a hand over his face.
WHAT DO STARS EVEN SMELL LIKE?
Why did he say that?
Why was he like this?
And then—

 

“Anya… kiss me. Again.”

 

He made a noise that could only be described as a dying animal.
He wanted to grab a shovel, dig a hole right under his bed, and bury himself alive.

 

But the worst part wasn’t the memory of what he said.
It was the warmth still lingering on his neck.
Her lips.

Right. There.
His fingers drifted to the spot before he could stop himself.
A small, involuntary smile betrayed him.
God. He was hopeless.

 

Then reality sucker-punched him again.
Oh god. I need to apologise.
She’s probably horrified.

 

I probably creeped her out.
I—oh SHIT.
He shot upright.
He needed to go to her.
Right now.

 

He swung open the door, almost out of its hinges. His chest was heaving from the adrenaline and alcohol coursing through his veins. There Anya sat, on the sofa, in her bra, having tea. Ohmygodohmygod, his thoughts raced. The alcohol seemed to be affecting his brain.

 

He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it. Anya was frozen on the spot, her tea cup hanging mid air. Damian could feel the heat creeping up his neck. The air between them was thick enough to suffocate an elephant. He could smell the floral of her perfume lingering in the air-roses and lavender.

 

He wondered if it was the alcohol because, it looked like there was golden light around her making her look otherworldly. Damian averted his eyes, he couldn’t do this anymore. He was too weak.

 

He cleared his throat, eyes coming back to Anya’s face that looked part confused and part amused, but mostly confused. “ I…I’m sorry. Forthatandbye !” He blurted and slammed the door shut. He could hear her raising her perfectly arched eyebrows.

 

He also heard laughing coming from her side, does she find his suffering amusing ? He was about to march right back into her room and defend his dignity—
(or what was left of it, which at this point was like… two crumbs and a prayer)
—when the door swung open.

 

“Hello, hello, hel—”

 

Ewen froze mid-word.
Emile froze mid-step.
Both stared.
At Damian.

 

Who stood in the middle of the room like a Victorian ghost, hair sticking up, shirt half tucked in, and eyes so bloodshot he looked like he’d fought God and lost.

 

Emile was the first to crack.
“Bossman… what the hell happened to you?”
Damian opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.

 

Nothing came out except a pathetic wheeze.
Ewen approached him slowly, like Damian was a wild injured animal.

 

“Okay, buddy,” he murmured, guiding Damian to sit on the edge of the bed. “Let’s start easy. Are you alive?”

 

Damian made a noise that sounded like,
“urpghhhhnnnnno.”
Ewen and Emile exchanged a look.
Then Ewen’s eyes widened with the recognition of a man who has solved a crime.

 

“YOU TRIED TO PULL ONE ON HER AND GOT REJECTED, DIDN’T YOU?”
Damian’s soul left his body.
“WHAT—NO—I—WHAT—NO I DID NOT!” he shrieked, flailing his arms like a windmill in a hurricane.
Emile doubled over laughing.
Ewen was wheezing.
Damian was dying.

 

“I DIDN’T GET REJECTED!” Damian barked, pointing wildly at the door like it personally offended him. “SHE—SHE WAS—SHE—IT WAS—TEA—AND A—BRA—AND—AND— I DON’T—”

 

He made circular motions in the air, like that would somehow explain the situation.
It did not.
Ewen clapped him on the back.

“Right. Sure. Totally not rejected. Just walked in, saw her half-naked, screamed ‘sorry, bye’, and slammed the door like a cartoon character.”
Damian turned the color of a tomato.
A tomato experiencing deep emotional trauma.

 

“THAT IS NOT WHAT HAPPENED!”
“Mhmm.”
“Sure, bossman.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night. Let’s go down stairs, get that drunken-ness outta you”
Damian covered his face with both hands and made a noise that sounded like a dying dove.
Somewhere down the hall, he could still hear Anya laughing.
He might never recover.

 

—————————-

 

“He just RAN out, Becky—like full-on sprinted.” Anya groaned, flopping backwards into the soft grass as Becky gently ran her fingers through Anya’s hair like she was petting a traumatized house cat.

 

They were sitting in the villa’s garden — the fanciest corner too — where poppies exploded like tiny red suns, daisies bobbed happily in the breeze, daffodils stood around like proud yellow soldiers, and the hydrangeas looked like they were posing for a magazine cover.

 

Beyond all of that, the meadows stretched out so far Anya was convinced you could probably see the end of the world if you squinted hard enough.

 

“That prick!” Becky huffed, indignantly plucking a petal off a daisy like it insulted her. “And to think I wasted my precious time giving him advice on how to get close to you—”

 

She froze, realizing she said too much. Anya slowly sat up like a haunted doll.
“…he WHAT?”

 

Becky tried to smile innocently. It did not work. At all.
“WHy—why would he not just ask me out? We even kissed at the gala—”
“WAIT WHAT?! ANYA. YOU. KISSED. DESMOND?! YOU NEVER TOLD ME—”
Becky didn’t finish because Anya launched herself at her like she was performing a WWE finishing move.

 

They both toppled into the grass, Anya clamping a hand over Becky’s mouth.
“Shut. The. Hell. UP.” she hissed, eyes darting around the garden like paparazzi would leap out from behind a bush at any moment.
Becky nodded vigorously, and Anya slowly released her like she was disarming a bomb.

 

“Anyway,” Anya muttered, brushing grass out of her hair, “we were alone and it just happened. And everything was fine for the whole camping trip. Like, fine fine. But after this morning everything’s just—” she made a distressed hand-wave toward the sky “—confusing.”

 

Becky tilted her head, her brown hair sliding off her shoulder in a perfect shampoo-commercial cascade, a deep frown forming.

 

“Why’s it confusing? It’s obvious you two like each other. You’re both emotionally constipated but like, cute about it.”
Anya sighed. Long, theatrical, despairing.

 

The sun warmed her cheeks, but honestly, it was mostly the memory of last night setting her entire face on fire like she was a human stovetop.
“When I went to bring him back to his room last night—he asked me to kiss him.”
Becky blinked.

 

“I told him to ask me again when he’s sober cause he was sputtering nonsense … so then when he came in this morning I thought—”

 

Becky didn’t let her finish. She exploded into laughter so intense she rolled onto her back, kicking her legs in the air like a distressed beetle.
“You thought DESMOND—DESMOND—was finally gonna take action? For once in his ENTIRE privileged, pampered, emotionally-backwards LIFE?”

 

Anya grabbed a hydrangea and threw it at her.
Becky finally sat up, wiped her eyes, and cupped Anya’s cheeks like a wise grandmother giving life advice.

 

“Listen. Sometimes you have to take the first step. Desmond is NOT gonna do it. He’d need God, a lightning strike, a PowerPoint presentation, and three spirit guides.”
Anya snorted.

 

“And if he DOES somehow push you away,” Becky added casually, “you currently have a prince of Septavia and a billionaire heir fighting over you in the kitchen as we speak.”

 

Anya burst out laughing, falling against Becky’s shoulder.
“Thank you, Becks,” she murmured, hugging her.
Becky hugged her back tightly. “Anytime. Now come on. Before the prince and the billionaire set the kitchen on fire trying to impress you.”
“Let’s head back,” Anya sighed, already mentally preparing herself for the chaos awaiting them.

 

The moment they stepped inside, the calm garden atmosphere evaporated. The villa’s kitchen looked like the aftermath of a food-themed civil war.
A pot was indeed broken.

A bowl of grapes had been tragically sacrificed on the floor.
And two very expensive men were mid-argument.

Tertius of Septavia—tall, princely, wearing a shirt that looked like it cost a month’s rent—stood with the dramatic fury of someone raised on royal etiquette and personal fencing tutors.

Freddy von Herberg—smug, heir to a shipping empire—leaned against the counter holding a ladle like it was a weapon.

 

“You cannot simply monopolise her attention!” Tertius snapped, pointing at Freddy with all the indignation of a man who once won a debate by accident and never let it go.

 

Freddy scoffed. “Oh please. You’ve been with her her for what—five months? I was literally helping her find her charger last night. That’s basically intimacy.”

 

“That is NOT intimacy.”

 

“It is if the charger is under the bed.”
Tertius looked personally offended.

 

Freddy raised the ladle higher. “Back off, your highness. I’m making her tea.”
Tertius threw his arms out. “YOU DO NOT EVEN KNOW WHAT TEA SHE LIKES.”
Freddy froze. “…Chamomile?”

 

“WRONG.”
“Oh—shut up—”
“You shut up—”

 

A muffin flew. No one knew who threw it. Possibly the universe.
And on the far side of the kitchen, at the breakfast table, sat Damian Desmond.
Arms crossed.
Eyes shadowed.
One elbow on the table like he was silently auditioning for “brooding aristocrat of the year.”

 

He wasn’t even looking at the fight anymore.
He was staring at the floor.

 

When he heard Anya enter, his head lifted—just slightly, enough to reveal that flash of hope he never showed anyone.
But Anya froze.

 

Because suddenly Becky’s words echoed a little too loudly:
“Sometimes you just have to take the first step… but if he pushes you away?”
Her chest tightened.
Damian had run from her. Again.

 

He always did this—came close, retreated, cared, doubted, repeated.
Maybe she was stupid for wanting someone who wasn’t sure about her.
Maybe she deserved someone who actively tried.
Who didn’t hide.

 

Who didn’t panic and flee the moment he felt something.
So she looked away from Damian.
Straightened her back.

Moved toward the counter—toward the two idiots still bickering.
Tertius immediately stepped forward like a knight noticing his princess.

 

“My lady—”
Freddy shoved him aside. “Anya! Tea.”
Behind her, she could feel Damian watching, his gaze bruins holes into her back.

 

And for the first time… she let him watch.
Without giving him anything back.
Because maybe for once, she needed to think about the people who actually reached for her, not the one who ran.

Damian watched, feigning boredom as Anya let Tertius kiss the back of her hand, holding it for longer than necessary. His jaw clenched so hard he thought he’d break it. He’d spent twenty minutes in the kitchen listening to Freddy and Tertius fight over tea bags and counting who Anya looked at the most.

 

But that wasn’t even close to the scene happening before him now-him touching Anya and her not moving away, her seeming comfortable and happy with him.

 

But, deep in his mind, Damian knew he doesn’t deserve her, he knew he might not be able to give her a welcoming family. He would just cause her more trouble. He only wished he were brave, but that’s easier said than done. Or is it?

 

“ Princess Anya of septavia…has a nice ring to it” Becky muttered next to him. Damian turned to glare at her. “ Either step up your game, Desmond, or leave her alone .” Becky whispered menacingly as she walked away from him.

 

Damian burst out of his chair and went to his car. He was going to the one place he went to when he needs peace.

——————-

 

The Desmond coastal estate was one of the newest editions to the Desmond line, built especially for Damian on his fourteenth birthday. He used to come here all the time when he needed some air, but with his busy schedule, those trips had come to an end.

 

This was his first time back in years. He’d never brought anyone other than Ewen or Emile. No one other than that. The home was huge and tall, but only had one story, with one bedroom and two bathrooms( he doesn’t know why either). There was huge glass windows at the top of the house, the roof was painted Robbin egg blue and at the top of the door was the Desmond family crest. Security was never really a concern as this whole land was owned by the Desmond’s and blackbell so outsiders were kept away but mostly no one knows about this place.

 

The house was at the edge of a cliff, over looking a beach. Wildflowers were growing on the land surrounding the house. Damian inhaled, taking in the scent of freedom and quiet. He did not think about Anya, he did not think about his father, his mind was as blank as the day he was born.

 

He plucked some of the wildflowers, mostly pink ones ( he had no idea why) and went inside. Everything was just as he left it-untouched. The leather sofa was still there, his towels sitting on top, folded neatly, the wooden floors were cold so he turned on the heater. The kitchen was open to the living room, the large windows allowed sunlight to flow in, making the space look like it’s almost been trapped in time. Everything felt like it moved slowly around here.

 

Damian sat at the edge of the cliff, weaving the stems of the flowers together, making a flower crown. Damian learnt how to make flower crowns after Anya had given him one for his birthday, which he rudely accepted. It was the first gift handmade and least extravagant gift he’d ever received.

 

It was so stupid and lame and so fucking thoughtful of her it made Damian want to cry. He still has that crown in the box of the many gifts Anya made for him. He smiled at that memory, warmth filling his chest which was immediately switched by dread as he remembered how she avoided him in the kitchen this morning, he squeezed his eyes shut. Back to square one, I guess he thought as he started on his second batch.

 

His phone rang in his pockets. He picked it up and looked at the caller ID, placing his flowers gently beside him. His blood ran cold. It was his father.

Notes:

I keep forgetting Freddy’s last name 😭

Chapter 6

Summary:

There was a huge storm, Damian is stuck at the Desmond coastal villa, Anya goes for him.

The clear blue sky from just a few hours ago had turned grey. The meadows looked like they’d been personally offended by life, the flowers sagging as if they’d just watched a tragic soap opera.

 

Anya sat cross-legged on her balcony floor, staring at the sky like a very dramatic, emotionally exhausted toddler who just realised the ice cream truck had left without her.

 

Damian still hadn’t come back. Hours had passed, and she could almost hear the clock ticking in judgment. Maybe she’d overreacted.

 

Maybe… maybe he was just a complicated disaster magnet who had no idea how to deal with feelings. Her chest tightened.

 

He’d been vulnerable that night—drunk, ridiculous, possibly mortified. He could have said anything, anything at all. And yet… he hadn’t talked to her. He’d just run. Again. She was tired of running after him.

 

Classic Damian. Always running. Always panicking. Always somehow managing to make emotional chaos look like an art form.

 

Anya let out a sigh that could’ve broken glass. She tilted her head back, letting the cool air hit her face, and muttered, “Maybe… maybe I should’ve said something. Maybe I should’ve talked to him. But if he truly wanted me, shouldn’t he have just—y’know—asked already?”

 

She curled her knees closer, resting her chin on them. “God, I’m acting like a melodramatic cat stuck in a rainstorm. But—fine—he’s confusing, he’s frustrating, he’s utterly infuriating. And yet… I can’t stop thinking about him.”
Her lips twisted into a wry smile.

A part of her often laughed at herself thinking he would ever choose her when he could have all the girls he ever wanted. But since that maddening kiss, there was this speck of hope that, maybe, she’s not crazy after all.

She glanced at the horizon, the grey sky now looking less threatening and more… like a challenge. “Maybe I can’t make him brave. But I can stop pretending I’m fine with him running away every time. Maybe… maybe I need to be the one who actually says something first for once. Even if it’s terrifying. Even if it’s humiliating. Even if it’s… Damian.”

 

Her mind immediately went to worst-case scenarios. Maybe he’d look at her like she’d just suggested she was a potato. Maybe he’d laugh and run again, faster than ever.

 

Maybe he’d trip over his own feet and knock over a vase in his panic, leaving her to apologize to a very confused staff member.
But then… maybe he’d finally look at her the way he looked when he was vulnerable, just that one night. Maybe he’d say something that made her heart do that ridiculous fluttery thing she couldn’t explain.
Maybe.

 

Anya exhaled, a mixture of dread and determination swirling in her chest. “Okay, fine. One step. One tiny, terrifying, humiliating step.”

 

She squared her shoulders, the dramatic toddler in her trying very hard not to stomp her feet like a storm. “Just… don’t make it a face-plant moment, Anya. Please. For once in your life, don’t die of embarrassment before the conversation even starts.”

 

And with that, she rose from the balcony, the grey sky no longer an enemy, but a reluctant spectator to her small act of courage.

 

———————-

 

“ I don’t know, Ewen, everything-DAMIANYA-is falling apart, Anya probably gave up on Desmond, who, might I add, hasn’t been back for hours and there’s currently a heavy storm warning.” Becky blurted, her hands in her hair, further exaggerating her frustrations with the couple of lovesick idiots.

 

“ they cant just make up their goddamn minds ! Did you know they kissed ? Oh and Desmond has dated tons and tons of girls but is hesitant about Anya, y’know maybe she does deserve better than that-“ “okay, okay, BECKY CALM DOWN” Ewen held Becky by the shoulders as she started to breathe in and out dramatically. Ewen sighed, Damian and Anya were the most oblivious yet somehow smartest students in Eden.

 

They both like each other but Damian is a scary cat that is a talker more than a doer and Anya is denial personified. In a way, they’re made for each other. “ look, maybe we shouldn’t force it, they’ll figure it out on their own.”

Ewen patted Becky’s shoulder like she was a frantic house cat mid-meltdown.
“Probably,” he repeated, though his voice sounded like someone who had absolutely zero faith in that statement.

 

Becky narrowed her eyes.
“Ewen. They’ve had—what?—five almost-confessions, one actual kiss , three emotional breakdowns, and now they’re back to square one. If this was a TV show, people would be throwing their remotes and screaming at the screen.”
Ewen blinked.

“…Becky, people already scream at them in real life.”
She groaned and dragged both hands dramatically down her face.

“I swear, they’re going to be the death of me. I feel like I’m parenting two emotionally stunted rabbits.”
“Rabbits?”

 

“Yes. Rabbits. Hyper, twitchy, and no idea what to do with feelings.”

 

Ewen nodded. “Accurate.”
The wind howled outside, rattling the windows of the villa. Becky looked toward the balcony, worry briefly overtaking her sarcasm.

 

“Where the hell is Damian?” she muttered. “He’s usually back by now. He’s like an anxious boomerang — throws himself out, panics, and comes flying right back.”

 

Ewen tried to laugh, but it came out thin.
“Yeah. Except this time he didn’t.”
Becky sighed, rubbing her forehead.

 

“And Anya… poor girl, she’s trying so hard not to be clingy and failing miserably. She’s acting like she’s over him but then sighs every time she hears footsteps. It’s like watching a raccoon pretend it’s not digging through the trash.”

 

Ewen gave her a weird look.
“…You have interesting analogies.”
“Thank you. I’m stressed.”
They both jumped when thunder cracked, shaking the glass doors.
Becky immediately marched toward the hallway.

“Okay, new plan. I’m checking on Anya before she decides to write angsty poetry or stare dramatically into the distance again.”
Ewen followed. “Do you think she’s okay?”
“She’s Anya. She’s either contemplating her entire romantic future or eating snacks on the floor. Could go either way.”
———————————————

She’d gotten up with determination.
She’d rehearsed what she was going to say.

She’d even told herself she would talk to Damian the moment she saw him.
Except… when she opened the door to go find him, she nearly stepped on a staff member carrying a tray of desserts, panicked internally, whispered “sorry” like she was committing a crime, and immediately retreated back into her room.
Baby steps.
She inhaled. Exhaled. Tried again.

 

“Okay. You can do this. You’re a young woman . A mature, reasonable—”
Another thunder clap shook the villa.
“—NOPE. I hate this.”

 

She slumped back onto her bed, hugging a pillow to her chest.
Maybe Becky was right.

Maybe Damian did need her to push him a little. But when would someone push her ?
But—ugh—why was she always the one breaking the silence?
Why couldn’t he, just once, choose her loudly?
Her voice came out small, frustrated, honest:
“Why can’t he stop running from me?”

 

The door opened with a groan and Anya frantically sat up like she had been caught stealing food from the fridge late at night. She braced herself for the sight of a certain, tall, hazel eyed, young man with the darkest hair she’d ever seen…but it was her dear friend,Becky. Her shoulders slumped, relieved but also slightly disappointed.

 

“ hey, how’s it going” her best friend said as she came to her side and squeezed her arms, an action Becky always did to smooth Anya, it worked every single time. Anya smiled or attempted to give what looked like a smile. “ just a little upset…with myself. He isn’t used to feelings and I expected more from him…Becky i-“ Anya let out a small groan and collapsed onto her pillow, face-down. Her voice was muffled and tragic.

 

“I don’t know what I’m doing. I want to talk to him. Then I want to throw him off a balcony. Then I want to kiss him again. Then I want to throw myself off the balcony because apparently I’m emotionally incompetent—”

 

Anya sighed again — a long, emotional, opera-level sigh.
“I know he’s scared,” she continued. “I know. He always freaks out right when something feels real. He panics and bolts like—like a startled deer with generational trauma.”

 

“Accurate,” Becky nodded.
“But I’m tired, Becks,” Anya whispered. “Every time I reach out, he steps back. Every time I take a risk, he avoids me. And then I get mad at him… but I also didn’t exactly chase after him today.”
She squeezed her knees closer.

“It’s like we’re in this stupid dance where we both refuse to lead.”

 

Becky hummed thoughtfully. “You know… a wise woman once said: ‘Sometimes you have to shove the emotionally constipated man you like directly into communication.’”
Anya blinked. “…that wise woman was you.”
“Exactly.”
Another rumble of thunder rolled through the villa, the lights flickering dramatically as if someone backstage was cranking up the angst levels.
Becky cupped Anya’s cheeks, squishing them together slightly.

 

“Listen. You care about him. He cares about you. He is, unfortunately, built like a panicking Victorian gentleman who’s never spoken to a woman before—”
Anya choked out a laugh.
“—but you don’t have to fix everything. You’re allowed to be confused. And upset. And tired. And also a hypocrite. You’re human, you have Tertius, you can be a princess.” Becky squealed and burst out laughing as Anya elbowed her.
Anya’s shoulders sagged.
“princess sounds good and all but I just want Damian…I just want him to choose me. For once.”

 

“He did choose you. He just hasn’t realised he chose you because his brain is made of panic and privilege.”

 

A tiny smile curled onto Anya’s lips.
Becky nudged her playfully. “And besides… you’re not alone. I’ll shove him into sense if I have to. I’ll drag him by that expensive shirt collar of his. But, you also have to make a choice, you can’t wait forever.”

 

Anya giggled — for real this time — the tension easing from her chest.
Outside, the storm roared louder, wind thrashing through the meadows.
Becky glanced at the window.

 

“Also, uh… dramatic skies and love-life crises aside, do you maybe wanna check if he got literally swept away by the storm? I’m starting to worry for real.”
Anya froze.
“...Becky.”
“Yes?”

 

“WHAT IF HE DID GET SWEPT AWAY?!”
Becky face-palmed. “Oh God. Here we go.”

 

Anya leapt to her feet like she’d just remembered she left the stove on.
“WHAT IF HE’S OUT THERE?? WHAT IF THE WIND PICKED HIM UP LIKE A LITTLE PANICKING CHICKEN?!”

 

“Anya, babe, he’s like six feet tall, not a paper bag.”
But Anya was already running to the door with the pure determination of a chaotic heroine ready to fight a hurricane.
Becky groaned and followed, muttering, “Perfect. They’re both idiots. Soulmates, truly.”

—————

“ GUYS WE HAVE A PROBLEM” Ewen came bursting into Anya’s room, Emile at his tail. Becky was about to ask him to get lost but after seeing his outraged face, she held her tongue. The mood stiffened, as if everyone had collectively forgotten how to breathe. “ what’s wrong, ewen ?” Anya asked, voice cutting through the tension.

 

Anya’s entire expression changed, suddenly looking like she might puke.

 

“ it’s Damian-he’s at the Desmond estate alone-i tracked him, he’s not picking up his phone” Ewen blurted. Pacing back and forth. Anya looked terrified, her hands at her lips, biting her nails.

Becky squinted at Ewen, one eyebrow raised like a suspicious cat. “Wait. You have a tracker on Damian?!”

 

Ewen waved a hand casually, like he wasn’t admitting to secretly playing GPS god. “Hey, he tends to disappear at carnivals. Big scary clowns. You know how he is—freaks out, panics, vanishes into the crowd. It’s… precautionary.”
Becky blinked at him. Blinked again. “You’re telling me you’re literally tracking him like a prize pig at a fair?!”
Ewen shrugged, unbothered. “Better safe than having to check every bumper car in the shape of a tea cup.”

“ what are we gonna-“ Anya started.

Anya froze mid-step, her heart suddenly hammering. The memory hit her like a rogue wave—the way Damian had once mentioned the secluded house perched on a cliff, overlooking the roaring ocean, wildflowers around, the perfect escape from everything.

 

The second day of the trip where they finally addressed their kiss. The moment they finally let their authentic selves free and connect with each other.

 

She grabbed her phone and typed furiously. “Ewen… the exact location. I need it. Now.”

Ewen leaned over, his face close enough that she could smell the faint mint of his gum, his expression calm but firm. “Right here. That’s him. That’s the place. But—”

 

“No buts,” Anya hissed, already lacing her sneakers. “He’s alone. He might be… upset. I need to go.”

 

Becky shot up, hair sticking to her damp forehead from the storm outside. “Anya! Do not go!”
Anya’s fingers hovered over the door handle. “I have to. He’s—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence! You’ll get yourself—”

 

“I don’t care!” Anya interrupted, slamming the door behind her, the wind whipping her hair across her face, rain stinging her cheeks like tiny icy needles.
Becky groaned, running after her. “Anya, seriously! This is literally insane! You can’t just—”

 

Ewen stepped forward, arms folded, his calmness almost infuriating. “She can,” he said quietly. “And Becky… you can’t stop her.”

 

Becky spun toward him, face red, hands on her hips. “You! You’re letting her go alone? Alone?! Are you out of your mind?”

 

Ewen’s eyes softened slightly, and for the first time he allowed a small, almost imperceptible smirk. “She’s the only one Damian would let into his personal space like that , Becky. Only her. You know how he is.”

 

Becky blinked, stunned. The wind howled through the villa, tugging at her hair, whipping rain against the windows.

 

She could hear Anya’s footsteps fading, pounding through the wet gravel outside like a heartbeat in a storm.
“You think they’ll be okay ?” Becky muttered, muttering curses that sounded that sounded too posh to be considered outrageous.
Ewen simply shrugged, a faint, knowing smile on his lips as the thunder rolled over the hills.

 

“they’re Damian Desmond and Anya forger, the storm should be afraid of them.”
Becky groaned again, running after Anya, muttering under her breath, “Emotionally constipated rabbits… I’m never surviving this.”

 

————————-

 

His phone vibrated in his pocket. The screen lit up with a name that made his blood run cold: his father. Damian’s chest tightened as he picked up the call.

 

“Come home. Now,” his father demanded, sharp as ever. Damian’s fingers tightened around the phone. He thought of Anya, of her SMILING AT Tertius, her looking at him with disappointment in her beautiful green eyes and the guilt gnawed at him.

 

If staying here alone might make things easier for her, he would go. He nodded silently. “Alright.”

 

A few hours later, the blue clouds had turned grey like the sweaters he wears to London .

 

The storm hit hard, roaring across the cliffs and flattening the wildflowers with each gust. Damian’s phone had long since died, the screen black, no way to call for help. He watched the dark clouds roll over the ocean, the only light the occasional flash of lightning. The lightning alarm in the villa was also going off.

 

He was sitting on his sofa, reading some philosophy book he found on the table, the flowers, still in his hand. He simply couldn’t leave them at the edge of a cliff.

 

Storms were the most dangerous in this part of ostania, especially with the open space and lack of civilisation-so the nearest medical facility is far away. There is security, yes, but even they can only do so much.

 

Then—a horn.
Damian’s head jerked up. He looked through the glass window,In the distance, through the sheets of rain, he saw a red flash, headlights slicing through the storm. He squinted, and then he could make out the impossible: Becky’s car. And inside, unmistakable, a head of bright pink hair.

 

His heart nearly stopped. “Anya…” he whispered.
Without thinking, he scrambled to his feet, sprinting to the door, swinging it open, rushing outside. His shoes slipped on the wet rocks, his hand grazing jagged stone. He reached for balance—and the ground gave way beneath him.

 

“AHHH!”
Anya’s scream cut through the wind like a knife.
Damian tumbled, arms flailing, heart hammering, and time slowed. The flowers he’d still been holding scattered into the wind, petals whipping around like confetti in some tragic festival.

 

Anya’s car skidded to a halt a few feet away. She threw the door open, rain soaking her hair and clothes. Her boots splashed into the puddles as she dashed toward him.
“DAMIAN!”

 

He caught a jagged edge with one hand, teeth gritting, and dangled precariously above the rocks and the pounding waves. The storm roared around them, a chaotic symphony, but her scream was the only thing that seemed to pierce it.

 

“Hold on! I’ve got you!” Anya yelled, reaching for him, heart in her throat, arms shaking with fear and adrenaline.
And for a moment, as the rain pelted down and the wind tried to rip them apart, it wasn’t about pride or running. It was just them, standing against the storm. Together.

Notes:

The next chapter is gonna be juicy, like I’ve had this kind of chapter in my mind for so long. Teehehehehe

Thank you for reading !!!

Chapter 7

Summary:

Spiralling and falling off of cliffs

Becky Blackbell sat on the living room floor, tears streaming down her sullen face.

It had been two hours since Anya left.
Two hours of Ewen reassuring her that Damian and Anya would be fine and they probably won’t kill each other.

Two hours of Becky resisting the overwhelming urge to throttle him with her bare hands, tie him up with designer shoelaces, and ship him to the furthest uninhabited island she could find.

 

She had told him—explicitly—not to let Anya go after Damian in the storm.
She’d practically begged him. Becky BlackBell never begs.

Now Anya was trapped in a secluded coastal estate with a boy who had the emotional processing power of a turnip in a thunderstorm.

 

A privileged turnip.

 

She wiped her face with her customised Chanel handkerchief—silky, embroidered with the little sheep keychain she shared with Anya.
Just because she was devastated didn’t mean she had to be uncivilised and wipe tears with her hands like a peasant.

Her voice cracked as she muttered,
“Why didn’t I just lock her in the room? Why didn’t I tackle her? Why am I surrounded by idiots?”

 

Ewen, who was sitting cross-legged on the opposite couch, fiddling with his phone, blinked patiently.

“For the thirty-ninth time, Becky, she’ll be fine.”
She shot him a look so venomous he physically flinched.
“And you!” she snapped, stabbing a perfectly manicured finger at him. “YOU told her to go! YOU said she was the only one who could reach him! YOU made her feel like she had to go be the dramatic heroine in a K-drama!”

 

Ewen shrugged.

“She is the dramatic heroine in a K-drama.”
Becky opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.
“…You’re not wrong, but I hate you.”
He nodded solemnly.
“Understandable.”

 

Becky groaned and buried her face in a Yves Saint Laurent pillow.
Project DAMIANYA was going to hell. In a Gucci tote bag. Fast.

 

Just then, a soft beep came from Ewen’s phone.
He perked up.
“Oh! Good news.”
Becky’s head shot up like a prairie dog on alert.
“What? What??”

 

Ewen turned the phone to show her a blinking icon on the map.
Damian’s locator. A small green dot. But now—there was a faint pale circle moving beside it.
It wasn’t weather.
It wasn’t an animal.
It wasn’t security.
It was motion.

 

Human motion.

Ewen exhaled in relief. “Someone’s with him.”
Becky froze.
“…Someone?”

 

“Yes. The tracker on his phone detects motion signatures. Heartbeats, footsteps, proximity. It’s not exact, but it’s designed to alert if someone approaches him in isolated places.”

He zoomed in. “And it’s only ONE person.”
Becky stared at him.
Then at the dot.
Then back at him.
“…Ewen.”
“Yeah?”
“He actually allowed you to put a tracker on him? Seriously?”
Ewen shrugged.
“Rich kid paranoia. I don’t ask questions anymore.”
She kept staring.
“…And that ONE person near him—it’s Anya?”
“Most likely.”

 

A wave of relief crashed through her so hard she sagged into the floor like a melting soufflé.
“Oh thank god… oh THANK GOD,” she whispered, clutching the pillow like it was her emotional support animal. “She didn’t get swept off a cliff. She didn’t crash into a tree. She didn’t fall into a ditch. She’s with him. She’s WITH him!”
Ewen nodded.

“ And alive.”
“ALIVE,” Becky echoed dramatically.

 

Footsteps thundered into the living room.
Tertius.
Emile.
Freddy.

 

All soaked from the rain outside, all breathing heavily like they’d sprinted through the entire villa.

 

Tertius, still holding a half-broken umbrella: “We heard Becky crying. Is someone dead?”

 

Freddy: “Is it Damian? Did he trip and roll off a mountain?”
Emile: “If it’s a ghost, I swear I’m heading back to campus.”
Ewen raised both hands.

“Relax. Update time.”
They all crowded around him like anxious ducklings.
“Damian’s alive. Anya’s with him.”

 

Collective sighs of relief shook the room.
Tertius: “Good. Good. I was about to draft an emergency rescue plan.”
Freddy: “Same. I had ropes.”
Emile: “I brought snacks.”

 

Everyone stared at him.
“…Emile,” Becky said slowly. “Why would snacks help?”
He shrugged.

“If someone’s dying it might be their last meal. Didn’t want them to go hungry.”
Becky’s jaw dropped.
“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU—”
BAM.

The lights went out.
Complete darkness.
A beat of stunned silence.
Then—
Emile’s voice, shaky in the void:

“…Okay. I’ll be honest. I think the ghost heard me.”
Becky screamed into a pillow.
Tertius whispered, “…We’re doomed.”

 

Freddy muttered, “Emile, shut up before you summon something."
Ewen sighed into the darkness, pinching the bridge of his nose even though no one could see it.
“…This is going to be a long night.”

 

————————-
The wind screamed as if trying to tear them apart. Anya’s fingers grazed Damian’s wrist, slipping once—her heart shot into her throat—but she surged forward again, bracing her knee against the soaked ground.

 

“Damian, give me your hand!” she shrieked over the thunder.
Damian clenched his jaw, rain cascading down his face, his legs dangling over the cliffside. His chest burned. Part from panic. Part from something far worse.
He still couldn’t believe she was here.
In this storm.
For him.

 

“Anya—go back!” he shouted, voice hoarse. “It’s dangerous!”
“OH REALLY?!” she yelled back, eyes blazing even through the rain. “THANK GOD YOU’RE HERE TO TELL ME THAT!”

 

Lightning cracked violently above them.
He tried to pull himself up, muscles straining and slipping against the wet rock. His heart hammered, a cold dread building that he wouldn’t be fast enough—that she’d get hurt—because of him.
And then her hands closed around his wrist with a force that made him wince.

 

“AN—Anya—!”
“SHUT UP AND LET ME SAVE YOU!”

 

Her feet scrambled for grip, boots sliding, hair sticking to her face, her entire body shaking with effort. She didn’t let go. She didn’t even hesitate.

She had always been the braver one.
“On three!” she gasped. “One—two—”
Before she could say three, a violent gust ripped through them. Damian’s grip slipped entirely, his stomach dropping—
“NO!” she screamed.

 

Without thinking—without caring—Anya threw herself forward and grabbed him under both arms, her entire weight jerking back so hard she nearly slammed into the ground.

 

Pain shot through her shoulder, white-hot. But she didn’t let go.
“DAMIAN, UP!!” she cried, her voice raw, desperate.

 

He finally found enough leverage to push off the rock. Together—shaking, slipping, fighting the storm—they managed to haul him up onto solid ground.
They collapsed in the mud and wet grass, breathless, hearts pounding so hard they could barely hear the storm anymore.

 

Anya rolled onto her side, wiping rain from her eyes. “Are you—are you okay?”
Damian stared at her.

 

Not at her soaked hair, plastered to her face.
Not at the mud streaked on her cheek.
Not at the trembling of her hands.
At her eyes.

 

Her stupid, stubborn, beautiful green eyes.
“Why…” he whispered, voice barely audible over the storm. “Why did you come?”

 

Anya swallowed, chest heaving. “Because you’re—because you’re an idiot. A reckless, dramatic, emotionally confusing idiot who didn’t come back and didn’t pick up and—” her voice cracked— “and I got scared, okay?!”
He blinked, breath catching.
“You… were scared for me?”

 

“I thought something happened to you!” she shouted. “I thought you were out here alone and upset and drowning in your stupid dramatic feelings and then the storm started and—”

 

Lightning lit up the sky, and in that flash he saw it:
Her eyes were red.
She had been crying.
His heart twisted so violently it hurt.
“Anya…” Damian moved closer on instinct, but she scooted back a little, hugging her arms around herself.
“No,” she rasped. “You don’t get to—just run and then show up and then nearly die—Damian, what am I supposed to do with you?”
He stared at her. Really stared.
Her shaking shoulders.
Her wet eyelashes.

 

Her lips trembling as she tried not to cry in front of him.
And for once—he didn’t run. He didn’t freeze. He didn’t panic until everything shattered.
His voice came out soft. “ you can do anything you want to me.”
Anya let out a laugh—wet, broken, unbelieving.
“idiot.”
His breath caught.

 

Something in his chest cracked open, spilling warmth and ache and everything he’d been burying for months.
Before he could respond, another gust of wind barreled into them—sending Damian’s hand slipping on the ground. His balance wavered—

 

“DAMIAN!”
Anya grabbed his jacket instantly, yanking him back toward her before he could slip again. They collided—hard—Anya falling backward into the wet grass with Damian’s weight crashing onto her.
“OW—!”
“Ugh—sorry—! Are you—?”
They froze.

 

His hands braced on either side of her.
Her breath warm despite the freezing rain.
Their noses inches apart.

Rain hammered around them, but for a moment it felt like the world had gone deaf.
Damian swallowed, eyes dropping to her lips before snapping back up.
Anya’s heart nearly stopped.
“Anya,” he whispered, rain dripping from his lashes, voice shaking—not from fear this time, but something deeper, rawer.

 

She didn’t move.
Couldn’t move.
Didn’t dare.

 

Their breath mingled.
Lightning flashed.
Thunder roared.
And Damian—
lost his footing again.

He slipped sideways, face-first into a patch of mud.
“DAMIAN!” Anya shrieked, scrambling up.
His groan was muffled. “I… hate everything.”

 

Anya burst out laughing and crying at the same time, grabbing his shoulders to haul him up again.
The storm raged.
Her hands shook.
His heart raced.

 

And somewhere between the panic, the fear, and the mud on his face, Damian finally looked at her like he understood.
Like he realised she had always chosen him.
And for the first time in Damian’s life…
he felt brave enough to choose her back.

Chapter 8

Summary:

Damian and anya finally accept their feelings.

“Where do you keep your first aid supplies ?” Anya groaned for what seemed like the fifteenth time as she searched every cabinet in villa of the Desmond’s.
Damian sat on the sofa, holding onto the side of his chest. The pain was excruciating but thankfully it wasn’t that deep.

 

Finally, having had enough of watching Anya search for first aid supplies like
Waldo, he finally spoke, his voice hoarse, “ have you checked the bathroom, Anya ?”

 

Damian tried to keep the amusement from creeping into his perfectly practiced stone expression.

 

“Bathroom?!” Anya spun around like he’d just suggested she dive into a pit of snakes.

 

“Who… WHO keeps first aid supplies in bathrooms? Do you really expect me to rummage through—” she waved dramatically at the direction of the bathroom door, “—toothpaste and body wash to find bandages?!”

 

Damian’s lips twitched, almost like he was trying not to laugh. “Yes… apparently. It’s… practical.” His voice was strained, and Anya could see the faint tremor in his hands as he clutched his side.

 

“Practical?!” Anya echoed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Practical would be like… I don’t know… the kitchen? The living room? A labeled drawer? Somewhere that doesn’t smell like… like… men’s cologne and regret?”

 

She stormed toward the bathroom, muttering to herself, “I swear, people who keep band-aids in bathrooms are sadistic.”

 

Then she froze mid-step. Damian’s eyes were on her, sharp and unblinking, and his breathing was uneven. Something about the way he was holding his chest… the taut muscles along his shoulders… the faint sheen of sweat from the effort…

 

“Anya…” he said quietly, almost reluctantly. “I—uh… might need you to, you know…”
She tilted her head. “Need me to what?”
He hesitated, just for a beat, before tugging at the hem of his shirt. “…Take my shirt off.”

 

Anya blinked. Then blinked again. Then nearly yelped. “…Excuse me?”
“I… can’t reach the wound properly with it on.” He kept his gaze locked on hers, but there was a faint blush creeping along his jaw.

 

Anya’s internal monologue went full chaos mode. Oh my god, this is illegal, unethical, not in the handbook… She shook her head furiously. “…You’re asking me to take your shirt off? Like… completely?”

 

“Technically, just over the wound,” Damian muttered, wincing slightly.
Anya threw her hands up. “This is… absolutely… THE MOST absurd thing I’ve ever done in my life. And I’ve—wait—no, never mind. This tops it.”
Her eyes darted around the bathroom as she tried to mentally prepare herself for the most awkward first aid session in history.

 

“Fine,” she huffed, muttering, “I’ll do it. But if I survive this without fainting, it’ll be a miracle. And you owe me… like… everything.”
Damian let out a small, strained chuckle. “Deal.”

 

Anya stepped closer, heart pounding, trying very hard to focus on the wound and not… everything else.

 

———————-

Back at Becky’s villa, things were…chaotic, to put it mildly.
“ Ewen ! The lights are gone, someone is touching me but I don’t know who it is, so, I don’t want to play blind UNO” Becky hissed as she pretended she knew exactly where Ewen was sitting.

Emile snorted.
Freddy sneezed and Tertius sighed so loudly it could put an old Victorian widow to shame.

 

“ Becks.-“ Ewen exhaled before continuing, “-Damian and Anya are safe, the storm is still strong but we’re all safe. Let’s play games and deflect, it’s what we’re good at Becky .” He said the last part softly with such tenderness that made Becky’s stomach ache.

 

Becky rolled her eyes, a slight smile creeping into her lips. It’s a good thing the lights were out, because her smiling at something Ewen said in front of everyone could potentially cause a worldwide scandal. “ fine. But, don’t start crying every time I beat your sorry ass” she said as she shuffled her cards.

“ how are we even supposed to play this” Emile asked.

“ no idea, we’ll figure something out “ said Freddy.

 

———————

 

The Desmonds’ bathroom was as big as Anya’s apartment, which she shared with her father, Loid Forger, and his fiancée, Yor Briar.

 

Anya’s parents had divorced last year after a fight about moving back to Westalis. Father wanted to stay in Ostania—because it was far from, westalis,the place where he lost everything, such as his parents, his friends, his home. He wanted a change so he went to Ostania to study medicine, he then permanently moved to Ostania after meeting Anya’s mother, but the longer he stayed, the more he felt he couldn’t go back.

 

Her mother, however, thought differently. “I hate it here,” she had said, voice trembling—not angry, just tired. “I can’t force myself to like it in Ostania just because you’re running from ghosts.”

 

It wasn’t a dramatic divorce. No screaming, no broken plates. Just… a quiet understanding that something had cracked and wasn’t going to fix itself.
And Anya had learned, very painfully, that even adults could love each other and still go separate ways.

 

But, Yor was different-she was kind, understanding and beautiful and loving. Father met her while he was visiting the tailor shop, ordering Anya’s new uniform. She made father happy and that’s all Anya could ever ask for. After rummaging through some exotic shampoos that probably costs more than her whole house, Anya finally found some bandages and ointment behind the mirror in the toilet.

 

Anya was really shocked to witness the mirror opening like that to a complete different compartment. It was so unusual to her but then again these were the Desmonds she was taking about, so of course they’d have mirrors with hidden parts and bathrooms the size of the average apartment in berlint.

 

“ Damian, I finally found the supplies, are you-“ Anya trailed off mid sentence upon the sight of Damian-shirt off, beads of sweat sliding down his taut muscles. She didn’t understand why she suddenly felt so nervous, she’d seen him without a shirt on before, but the fact that they were alone in a villa with s raging storm outside seemed to make the ambiance a little more…intimate.

 

She swallowed, hoping that would calm her stupid hormones. The fact that clips of Becky’s favourite show, berlint in love, where the main characters found themselves in a similar situation as Damian and Anya, seemed to make her even more jittery and have visions about her burning Becky’s soap opera DVDs. Oh god.

 

Anya forger was going to tend to the wounds of a partially naked Damian Desmond who looked like he was the descendant of a Greek god. What could possibly go wrong ?

 

“ if you’re done staring at me, forger, I’d appreciate it if you could hand me the supplies-if you’re afraid you’ll be distracted “ he drawled. He even used that voice of his-the one that used to make her want to throttle him but now it’s making her want to do something stupid like smile.

 

She rolled her eyes, “ you almost killed yourself. Let me help you.” She said, avoiding his intense gaze. His body seemed to tense as she slowly used some cotton to apply the ointment on his wound. The wound wasn’t too bad but it needed to be sealed to prevent infection. Obviously. As she wrapped the bandage around him, he exhaled a shuddering breath, “ I-I’m sorry for running off like that” he blurted as she tied the bandage with fastener clips.

 

She opened her mouth, wanting to scream at him for putting himself in danger , for not talking to her and running away for all these years, and then she remembered she’d been doing the same. “ what’s wrong Damian ? “ she asked, sanitising her hands before cupping his right cheek.

 

He leaned into her touch, closing his hazel eyes she loved staring into. “My father wants me to be home, you don’t want me, I’m afraid of…ruining everything” he blurted all at once.

 

She raised from the floor, and sat next to him on the sofa, the material soft and warm against her cool, soaked body. “ we can deal with your dad later and I…i do want you.” She whispered, it was so soft that Damian would’ve missed it if they weren’t surrounded by dead silence.

 

“ then…why-“ he ran a hand down his face, “-why were you acting all into Tertius or whatever the other one’s name is ?” He asked, turning his head to face her without straining the side of his chest. The mere sight of her caused a different pain in his chest. “ I thought you’d never ask me, ya’know, officially” Anya said, twirling a pink lock on her index finger.

 

“ Anya, I’m so sorry, for everything, I did-i do want to ask you-“ there was a loud thunder that echoed off the walls, reminding them of the storm,soon the lights in the Desmond villa went out. They sat in dumbfounded silence. Damian and Anya looked at each other in comedic unison and they burst out laughing.

 

Anya wiped a tear from her eyes and Damian allowed himself to smile like an idiot in the dark, it’s not like anyone could see him anyway.

 

“so…are you-“ “ Anya forger, will you be my girlfriend ?” Damian cut her off. She didn’t need to see him to know that his face bright crimson.
“ yes” she said as she giggled, she went to grab his face to pull him into a searing kiss but Damian stopped her. “ I’ll go get the candles then, we can get down to business” he whispered against her ear, every word like a caress.
She whispered an “ okay” and Damian squeezed her thigh as he used the little light coming from the outside as his guide to the kitchen. It was a good thing, then,that the villa had such large windows.

 

Damian placed each candle around the living room, lighting them carefully, one flame at a time. The scent spread slowly—warm, woody, grounding—yet nothing in the room felt grounded. Not with Anya sitting on the sofa watching him the way she was. “What scent is this?” she asked, voice light but eyes following every move he made. He looked up—and instantly regretted it. The candlelight wrapped around her like it had been designed for her alone: pink hair glowing like dusk, eyes catching the gold and turning it into something almost unreal. He forgot to breathe. Forgot she had asked a question. Forgot everything except her. “It’s… rosemary and cedar,” he finally managed, staring a little too hard at the candle to pretend he wasn’t shaken. He placed it down. Sat opposite her. Tried very hard to act normal. But the room wasn’t normal. It was quiet in the way storms are quiet just before they break—still, thick, heavy with everything they hadn’t said for too many years. Damian clicked his tongue. “So—” He didn’t finish. Anya moved—but not recklessly. Slowly. Like she wasn’t entirely sure she was allowed to, but couldn’t stop herself. She crossed the small distance between them and settled on his lap with a care so delicate it made his breath stutter. Her hands hovered at his jaw—not touching. Her lips hovered near his—not touching. It was the almost that killed him. “Anya…” he whispered, the word barely more than breath. She looked at him like she’d been holding something in for a very long time—and finally decided she couldn’t anymore. Her forehead leaned against his, soft, steady. He felt her inhale. And then—she kissed him. Not fierce. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just a slow, trembling, years-in-the-making press of her lips against his. He froze—not because he didn’t want it, but because he wanted it too much. Because every part of him felt like it had been waiting for this one exact moment, and he was terrified of doing anything that might break it. She pulled back only a fraction, breath brushing his cheek. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” she whispered. His hands, which had been suspended uselessly in the air, finally settled on her waist—light, cautious, reverent. “You…” Damian swallowed. “You can’t say things like that to me.” Her eyes softened. “Why?” “Because I won’t be able to pretend anymore,” he said quietly. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw—featherlight, almost shy. He leaned into the touch before he could stop himself. “Then don’t pretend,” she murmured. The words hit him harder than any kiss. He let out a shaky breath, forehead pressing to hers again, trying to steady himself. “Anya… if we keep going, I don’t trust myself to go slow.” She rested her hand flat against his chest, right over his heartbeat. “I want slow,” she said. “Just… stay here with me.” He nodded, exhaling the kind of breath that sounded like surrender. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I can do that.” They didn’t kiss again—not yet. But the silence between them was warm, electric, alive. Her fingers laced with his. His thumb brushed her knuckles, soft circles he didn’t even realize he was drawing. The candlelight flickered across both their faces like it approved. And for the first time in years, the restraint didn’t feel like a cage. It felt like anticipation. It felt like the beginning of something they were finally ready to touch.

 

They spent the next couple of minutes talking about school and how they’re gonna go back to Becky’s villa. “ Becky must be planning my murder” Damian told her then, to which Anya didn’t disagree. “ I heard your father and his fiancée are getting married” Damian said, combing his fingers through Anya’s hair.

 

Anya let out a long breath, remembering fondly of the many game nights loid and her had with Yor the past year. “ yeah, it’s in two weeks. The wedding” she said and laughed at Damian’s shocked face. “ why wasn’t I invited to pop’s wedding, I didn’t even know about it ! ” Damian uttered in disbelief. “ well, you weren’t my friend and it’s not exactly normal to have the son of Ostania’s ex prime minister attend your wedding “ Anya replied after she made sure she wouldn’t burst out laughing mid sentence.

 

“ but…can I come now ? Since…I’m your boyfriend” he said the last part shyly, his face bright red under the candle light. Anya didn’t know if he could be anymore endearing. “ of course I’m gonna bring you now” Anya exclaimed, kissing Damian’s right cheek.

 

“ two truths and a lie” Anya blurted after a while. The storm had slightly settled but the sky was pitch black, so it was night time. Damian chuckled at her sudden exclamation, “ alright. 10 things I hate about you is my favourite movie, Emile had a secret crush on you, I think bill is better at soccer than me” Damian listed and Anya knew the lie as soon as he said it.

 

“ you think you’re the best at soccer, and Emile was pretty obvious about his…interest in me. He even invited me to have tea with him in the Eden gardens” Anya said. Damian blinked once. Then twice. Then three times—very slowly—like a malfunctioning owl.

 

“He invited you to tea?” he repeated, voice pitch-perfect calm in the most not calm way possible.

 

Anya bit her lower lip to keep from laughing. “In the Imperial Gardens,” she added, just to watch him combust.

 

Damian stared at her in stunned silence. Then he looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the candle he just lit.
“Emile…Elman” he muttered Emile’s name like a curse.

 

“Okay. My turn again. New rule. If someone ever invites you for tea, you must inform your boyfriend. Immediately. Preferably with a signed affidavit.”

 

Anya raised an eyebrow. “A boyfriend who ran away during a thunderstorm?”
Damian glowered. “…We’re focusing on you now.”

 

She snorted, then nudged his knee with her foot. “Alright, Mr. Jealousy. Your lie was the soccer one.”

 

He scoffed like the very idea of someone being better than him was offensive to the concept of breathing. “Obviously.”

 

“Okay,” Anya said, sitting up straighter, eyes sparkling with mischief. “My turn.”
Damian folded his arms, already bracing himself like a general preparing for war. “Bring it.”

 

“Two truths and a lie…” Anya tapped her chin. “Okay. One: I kept all the little notes you used to accidentally drop on my desk during our first year. Two: Becky told me you stare at me in class when you think I’m not looking. Three: I’m totally not nervous right now.”

 

Damian opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.

 

“…Okay, hold on—WHAT notes?” he sputtered, face erupting in flames. “They—THEY WERE NOT NOTES. Those were—strategically fallen academic reminders.”

 

Anya gave him a slow, evil smile. “One of them said, ‘Why is she cute AND annoying?’”

 

Damian slammed a hand over his face. “That was a draft.”

 

“So you admit it.”
“No, I—Anya, that’s not—those weren’t—” he made a strangled noise, “—why did you KEEP them?!”

 

“Because they were cute,” she said simply.
Damian looked one blink away from passing out.

 

He took a breath. “Okay. Okay. Your lie is the last one. You’re definitely nervous right now. You always tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re trying to pretend you’re fine.”

 

Anya froze mid-movement—with her hand literally mid-tuck.
Damian’s grin turned slow. Wicked. Victorious. “Caught you.”

 

Anya buried her face in a pillow. “I hate you.”

 

“You just became my girlfriend a few hours ago,” he teased, “and you’re already lying to me. Tragic.”

 

She swatted him with the pillow.
He caught it with one hand.

 

“Okay, okay,” Damian said, eyes softening as he watched her cheeks glow pink in the candlelight. “My turn.”

 

He leaned back, looking far too smug, clearing his throat dramatically.
“Two truths and a lie…” he began, holding up three fingers. “One: The day we first met, when you punched me, I thought you were… cute.”
Anya blinked.

 

Damian continued, expression unreadable.
“Two: Every time I saw you laughing with another guy, I wanted to throw him into a fountain.”
Anya’s mouth dropped.

 

“And three…” he paused, eyes locking onto hers, voice quieter—gentler— “I didn’t run away today because I was scared. I ran because I thought you’d be better off if I wasn’t around.”

 

Anya’s breath hitched.
The room went silent—only the storm outside filling the space with a low, rolling rumble.

 

She whispered, “Damian… that’s the lie.”
He didn’t respond.
Her heart clenched. “Damian.”
His jaw tightened. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

“Yes. It does.” She reached for his hand and squeezed. “Because that’s the dumbest lie you’ve ever told.”

 

He looked at her then—really looked—like he was afraid and relieved and hopelessly smitten all at once.
She moved closer, until their knees touched again.
“If you didn’t want to be around me,” she said softly, “you wouldn’t have let be stay here.” Anya said as she gestured around his living room.

 

He held her gaze, voice barely a whisper. “You’re annoyingly good at this game. Like you’re reading my mind.”
“And you,” she said, threading their fingers together, “are horrible at lying. I don’t have to be able to read minds to know that.”

 

For a moment, everything was still.
Warm.
Golden.
Then—

 

Another thunderclap BOOMED.
They both jumped.

 

Damian clutched his chest. “I swear the storm is doing this on purpose—”

 

Anya burst out laughing, falling against his shoulder.
And Damian—unable to help it—laughed with her. Really laughed. A laugh that was unrestrained and bright and full of everything he’d been holding in for years.

 

When the laughter faded, she whispered against his shoulder:
“My turn again?”
He hummed. “Always.”

 

The ocean started to rise close to the cliff area, the waves beginning to slam against the stone like angry fists. The spray hit the windows—actual windows—several floors above ground.

 

Damian and Anya stared out at the dark, churning water, both of their eyes widening at the same time.

 

“…Is it just me,” Anya whispered, “or is the sea… trying to get in?”
Damian slowly pressed his palm to the glass, feeling the vibration of the waves.

 

“It’s not just you,” he muttered. “If the water gets any higher, Father’s going to kill me for letting his summer villa turn into an aquarium.”

 

Another wave slammed the cliff wall. The whole glass frame rattled.

 

“Okay, nope.” Anya grabbed her bag and Damian’s sleeve in the same motion. “Nope nope nope, we’re LEAVING.”

 

Damian blinked. “In the storm? Anya, the power is out. The paths are slippery. Everything is dark. And—”

 

“And the ocean is about to knock on the front door,” she cut in, grabbing her shoes. “Damian. Do you want to DIE?”

 

He hesitated one whole second.
Then nodded firmly. “Excellent point. Let’s go.”
They hurried to the entrance, Damian moving a bit slower because of his chest
wound. Anya hovered near him like a worried mother duck.

 

“Do not fall,” she warned. “If you fall, I cannot carry you. You’re like—six feet of pride and muscle. I will simply leave you behind.”
Damian managed a weak laugh. “Noted. I’ll do my best not to die of embarrassment.”

 

As they reached the front doors, another thunderclap boomed overhead. The sky lit up for a split second—showing horizontal rain, bending trees, and a path that looked less like a walkway and more like a waterslide.
Anya’s jaw dropped. “This is terrible.”

 

“That’s an understatement,” Damian muttered. He grabbed a thick coat from the rack and draped it over her shoulders without thinking. “Put the hood up. You’re going to freeze.”

 

Anya stared at him. “You didn’t even take one for yourself—”
“I run on pure willpower and spite,” Damian said, already opening the door. “Come on.”

 

Rain immediately blasted into their faces.
Anya yelped. “IT’S LIKE BEING PUNCHED BY WATER!”

 

Damian shielded her with his body as much as he could while stepping out. “Stay close.”

 

Lightning forked overhead, bright enough to reveal the road down the cliff—and the small river forming across it.
Anya grabbed his hand. “We’re going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to haunt Becky.”

 

“Becky would deserve it,” Damian muttered, pulling her toward the path. “She said I dress like a depressed grandpa last week.”

 

“She was right!”
“NOT THE TIME, ANYA.”

 

They half-ran, half-skidded down the slope, shoes sloshing, clothes soaked
instantly. The wind pushed them sideways, the rain stinging their skin, and for a moment Anya thought they might actually get blown off the cliff.

 

Damian felt her stumble and immediately wrapped an arm around her waist.
“Careful,” he shouted over the wind. “Hold onto me!”
“I AM holding onto you!”

 

“Hold tighter! The ocean has personal issues with us!”
A massive wave slammed the rocks below, sending up a spray that drenched them even more—impossible, but it somehow managed.
Anya sputtered. “WHY IS WATER COMING FROM EVERY DIRECTION?!”
Damian coughed. “Because nature hates us!”

 

They trudged onward, feet slipping, clothes whipping, breath steaming in the cold air.
For a terrifying moment, the path completely disappeared under pooling water.
Anya froze. “Damian… this is a VERY BAD IDEA.”
He tightened his grip on her hand. “We don’t have a choice. If we stay, the villa might flood. Becky’s place on higher ground . We’ll be safer there.”

 

Anya swallowed hard, nodded, and squeezed his hand.
“Then don’t let go,” she whispered.
Damian squeezed back, eyes firm. “I won’t.”

 

They got in Anya’s car and Damian drove—until finally, through the sheets of rain, Becky’s villa came into view.
Lights still out.

 

Shadows moving behind the windows.
And then—
A faint scream.
“EWEN I SWEAR TO GOD STOP TOUCHING MY LEG!”

 

Damian exhaled in relief. “We’re close. Very close.”

 

Anya tugged him toward the entrance. “Let’s get inside before Becky murders someone.”

 

They stumbled the last stretch, up the muddy path, toward the front porch—
Just as the ocean roared again behind them, louder than before.
Damian didn’t look back.

 

He just grabbed Anya’s hand tighter and pulled her through Becky’s front door.
Soaked.
Breathless.
And somehow… relieved.

Chapter 9

The front door flew open so violently it slammed into the wall, making all five people inside scream at once.

 

Ewen yelled, “GHOST—!”
Becky shrieked, “WHO IS THAT—?!”

Freddy stumbled over Emile, Emile tripped over a coffee table, and Tertius—poor, poor Tertius—fell backwards off the sofa with a thud that sounded disturbingly final.

 

And there, framed by lightning behind them like two drenched, dramatic protagonists from a very budget romance movie, stood Anya and Damian.
Soaked. Panting. Dripping all over Becky’s very expensive rug.

 

Ewen squinted through the dark. “…Damian?”
Becky blinked. “Anya…? You look like boiled shrimp.”
Damian pointed weakly at his chest. “We were… storm… escaped… water… rising…”

 

Anya just lifted a hand and said, voice flat, “I think my eyebrows got washed off.”
Everyone stared at them in dead silence for a long, comical three seconds—
Then Becky screamed.
“WHY ARE YOU TWO WETTER THAN A CORPSE IN A DETECTIVE DRAMA?!”

 

Damian flinched. “The ocean tried to kill us.”
“It ALWAYS tries to kill you, Desmond,” Emile muttered, picking himself up. “It’s personal at this point.”

 

Freddy pointed at Anya. “Are you okay?! You look like you fought Poseidon!”
Anya sniffled. “He fought harder than expected.”

 

Becky stomped closer like an angry mother goose. “And WHO told the two of you to go running off into a STORM—?!”

 

“We didn’t run off,” Damian protested weakly. “My villa was…uh…getting attacked by the sea.”

 

“THE SEA. DOES NOT. ATTACK.” Becky snapped.
Another thunderclap boomed.
Damian pointed outside. “Tell that to the sea.”
—
Ewen approached slowly, eyes narrowed in suspicion, squinting between the two soaked eighteen year olds.

 

“…Why are you holding hands?”
Anya and Damian looked down.

 

Realised, in fact, they were very much still holding hands.
And gripping tightly.

 

Damian dropped her hand like it was 300 degrees hot.
Anya shoved her wet hair behind her ear aggressively.
They both turned the exact same unnatural shade of guilty red.
Becky gasped, hand over her mouth.

 

“OH. MY. GOD.”
Damian bristled. “Don’t—”
“OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD—”
“Becky—”

 

“ARE YOU TWO DATING?!”
Damian choked. “W–WHAT—”

 

Anya started wheezing like a broken kettle. “WE JUST ALMOST DIED—CAN WE—NOT—”

 

Becky shrieked again. “EWEN! EMILE! FREDDY! TERTIUS! THEY’RE DATING!”

 

Ewen jumped like someone set him on fire. “WHAT?!”

 

Freddy clutched his chest. “MY HEART WAS NOT PREPARED FOR THIS.”
Emile whispered, “I knew something was going on.”

 

Tertius was still on the floor. “…Am I dead?”
Damian raked a hand through his drenched hair, jaw clenched. “We’re not— I mean— we are BUT— it’s new— we literally just—”

 

Becky screamed into a pillow.
Damian winced. “Please stop doing that.”
Ewen leaned in, whispering to Anya, “Did he ask you nicely or did he do that ‘soft voice, tragic eyes’ thing he does?”

 

Anya whispered back, “It was the tragic eyes.”
Ewen nodded very seriously. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”
Damian groaned. “I CAN HEAR YOU.”
—
Becky snapped her fingers as if remembering the most important thing in the world.
“THE RUG!”

 

Everyone turned to her.
She pointed dramatically at the floor.

 

“You’re DRIPPING. On my PERSIAN. RUG.”
“Becky,” Anya whispered, deadpan. “Please. Priorities.”
“You are NOT going to die but MY RUG MIGHT.”

 

Lightning flashed.
Thunder roared.
The roof creaked.
And Becky pointed at them like a dictator.

 

“UPSTAIRS. BOTH OF YOU. NOW. DRY CLOTHES. HOT TOWELS. I AM NOT DEALING WITH PUDDLES.”

 

Damian blinked. “…We almost got swept off a cliff.”
“I DON’T CARE. RESPECT. THE. RUG.”
Anya nodded solemnly. “Yes ma’am.”
Damian saluted. “Understood.”
—
Becky marched ahead with a flashlight like she was leading a military evacuation. Anya and Damian followed, still dripping and mildly traumatized.
Halfway up the stairs, Ewen muttered to Freddy, “They’re totally gonna make out again.”

 

Damian nearly missed a step.
“EWEN!”
“What?! I didn’t even say it loud!”
—
Becky shoved them each into separate guest rooms.
“Dry yourselves, put on whatever fits, then come downstairs. I’m making hot chocolate. With tiny marshmallows. Because you idiots earned it.”

 

Anya blinked. “…Becky you’re so soft—”
“SHUT UP AND CHANGE.”

 

The doors slammed.
Damian let out a breath, leaning back against the cool wooden door.
He could hear Anya moving around in the room next to his.
Soft. Alive. Close.

 

For a moment his chest loosened.
They survived.
They actually survived.
And she was still here.
Still his.

 

He allowed himself a tiny smile in the darkness.
Then—
Her muffled voice came through the wall.
“DAMIAN?”
He startled. “What?”

 

“…Becky said she’ll kill you if you drip on the stairs again. Just letting you know.”
He sighed.
“…Good to know.”

 

And despite the storm outside, despite the insane night, despite everything—
Damian Desmond laughed.

 

A soft, tired, relieved laugh.
Because for the first time in a very long time—
He wasn’t alone.
And Anya Forger was just on the other side of the wall.

Chapter 10

Summary:

An update (2) : there won’t be any Demetrius right now, and I’m extending their stay in the villa, I know I have a problem but this idea just came to me and I HAD TO I’m so sorry but anyway, please, enjoy this 🙏😭

 

THEYRE GONNA HAVE CUTE LITTLE BEACH DAY AT DAMIANS VILLA

“ Becky’s scream ripped through the forest like a banshee who’d stepped on a LEGO. Every bird in a five-mile radius shot into the sky. Even the squirrels fled. It was barely 7 a.m., the sun still deciding whether to bother rising, and Becky stood in the middle of the dewy meadow wearing mismatched socks and the expression of someone who had just been informed her favorite designer bag had been discontinued. “Say it again,” she demanded, eyes wide, hair shaped like a disgruntled puffball. “Slow. My brain is still buffering.” Anya rubbed her face, already exhausted. “Damian has to go back early because Donovan wants him at the dorms… and I’m going with him.” Becky inhaled so sharply Anya thought she might summon a vortex. “You WHAT?! Anya, you two just became official LAST NIGHT! I haven’t even processed it yet! I didn’t sleep. I was too busy mentally planning your wedding seating chart!” Anya groaned. “Becky—” “No, don’t ‘Becky’ me,” she snapped. “Do you understand the emotional damage I’ve taken watching you and Damian stare at each other for TWELVE YEARS like two exhausted Victorian children separated by class and tuberculosis?” Anya buried her face in her hands. Becky leaned in dramatically. “But listen. There’s a threat.” “…Is it Donovan?” Anya whispered. “It’s always Donovan,” Becky replied, voice low. “That man has the vibe of a haunted tax document. He sees ‘romance’ and immediately tries to delete it.” Anya swallowed. The warning was familiar, but Becky’s delivery made it feel like a prophecy. “Damian won’t let anything happen to me and we’re not leaving today,” she said softly. Becky snorted. “Obviously. That boy would fight a military tank if it gave you a weird look. But Donovan? Donovan would fight the tank AND win.” Before Anya could respond, a groggy voice drifted from behind them: “…why are we yelling at dawn?” They turned. There stood Damian Desmond—hoodie inside out, hair a tragic mess, eyes half-open like a confused housecat. Anya’s heart turned into warm soup. “Damian!” She practically bounced to him, hugging him before she remembered Becky’s entire existence. “What’s going on?” he asked, too tired to pretend he wasn’t suspicious. “Just… planning! Activities,” Anya blurted out, sweating instantly. Damian blinked. “Activities?” “Beach day,” Anya squeaked. Damian stared at her. “There was LITERAL thunder yesterday—” “Sunny today,” Becky cut in. “I checked the weather. And when I say checked, I mean I bribed my butler to call the meteorological department.” Damian looked like he didn’t have the energy to process any of this. Becky coughed delicately. “Anyway, we were just having completely normal best-friend discussions.” Anya silently promised to replace Becky’s shampoo with glue. Damian sighed and rubbed his face. “Okay. Whatever.” He slung an arm around Anya—casual, warm, absolutely illegal.
 Anya ascended to the astral plane. “I’ll see you later,” he murmured, squeezing her shoulder. His expression softened—something warm flickering in his tired eyes—and he leaned in, hand gently lifting her chin— “BREAKFAST!” Emile screamed from the villa like a foghorn. “DAMIAN, YOU’RE WEARING YOUR HOODIE BACKWARDS AGAIN!” Damian froze. Looked down. Closed his eyes. “ going to burn this hoodie,” he muttered. Anya giggled; he softened like a marshmallow in a microwave. “Don’t wander off,” he murmured before heading back, hoodie tragically inside out. The second he vanished, Becky grabbed Anya by the shoulders and shook her like a vending machine. “He’s in love with you. DISGUSTINGLY in love. Donovan is going to sense this like a shark smelling blood. Be vigilant.” “I know…” Anya whispered, though she was smiling. Becky wasn’t done. “And since we’re going to the beach—” her voice dropped into a devious purr—“we’re wearing the swimsuits I packed.” Anya blinked. “Why did you even bring swimwear to a camping trip?” “Anya.” Becky looped an arm through hers with the solemnity of a general preparing for war. “You must always be ready to stun, slay, and cause mild cardiac distress.” Anya snorted. “Now come on,” Becky declared grandly. “Let’s make today unforgettable.” “ but what about the storm ? The mess ?” Anya asked, looking at her best friend who was grinning like she’d won the lottery. “ my staff will take care of that, dear Anya” Becky replied, with the look of total confidence on her face. Together, they walked back toward the villa, giggling like two agents plotting a mission that nobody—especially not Damian—would survive with dignity.

Chapter 11

Summary:

They all have a beach day.

The villa staff worked miracles.

By 10 a.m., yesterday’s storm looked like a dramatic rumor.

The sky was painfully blue, the sand looked freshly ironed, and the beach sparkled like it had been filtered by eleven influencers.

And standing on the steps of the villa, surveying the scene like a disappointed lifeguard, was Damian Desmond.

Behind him: chaos incarnate.

Ewen bounced like a rabid puppy.
Emile carried three beach bags he did not pack.
 Tertius and Freddy were arguing about sunscreen application techniques.


Anya looked excited.
Becky looked like she owned the entire coastline.

“SO,” Ewen said dramatically, hands on hips. “Are we just… not going to talk about the fact that Damian and Anya were trapped alone in the villa during a storm?”

Damian immediately choked on air. Anya immediately pretended to examine a coconut tree.

Becky smirked like she had invented romance. Freddy gasped. “Oh my GOD. Did you guys —”

“No,” Damian snapped so quickly he nearly pulled a muscle.

Emile patted his shoulder. “It’s okay, man. We all know what storms do to people.”

“That makes no sense!” Damian shouted. Anya giggled, cheeks pink. “We just… talked.” The boys froze.

“You WHAT?” they shouted in unison, betrayed. “You talked during a storm?!” Tertius said dramatically. “Why would you do that ?!” “Disgusting,” Freddy muttered.

Damian groaned, face burning. Becky clapped her hands. “Enough drama! Beach time!”

Anya and Becky disappeared into the villa to change while the boys fought over who could carry the cooler.

Spoiler: it was Emile. Because Becky made him.

The villa looked calm and peaceful. The exact opposite of the Desmond family. Sometimes Becky forgot that the Desmond’s owned this place.

It was still as she remembered-a modest looking size with very large windows stretching from floor to ceiling. A little tacky for her tastes but, hey, not everyone can be as stylish as her.

But, Becky’s staff did do a good job at clearing the area, one look at it and it was like this place hadn’t experienced natural disasters in centuries.

Anya and Becky walked into the villa, they were immediately greeted by the thick scent of cedar and ocean breeze. “ the bathroom is that way” Anya said as she pointed at a door at the very end of the living room, closest to the deck, which overlooked the vast ocean.

Becky couldn’t help but smirk at how familiar Anya already was with Damian’s personal villa. “ so…you must’ve explored this place thoroughly, right ?” Becky said suggestively, wiggling her eyebrows.

Anya felt heat rise up her neck, without saying anything she took Becky’s items and ran to the bathroom, “ hey ! Anya !” Becky cried as she chased Anya into the bathroom.

Becky slammed the bathroom door shut behind them and immediately dumped her overnight bag onto the counter like she was unloading contraband.

A moment later—
 WHOOSH.
Fabric exploded everywhere.

Bright colours. Tiny triangles. More straps than physics could justify. It looked like someone detonated a bikini factory.

Anya’s jaw dropped.
“Becky… what is all this?” “My emergency summer collection.” Becky said proudly, hands on hips. “Eight swimsuits. For eight possible moods.”

Anya blinked at the pile.
“Becky. We are on a seven- day trip. .” “Correct, and I have eight moods.” “That’s not how that works.”

Becky ignored her, digging through the heap like a pirate searching for treasure. “Okay! First option!” She pulled out a sky-blue bikini that could generously be described as minimal. “Cute, flirty, totally appropriate for making your boyfriend spontaneously combust.” Anya choked. “No. Next.”

Becky hummed, tossing it aside. “Alright… what about this one?” She held up a black bikini with gold rings, sleek and elegant but undeniably bold.

Anya covered her face. “Becky!” “What? It’s classy scandal.” “No scandal!”

Becky sighed dramatically, muttering, “You’re dating a Desmond and yet you dress like a medieval tapestry.” “I DO NOT—”

“Here.” Becky cut her off and held up… the safest, most conservative option in the pile: a soft pink bikini with more coverage, cute frills, nothing alarming. “This the one you’re gonna pick, right?”

Anya nodded frantically. “Yes. Absolutely yes. This one.” Becky stared at her for a long, judgmental second.

Then she gently set the modest bikini aside with the reverence of someone shelving a library book. “Wrong answer.” “BECKY—!”

“This is your first official outing with your boyfriend,” Becky lectured, pointing two accusing fingers at Anya’s chest. “Your job is to make his brain malfunction so severely he forgets how to spell his own last name.” Anya sputtered. “I— I don’t— I’m not—”

“You are,” Becky insisted, rifling through the pile again. “And do you know why?” “No…”

“Because you deserve to look pretty and confident and make the boy who adores you lose every single thought in his head.” Anya’s face softened.

“…That actually sounded… sweet?” Becky shrugged. “I’m a romantic when I’m right.”

She finally held up the winning option:
A gorgeous deep-coral bikini—still tasteful, still soft, but a little bolder than Anya would have chosen. Pretty neckline. Nice shape. Nothing outrageous. But undeniably flattering. Anya stared. “…Becky…”

“It’s perfect for you,” Becky said simply. “It’s not too revealing, but it’s not buried-in-blankets-at-a-convent either.” “…Hey.” “And Damian’s gonna faint.” “BECKY!”

But Anya held the bikini carefully, almost shyly. “…It is… nice.”

Becky grinned, triumphant. “THERE she is! My best friend embracing her main-character energy.”

Anya hid her face again, but she didn’t put the bikini down.

Becky clapped her hands. “Great! Now try it on. I need to see if I have to tape anything.” “What?!” “Kidding. Mostly. Hurry!”

Anya huffed but stepped into the changing area, muttering under her breath about traitorous best friends.

Becky waited, arms crossed, foot tapping excitedly. A moment passed. Then— “…Becky?” Anya’s small voice came from behind the door. “Yeah?” “…I think it looks… good.”

Becky’s grin widened with lethal intent.
“Show. Me.” Slowly, Anya stepped out. The coral color made her skin glow. The cut was gentle but flattering. She looked cute, a little shy, a little grown-up.

Becky clasped her hands under her chin.
“OH MY GOD, ANYA.” Anya squirmed. “Is it bad? It’s bad. I knew it—” “It’s perfect,” Becky breathed. “Damian Desmond is going to malfunction so hard he might legally become a hazard.”

Anya covered her face, but a tiny smile slipped through.

“Becky… thank you.” “Sweetheart,” Becky said, gently hugging her, “you are BEAUTIFUL. Damian is going to drop dead. Actually drop dead. Freddy and Tertius are going to start fighting the air. Ewen is going to scream. Emile will walk into the ocean.” Anya laughed, genuinely, shoulders relaxing.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s… go?” Becky grabbed her hand, eyes sparkling. “Let’s go blow their tiny little minds.”

And the two marched out of the bathroom—
bikinis packed, spirits high, and absolutely ready to destroy Damian Desmond’s nervous system.

When the girls finally walked down the path to the sand, the boys froze.

Literally froze. Feet-in-sand, souls-leaving-body froze. Becky strutted like she was headlining Paris Fashion Week. And Anya—
Well.

She stepped out in a deep-coral bikini with little ribbons, a pretty neck-line, hair in a beachy ponytail, and the sun hitting her like it was personally in love with her. Damian forgot how to breathe. Not figuratively.


He actually stopped breathing. Ewen had to slap his back. “INHALE, DESMOND.”

Freddy whistled. “Anya… You look—” “Nope,” Damian said, grabbing Anya’s hand possessively. “Absolutely not. I’m confiscating all compliments.” Anya giggled. “Damian, stop being dramatic.”

Tertius smirked. “He’s jealous.”

“I’m NOT jealous,” Damian said, sounding extremely jealous.

Freddy winked at Anya. “For the record, you look amazing.” Damian nearly combusted.

————-

They set up umbrellas, towels, and a volleyball net.

Ewen immediately buried himself in sand “to become one with nature.”

 

Tertius tried to surf on a foam cooler lid.
Freddy took candid photos of everyone
because he insisted he was “capturing memories.”

 

Damian and Anya waded into the water, letting the waves lap at their ankles.
“This is nice,” Anya sighed.
Damian nodded, watching her with a softness he’d deny in public. “Yeah. Nice.”

 

Then Ewen tackled Damian from behind and dragged him underwater.

 

“REVENGE FOR THE VILLA STORM ROMANCE!”

 

Damian resurfaced spluttering. “EWEN, I SWEAR—”

 

Anya laughed so hard she snorted.
Damian stared at her, love-struck and wet.
“Okay,” he gasped. “Fine. It’s war.”

 

————

 

Somehow, Becky and Ewen ended up forming a shoulder-war team.
Anya and Damian formed the other.

 

“This is unfair,” Damian muttered, hands steadying Anya’s legs as she climbed onto his shoulders. “You’re tiny. We have no weight advantage.”

 

“You’re strong,” Anya said sweetly.
Damian malfunctioned again.

 

Meanwhile, Becky sat on Ewen’s shoulders like a war general on a very unstable horse.
Becky pointed dramatically. “Charge!”
“WHAT DOES THAT ME— AHHHH!” Ewen screamed as Becky yanked him forward.

 

The girls smacked hands, shrieked, splashed water, cursed each other affectionately, and looked absolutely feral.

 

“THIS IS FOR ALL THE TIMES YOU INTERRUPTED MY ALMOST-KISSES!” Becky screamed.

 

“THIS IS FOR EATING ALL MY PEANUT COOKIES WITHOUT GIVING ME ANY !” Anya yelled back.

 

Damian was trying very hard not to look up Anya’s legs.

Ewen was trying very hard not to drown.
It ended with everyone toppling into the water in a tangle of limbs and pride.
Damian popped up, holding Anya carefully by the waist. “Are you okay?”

 

Anya giggled. “I think Becky won.”
Becky rose from the waves like a sea witch. “I ALWAYS win.”

 

They split into teams.
Anya, becky and tertius, Freddy
vs
Damian, Ewen, Emile
A five-person team.
And they still lost.

 

Becky served by screaming “REVENGE!” at the ball.

 

Anya dove for every shot like she was in a dramatic sports movie.
Damian kept getting distracted every time Anya laughed.

 

Freddy ran directly into the net twice.
Tertius claimed the sun was in his eyes despite wearing sunglasses.

 

Ewen demanded a timeout every three minutes.

Final score: 17 to 4. All four points were accidental.

————-

Eventually, everyone collapsed on their towels like dying seals.

Becky teased Emile until he agreed to get everyone ice cream.

Freddy and Tertius fought over whether anyone cared about their past relationships with Anya (Damian answered: “NO.”).

Ewen fell asleep face-down in the sand. And Damian and Anya wandered a little away toward a quiet part of the shore. They sprawled out on a shared towel, the sun warm on their skin. Anya scooted closer.

Damian immediately blushed. “What are you doing?” “Resting,” she said, resting her head on his chest.

He swallowed so hard it echoed. The waves crashed softly. Anya traced circles on the back of his hand. “Thanks for today.”

Damian’s voice softened. “Thanks for… being here.” She tilted her head up at him. His cheeks turned crimson. Their eyes met. The world quieted. Their noses brushed—

And Damian pressed a soft, warm kiss to her forehead. Anya blinked, stunned. Then he leaned closer… and kissed her—
gentle, slow, sweet.

Everything inside Anya felt like fizzing soda. When they pulled apart, Damian hid his face behind his hand.
“I… uh… yeah.”

Anya giggled and cuddled into him. “Yeah,” she whispered back.

The water glittered like scattered jewels in the sunlight.

Anya exhaled, pulling sea shells out of her hair.

Damian leaned back using his hands as support behind him. He ran a hand through his now very chaotic curls from the ocean breeze.

“I swear,” he muttered, “your best friend is a terrorist.”

Anya snorted. “She prefers the term strategist.” “Strategists don’t intentionally attack people during volleyball.” “You weren’t attacked.” “Anya,” Damian said, dead serious. “She threw a basket at me.”

She laughed—loud and bright—and Damian glanced at her like he couldn’t decide whether to roll his eyes or smile helplessly. He settled on the latter.

They sat down on the blanket, Anya nudged him with her shoulder. “Hey.” He looked down at her. “About everything that’s happened…,” she said quietly. “Campus. School. Us.”

Damian’s jaw tightened, and he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. -

“Right… that.”
His voice softened. “You know how Eden is. Word spreads faster than Ewen crying over a scraped knee.”

“HEY—I HEARD THAT!” Ewen’s voice echoed distantly from the forest, followed by a thud and Freddy yelling, “STOP RUNNING, YOU MENACE—”

Damian pinched his eyes shut. “Exactly my point.”

Anya played with a stick in her lap. “So you want us to act like we don’t know each other?”

“You know that’s not what I want,” Damian said, leaning closer. “But the moment someone finds out we’re dating, it’s over for both of us. Rumors. Headlines. Donovan monitoring every breath you take.”

Anya’s stomach twisted. She hated how true that was.

“So we keep it secret,” she murmured, voice deflating a little.

Damian heard it—felt it—and nudged her gently.


His tone softened. “We keep it secret at school. Outside of Eden?” He tilted her chin up. “You’re still mine.”

Anya blushed so hard she wanted to jump into the ocean. Damian continued, quieter now. “And I’m yours. Completely. Just… strategically invisible from Monday to Friday.”

Anya exhaled slowly. “I get it. I do. I just… don’t like it.”

“I don’t either,” he admitted. “I hate the idea of pretending you’re just some annoying telepathic gremlin I tolerate.”

Anya deadpanned. “Wow. Romantic.” He smiled—very slightly. “Fine. Let me be clear.”


He took her hand, threading their fingers together.

“When we’re at school, I’ll pretend you’re just Anya Forger. My classmate. My rival. The girl who stole my first star.”
He leaned closer.
 “But outside? You’re the girl I choose first, every single time.”

Anya forgot how to breathe. A beat passed. Then her face softened as another thought crossed her mind.

“Would you still… come to my dad’s wedding?” she asked quietly. “To Loid and—well—Yor.”

Damian’s brows lifted.
He blinked once. Twice. “You’re asking if I’ll go to your father’s wedding,” he repeated slowly. “Yeah.”

He tilted his head. “Anya, he glares at me .”

“He does that to everyone ,” she mumbled. “He calls me Damon .” “He’s old !”

Damian sighed dramatically before reaching out to tap her forehead lightly with one finger.

“I’ll be there,” he said. “Wedding, reception, after-party—whatever you want.” Anya’s eyes widened. “Really?” “Of course.”


He looked away, ears pinking.
“I mean… someone has to hold your your hand while you cry, and I know you’d prefer me and not Becky” “HEY!” Becky’s voice echoed faintly from the other side.

Anya laughed—and suddenly the knot in her chest loosened.

Damian wasn’t ditching her. He wasn’t hesitating.


He was protecting her. In the only way someone raised by Donovan Desmond knew how. She leaned her head against his shoulder.
“And when we’re alone,” she said softly, “no secrets?”

“No secrets,” he promised. “Not from you.” A warm breeze rustled the leaves. Seagulls cried overhead. And for a moment, everything felt simple.

Then Damian muttered under his breath, “Although I swear if Tertius flirts with you one more time, I’m drowning him.”

“You can’t drown people!” “Oh? Watch me.” Anya elbowed him, laughing.
Damian finally smiled—small but real—and squeezed her hand as if anchoring them both.

————-

They weren’t alone for long. Becky popped up like a demon. “WERE YOU TWO KISSING WITHOUT MY PERMISSION!?” Damian groaned into the towel. Anya covered her face.

Freddy shouted, “DAMIAN! SHARE THE ROMANCE!”

Ewen woke up screaming, “WHAT DID I MISS?!” Damian muttered, “Never inviting any of you to a private beach again.”

But his arm stayed around Anya’s waist. And she intertwined her fingers with his. And the beach day continued with laughter echoing across the shore, tangled footprints in the sand, and Damian refusing to let go of Anya’s hand for the rest of the afternoon.

Notes:

THERE WILL BE MORE 😭 i love writing this and thank you all for your comments and kudos, they really motivate me !! 💖💖

Chapter 12

Summary:

The group has a boat race, ewen has a pancake making spree and Damian sneaks out but Anya followed him to-

The air in the kitchen reeked of pancakes and maple syrup—so much syrup that anyone walking in risked getting stuck to the floor.

 

“WHO WANTS MORE?!” Ewen bellowed, brandishing a spatula like it was a sword.

 

He flung another pancake onto the marble counter with a dramatic thwack, narrowly missing Damian’s foot.

 

Becky groaned into her hands, dramatically collapsing over her plate. “I… cannot… eat another bite,” she gasped, as if the syrup alone could crush her soul.

 

Emile, meanwhile, was quietly annihilating the blueberries. “You made enough to feed an entire village,” he said with a mouthful of fruit, nodding sagely as if he were a food critic judging humanity’s pancake sins.

 

“Agreed,” Tertius said, smacking his lips, though he nearly choked on a rogue blueberry. “If anyone dies here, it will be due to overindulgence. Or Ewen.”

 

Ewen, now seeing himself as a culinary general, woke everyone up at eight the next morning by banging a spatula on a frying pan like a war drum.

 

The noise echoed through the villa. Birds flew off the balcony.

 

A very confused squirrel abandoned its nest.

 

“RISE AND SHINE, PEASANTS!” he shouted. “THE PANCAKES AWAIT!”

 

By noon, they were all roped into taste-testing every creation he could invent.

 

Fruit tarts were stacked like towers that defied gravity, soups came in colors that suggested Ewen had misread the recipe book entirely, and the pancakes… well, the pancakes were mountains of golden fluff, soaked in maple syrup and chaos.

 

Damian muttered under his breath, “I am not surviving this breakfast alive.”

 

Anya snorted, smearing a bit of blueberry on his nose. “You might survive, but your dignity? Not a chance.”

 

Becky, wiping imaginary sweat from her brow, whispered, “I didn’t sign up for a cooking apocalypse.”

 

And Ewen? Ewen was already scouting the pantry for ingredients for “the next level of breakfast domination.”

 

“ you guys are so dramatic! What happened to the fun people at the beach yesterday, huh ?” Ewen asked as stuffed blueberries and strawberries in between two pancakes.

Everyone groaned in unison, they could join a choir with their level of harmony. “ those fun people died with your “ pancake soup” “ Becky hissed as she did quotation signs with her hands at “ pancake soup”. Anya snorted but gave ewen an apologetic look when he glanced at her in betrayal.

 

Anya was the one that encouraged him, but it seemed maybe she went a little overboard with her support.

 

Ewen scoffed. “ I can’t believe you people” he muttered, placing his dishes into the sink. Anya never thought rich kids even knew what a sink was.

—————-

They stood at the southern part of the villa, where the grass reached their knees and flowers were non existent.

 

Damian rubbed his temples, still flicking sticky bits of blueberry from his fingers.

 

“So…what exactly are we gonna do for the rest of the day?” he asked, his voice suspiciously calm, like someone who had survived a minor culinary apocalypse.

 

Becky leaned back, dramatically gesturing around the sunlit area of the vast meadows.

 

“Oh, my dear despondent Desmond,” she said, one hand on her hip, the other waving like a conductor about to lead an orchestra,

 

“we have the perfect plan. We’ll make full use of this outdoor time, because—brace yourselves—by evening, a torrential downpour is on the horizon. Heavy. Unforgiving. Villainous.”

 

“Meaning…?” Anya tilted her head, one brow quirked.

 

“Meaning,” Becky said, eyes glinting like she had just revealed the secret to eternal youth, “we are going outside. To the pond. To row. To race. To possibly destroy civilisation in the form of small paddle boats.”

 

Emile groaned. “That sounds… wet.”
“You’re catching on!” Becky exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Water! Chaos! Slight peril! Fun!”

 

Ewen leapt from his chair. “I volunteer as—uh—captain of the first catastrophic voyage!”

 

Damian muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course you do.”
Anya smirked. “Come on, Damian. Maybe you’ll actually get some exercise rowing instead of just… surviving pancake soup.”

 

He shot her a glare that was only half-serious. “Exercise? This is serious tactical maneuvering. I can’t risk losing control of the vessel.”

 

“Or maybe,” Anya teased, “you just can’t take your eyes off me.”
Damian choked on a laugh. “I—I—Strategic oversight! That’s all. Purely professional!”

 

Meanwhile, Becky had already dragged Ewen toward a pair of paddle boats like a general marshaling troops. “Team Chaos, assemble!” she declared. “Our first mission: splash the exes mercilessly!”

 

Tertius and Freddy, who had been eyeing Anya like she was the last piece of gourmet chocolate in existence, were already on their own boat, smirking mischievously.

 

“Oh, we’ll show them,” Freddy whispered, “how very competitive we can be.”
Tertius nodded solemnly. “And maybe remind Anya how very memorable we are.”

 

Anya, rolling her eyes, muttered under her breath, “Do you two ever take a hint?”

 

Damian, seated in the opposite end of their rowboat, gripped the oars like his life depended on it. “Stay focused,” he muttered. “We are not here to entertain your ego, Forger exes.”

 

Anya leaned back, letting the sun warm her face. “Good luck keeping me entertained when your concentration looks like that.”
Predictably, within thirty seconds, chaos erupted.

 

Becky and Ewen, in a reckless display of aquatic anarchy, collided into a third boat with a splat that sent water flying in every direction.

 

Damian lunged, narrowly keeping Anya from toppling overboard, all while keeping a death grip on the oars.

 

“You okay?” he asked, one eyebrow raised, though he was secretly delighted at the excuse to be that close to her.

 

Anya blinked water droplets out of her lashes, giggling. “I’m fine. I think I just invented a new water sport: almost drowning elegantly.”

 

Freddy, paddling furiously, shouted from across the pond, “Anya! Remember me? You know, your very charming ex?”

 

“You mean the guy who once got stuck in a tree for three hours?” Anya called back.
Tertius waved dramatically. “I am the other charming ex!”

 

Damian’s jaw tightened. “I said no entertaining distractions,” he muttered, grabbing Anya’s hand to steady her again.

 

“Exes are irrelevant. Focus on—” He stopped mid-sentence when she squeezed his hand, giving him a cheeky grin that made him forget both the rowing and the universe.

 

Meanwhile, Becky’s laughter echoed across the pond. “Damian! Anya! Watch out! The tides are coming!”

 

They were not tides. They were Ewen crashing another boat into them.

 

Anya shrieked, half in terror, half in pure delight, as Damian lunged, grabbing her waist to prevent her from going overboard. He carried her like she weighed nothing at all, which… technically she didn’t, but he still made it look heroic.

 

“Nice save, Captain Desmond,” she teased,
resting her chin on his shoulder.

 

Damian, struggling to keep both his balance and his dignity, muttered, “Just… strategic rescue. Very professional.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Anya said, smirking, “professional rescue.”

 

By the time the sun was high and the water slightly less chaotic, everyone had soaked through at least once, hair plastered to faces, laughter echoing across the pond.
Becky finally climbed out of her boat with Ewen on her shoulders, triumphant. “Victory is mine! Chaos achieved!”

 

Damian set Anya gently down on the dock, brushing water off her arms. His eyes lingered on the way her pink hair stuck to her neck in every delectable way possible. “You’re soaked.”

 

“So are you,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows.
“I—I have… tactical wetness,” he stammered.

 

Anya laughed, grabbing his hand. “Come on. Let’s find a towel before Becky declares total aquatic domination and forces us into another race.”

 

He let her pull him toward the villa, smiling faintly. “You know, this is… fun.”

 

Anya leaned into him, voice teasing. “Fun, huh? That’s your professional term for nearly drowning your girlfriend?”

 

“Strategic terminology,” Damian said solemnly, hiding his grin.

 

As they reached the villa grounds, both of them glanced back at the pond, water still glinting in the sun. Adventure had ended, but the warmth of the chaos—and each other—lingered.

 

Damian whispered, half to himself, “Two days left…maybe I should stay longer.”
Anya’s hand squeezed his. “I’m okay with that. Secretly, at least.”

 

He shot her a look, eyebrow quirking. “Secretly…?”

 

She smirked. “Don’t ruin it, Desmond. You’re on thin ice already.”

 

He pretended to glare but was smiling, and that was the moment they knew—the boating had been more than fun. It had been perfect.

—————-

 

As the sky darkened, the villa’s living room glowed with the soft amber of lanterns.

 

The group sprawled across sofas and armchairs, chatting, teasing, and laughing over card games, dumb jokes, and Ewen’s dramatic reenactments of their boating chaos.

 

Becky perched on the arm of a chair, one leg crossed over the other, looking scandalized. “Ugh! I can’t believe it. Look outside.” She pointed at the looming clouds rolling in from the countryside.

 

“Rain all night. No bonfire. No s’mores. No dramatic ghost stories under the stars.”
Ewen gasped, clutching a hand to his chest. “Traumatizing! This is a catastrophe on a molecular level!”

 

Emile simply sighed and picked up another card. “We’ll survive,” he said, as though his calm demeanor alone could hold back the storm.

 

Freddy and Tertius, still trying to flirt under the guise of casual card games, were thwarted by Damian’s unreadable glare from across the room.

 

Anya, leaning against the back of the couch, whispered to Damian, “ looks like we can’t go on the terrace for a late night talk”

 

Damian smirked. He leaned in, voice low against her ear, “ just talk ?”

 

Anya blushed furiously, hiding her face in his shoulder.

 

The group eventually dispersed to their rooms as the evening grew heavier.

 

Damian’s footsteps were quiet as he sat at his desk, opening his laptop. A new email popped up. From his mother.

Dear Damian Desmond,

 

I’ve been well. I’m sure you have as well.

I am writing this to kindly ask for your assistance in acquiring a notebook of mine in my forest cabin. It is blue in colour and has my named embroidered on the front. The keys are in the small treehouse close to the topmost part of the ladder.

 

I apologise for any inconvenience caused but I do hope you’ll fulfill my request. Thank you.

 

Yours sincerely,
Melinda Desmond

 

This was actually the most his mother ever communicated with him. He was pleasantly shocked.

 

He leaned back in his chair, frowning. The forest was a good twenty minutes’ drive from the villa, and he’d need to be sneaky.

 

He glanced toward the balcony, rain already starting to patter softly against the railing and the tiles.

 

He could try to climb down his balcony, but the risks of slipping and falling and hurting his pride was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

 

He stared at the adjoining door, the one that led to Anya. That’s when it him, there was a secret passage way behind Anya’s closet, he used to hide in there all the time as a kid while playing with Ewen.

 

Damian stood, pushing his chair back slowly, quietly—like he was trying not to offend the molecules in the air.

 

He padded across the room, stopping at the adjoining door that separated his room from Anya’s.

 

He tried the knob.
Creeeeeeak.
Damian froze like a statue caught doing a crime.

 

He tried again, slower, holding his breath.
Crrrkk…
“…oh come on,” he hissed under his breath, glaring at the door as if it were personally conspiring against him.

 

He gave up and took two slow steps back, grabbing a pillow and slamming it against the handle to muffle the sound.

 

This time—
click.
The door opened.

 

He exhaled in silent triumph… only for the floorboard under his foot to give a loud—
KNNNK.

 

Damian winced so hard his soul left his body.

 

He slid through the gap like a guilty cat, closing the door behind him with the
tenderness of someone handling a bomb.

Anya’s room was dark, soft with the glow of her little fairy lights—pink and warm and somehow smelling like cherries and shampoo.

 

He headed straight for the closet.

 

He moved one shirt aside… then another… then reached behind the outer paneling until his fingers found the thin groove.

 

A hidden seam.
He pressed it.
A soft click.

 

The panel slid open silently to reveal a narrow staircase spiraling downward like the start of a questionable horror film.

 

Damian grabbed the small lantern kept on the first step—an old metal one, still with soot marks from when he and Ewen pretended the passage was a dungeon.

 

When he lit it, a warm amber glow filled the cramped stone shaft.

 

Spiderwebs. Old bricks. Dust. The faint smell of childhood troublemaking.

 

Damian stepped down carefully, lantern in one hand, phone in the other.

The rain outside rumbled deeper, vibrating faintly through the walls.

 

Halfway down the stairs, he muttered, “I swear, if Ewen ever shoved me down here again—”

 

“Damian?”
He jolted so hard he nearly smacked his head on the low stone ceiling.

 

He spun around.
Anya stood at the top of the staircase, eyes wide, hair messy from sleep, wearing—

 

Holy.
Actual.
Hell.
A tiny pair of shorts.
And a bra.
Just a bra.
Pink.

Faintly glittery.
She looked like a dream he definitely wasn’t supposed to be seeing in real life.

 

Damian’s brain produced a single intelligent thought:
WHY. IS. SHE. DRESSED. LIKE. THAT.
“Anya—?! What— why— why are you— why are you dressed like th— why are you HERE?!”

 

She stomped down a few steps, glaring.
“You were sneaking out!”
“— I wasn’t sneaking— I mean I was— but respectfully— and you should NOT be in a stairwell dressed like— like—”

 

She folded her arms, which made it so much worse.

 

“So you WERE sneaking out.”
“No! Yes! I mean— not in a suspicious way!”
The lantern light glowed across her bare shoulders, her stomach, the curve of her waist—his brain was melting into soup.

 

Anya reached him in three quick steps, eyes sharp and worried.
“Where are you going?”

Damian sighed. There was no point in lying, she’d see right through him.

 

“To the forest cabin. My mom needs something.”

He tried to sound calm. He failed. Miserably.
“In this weather? Alone?”

She gripped his wrist. “No chance. I’m coming.”

 

“You’re literally wearing underwear,” he whispered harshly, looking everywhere except directly at her.
“Then stop staring,” she deadpanned.
“I’M TRYING.”
He wasn’t. At all.

 

She stepped closer—so close he could feel the warmth radiating off her skin, the faint cherry scent from her hair.

 

“Damian,” she murmured, lifting her arms and looping them around his neck.

Her chest pressed gently against him—another detail he tried not to think about and failed at disastrously.

 

“Please take me with you,” she whispered, breath brushing his jaw, “I’m not letting you go alone in the middle of a storm.”

 

His hands moved on instinct—one going to her waist, feeling the soft heat of her skin, the other gripping the railing behind her because he suddenly forgot how to stand.

 

“Anya…”
His voice cracked.
His thumb brushed her waist by accident—he swore he felt electricity shoot through him, short-circuiting every rational thought in his skull.

 

She leaned even closer.
“Please,” she whispered. “Take me with you, Damian.”

 

He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tightening.
He was a man.
A strong man.
A disciplined man.
A defeated man.
“…Fine,” he said, voice low. “Fine. You’re coming.”

 

Anya grinned in victory.
“But for the love of God,” Damian muttered, shrugging his jacket off and wrapping it around her shoulders, “PUT THIS ON before I lose the ability to function as a human being.”

 

She laughed softly, slipping her arms into his jacket—it draped over her like a blanket, swallowing half her body.
He swallowed hard.

 

This might actually kill him.
He adjusted the lantern, gave her his spare flashlight, and took her hand.

 

“Stay close,” he warned.
Anya squeezed his hand.
“I always do.”
And together—his jacket on her shoulders, his hand holding hers tight—they descended the old stone stairway into the secret passage, the lantern lighting the path toward the storm outside.

 

And toward whatever the night held for them.

Chapter 13

Summary:

Damian and Anya have to stay overnight in Melinda’s treehouse cabin.

The passage spat them out behind the villa—right near the back steps where the staff usually brought in groceries.

 

The rain had thinned to a mist, turning the stone tiles slick and shining under the motion lights.

 

Damian guided Anya toward his car, fingers still laced with hers the entire time, even though neither of them acknowledged it.
He unlocked the vehicle with a soft beep.

 

That’s when Anya caught sight of it—
a small black duffel bag tucked behind the rear tire, half-hidden under the stair overhang.
She blinked.

 

“…You brought luggage?”
Damian froze mid-reach for the trunk.
“…No.”

 

She raised an eyebrow.
He sighed, defeated.
“…Yes.”

 

Anya stepped closer, tugging the bag out with her foot.

 

“You were planning to stay overnight somewhere?”
“In the forest,” he corrected quickly, trying to sound factual instead of suspicious.

 

“It’s not staying over. It’s just— prepared preparedness.”

 

“Prepared preparedness,” she echoed flatly. “Is that even English?”

 

“It is when I’m improvising,” he snapped quietly.

 

She crossed her arms, the jacket he wrapped around her slipping just enough to reveal the thin strap of her bra beneath. Damian looked away so fast he strained a muscle.

 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered, amused.

 

“I’m trying NOT to look,” he hissed, ears pink. “You’re wearing a sparkly bra in a storm— what am I supposed to do? Think about taxes?”

 

She bit her lip, smiling because he was flustered and beautiful and absolutely hers.

 

“So,” she said, leaning casually on the car door, “you were going to drive off alone. In the dark. In the rain. Without telling me. And stay somewhere.”

 

He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Tried again.

 

“…Yes?”
She stepped closer.
Too close.
Close enough that he had to brace himself against the car.

 

“So what, Damian?” she murmured, voice low. “You sneak out for a secret forest sleepover and just expect me to… stay behind?”

 

He scoffed, sarcasm covering the way his eyes dropped to her lips.

 

“I didn’t realise you’d want to come,” he said. “Unless you enjoy sneaking around with me that much.”

 

Anya flushed—pink blooming across her cheeks.

 

“…Maybe I do,” she whispered.
Damian froze.
Anya didn’t.

 

She slid into the passenger seat with a smug smirk, pulling his jacket tighter around herself.

 

“Girlfriend privileges,” she declared, clicking her seatbelt in place.

 

“That means I get to come.”
Damian stared at her through the open door—wet hair, bare legs, wearing his jacket, sitting in his car like she belonged there.
He swallowed once, hard.

 

“Right,” he said, voice rough. “Of course. Girlfriend privileges.”
He shut her door gently, almost reverently, before walking around to the driver’s side—trying very, very hard not to run.

 

Because there was no universe where he was surviving this night fully sane.

 

Not with her sitting next to him like that.
Not with the storm.
Not with the empty roads.
Not with the forest cabin waiting.

 

And especially not with her calling herself his girlfriend like it was the most natural, obvious thing in the world.

 

The silence inside the car was immediate.
Not gentle.
Not comfortable.
Just—
CRACKLING.

 

Damian gripped the steering wheel like it personally offended him, staring straight ahead as if the road needed to be intimidated into revealing itself.
Anya watched him for a solid ten seconds.

 

Then twenty.
Then—
“…Why are you acting weird?”
Damian blinked.
Once.
Twice.

 

Very slowly, like a man rebooting.
“I’m not acting weird.”
“You’re gripping the steering wheel like you want to strangle it.”

 

He loosened his grip half a millimeter.
“I’m not,” he insisted.
“You are,” she countered.

 

Damian inhaled sharply, staring harder at the foggy windshield.
“I got an email from my mother,” he finally said.

 

Anya frowned. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes.”
Pause.
“No.”
Pause.
“…I don’t know.”

 

She angled toward him, concerned.
Meanwhile his brain was doing cartwheels because she shifted forward a little and the jacket slid off one shoulder, revealing that thin sparkly strap again.

 

Damian clenched his jaw, looking anywhere but at her.
He could barely think.
Barely breathe.

 

Because every second she sat next to him like that, the very thin, extremely fragile thread of self-control holding him together was fraying.

 

Her legs are right there.
Why is she wearing glitter?
Does she know what she looks like?
Oh my god she’s wearing my jacket—

 

“Damian?” she said gently. “What did your mom say?”
Right.
The email.

 

He exhaled, trying to focus.
“She wants me to get some notebook for her in her treehouse cabin in the forest ” he said. “That’s the first time she’s asked me for anything.”

 

Anya’s expression softened.
“Oh.”

 

Anya asked after a moment of quiet , “ a treehouse ?” She asked looking at him in disbelief, he cracked a smile.

 

“Yes,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward her before he immediately forced them back to the road.

 

Her heart squeezed—not with sadness but warmth.

 

“Do you mind me coming there with you ?” she asked, teasing lightly but he could tell she was being genuine.
Damian didn’t even blink.

 

“No.”
Silence.
Anya’s breath caught.

 

The air grew warm.
His ears went bright red.

 

“I-not for anything weird ,” he added quickly. “Just… i love your company”
She bit her lip.

 

He looked like he regretted every syllable he’d ever spoken in his life.
“…Oh,” she whispered.

 

He cleared his throat violently.
“Anyway. I told her I might be staying but she ignored it, we’re good.”

 

Anya smiled. Slowly. Softly.
“Good.”

 

More silence, but this time it felt… delicate. Charged.
Then Anya exhaled.

 

“I’m going to miss kissing you,” she said quietly. “When we’re back at school. When we can’t just— do it whenever.”

 

Damian nearly drove into a tree.
He coughed, eyes wide.

 

“Yes. That will be very… unfortunate.”
“Very,” she echoed.

 

“We’ll manage,” he added. “Probably.”
Anya laughed under her breath.
But Damian wasn’t smiling.

 

He was trying to act normal while internally debating if he should throw himself out of the moving vehicle just to cool off.

 

Then he said—casual, way too casual:
“…We could always meet in an empty classroom and make out.”
Anya froze.
Damian froze.
The car froze.

 

He immediately rushed to add, “Kidding. Obviously. Joking. That was a joke. Ha. Ha-ha. Hilarious.”

 

She stared at him.
He stared at the road.
His soul left his body.

 

Anya leaned back in her seat, fighting a smile.
“…Unless you weren’t kidding,” she said softly.

 

Damian’s knuckles whitened.
Please say yes please say yes please say yes—

 

“I mean,” he said, “if hypothetically you—”
“I’ll think about it,” she whispered.
Damian swallowed.
Audibly.

 

Her hand drifted to rest on the center console, close—very close—to his.
He didn’t dare move.

 

The rain tapped softly on the windshield.
And somewhere between the storm, the jacket, and the sparkly bra strap tormenting his existence—

 

he realised:
He was not surviving another two days with her.
Not even a little.

 

After a moment of silence and Damian internally yelling at himself Everytime his eyes wandered to a certain pink haired girl sitting to his side,

 

“ how long is the drive ?” Anya asked, playing with his fingers on the console. Damian took a deep breath, “ twenty minutes” he replied curtly, feeling her gaze on him.

 

Anya groaned, smacking her hands to her face. “ that’s so longggg” she said stretching out the ‘g.

 

“ I never asked you to come, forger” Damian said, focusing on the road, trying to keep himself from loosing his dignity by doing something atrocious such as grinning.

 

Anya stopped to look at him, he could practically feel her pout, her pink cheeks flushed and puffy.

 

“ yeah you don’t have to ask me, that’s one of the perks of girlfriend privileges; even if your boyfriend doesn’t ask, you’re still going” she explained, Damian waited for her to burst out laughing but, she was serious.

 

“ hmm…what else are there ?” He muttered, glancing sideways at Anya who suddenly looked very focused. Damian never thought he’d see the day Anya forger became concentrated in something.

 

“Okay, so, like I said ” Anya said, lifting one finger like a professor about to give a lecture, “girlfriend privilege number one: I get to go anywhere you go. Even if you don’t want me there. Even if it’s a haunted treehouse in a dark stormy forest that might kill us.”

 

Damian huffed a laugh he tried to disguise as a cough.

 

“Right. Totally reasonable.”

 

“Number two,” she continued, holding up another finger, “I get to steal your jackets. Forever. Even if you want them back. Even if you’re cold. Even if you’re dying of hypothermia.”

 

Damian snorted.
“That tracks.”

 

“Number three,” she said proudly, “I can take bites of your food without permission, especially fries. Fries are girlfriend property.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.”

 

Damian shook his head but a smile was tugging at his mouth—dangerous and warm and very un-Damian-like.

 

“Number four,” Anya said dramatically, lifting her chin, “girlfriend gets to insult boyfriend whenever she wants. Lovingly. But freely. Like… right now.”

 

She poked his shoulder.
“Dummy.”

 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, amused.

“You poke me one more time and I’m dropping you in the forest.”

 

“Number five,” she continued, poking him again, “girlfriend pokes boyfriend whenever she wants.”

 

He caught her hand this time—but gently.
His thumb brushed her knuckles before he could think.

 

Silence crackled.
Then he cleared his throat.
“…And where exactly are you getting these rules from?”

 

Anya’s eyes lit up instantly.

 

“Oh! From a very reputable, very official magazine.”

 

Damian raised an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah? What magazine?”

 

She delivered it with full confidence:
“Becky’s Vogue, volume twelve.”
Damian blinked once.

 

Then twice.
Then—
A laugh burst out of him.
A real one.

An actual laugh that startled even him, low and warm and completely uncontrollable.
Anya gasped, offended.

“HEY—it’s serious! It’s in a magazine!”
“Oh yeah?” he managed between laughs, “A magazine written by Becky?”

 

“No,” Anya said, dead serious. “She was starring in it and It’s everywhere in her villa. Didn’t you see?”

 

Damian had to press his hand to his mouth because another laugh threatened to escape.

 

“I—I did not realise,” he choked out, “that the sacred ancient texts of Becky’s Vogue were shaping our relationship policy.”

 

Anya crossed her arms—his jacket sliding off her shoulder again, which absolutely did not help Damian.

 

“It’s very official,” she insisted. “You should be honored I’m even educating you.”

 

“Oh, I’m honored,” he muttered, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Deeply enlightened, actually.”

 

She leaned in, squinting at him.
“You’re mocking me.”
“Never,” he said, smirking.

 

“You are absolutely mocking me.”
“Me? Mock you?” He flashed her the most Damian-desmond-boyish grin she’d ever seen.

 

“I would never mock my girlfriend’s academic sources.”
Anya’s jaw dropped.

 

“EXCUSE ME—Becky’s Vogue is not an academic source—”

 

Damian burst into laughter again.
“Stop laughing!” she demanded, whacking his arm with the sleeve of his own jacket.

 

“It’s a very good magazine! With serious articles!”
“Mm-hm,” he hummed, still laughing. “What were the titles again? ‘Fifty Ways to Tell Your Ex He’s Dust?’”

 

“No—that was volume six.”
He nearly swerved the car.

 

“Oh my god,” he whispered, wheezing.
Anya rolled her eyes dramatically but the corners of her lips were lifting into a smile she couldn’t hide.

 

“You’re the worst,” she muttered, lifting his hand from the steering wheel and placing it back on the console so she could play with his fingers again.

 

Damian’s laughter softened.
His thumb slid over hers absentmindedly.
And when he spoke again, his voice was low. Warm.

 

“That last one… the girlfriend privilege of going wherever I go.”
Anya looked up.

 

“What about it?”
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

 

“I like that one,” he said quietly.
Her breath hitched.
And she squeezed his hand.

 

“Good,” she whispered.
“Because I’m not going anywhere.”

 

The car kept moving through the rain, but inside it, the world slowed—soft, warm, charged.

 

And somewhere between the laughter and
the way she held his hand—
Damian realised something terrifyingly

simple:
He didn’t want her to go anywhere either.

 

————-

 

Damian parked beside a massive oak.
He exhaled.

 

“Finally.”

 

He turned to check on Anya—only to find her knocked out cold, cheek smushed against the window, lips parted, wearing his jacket like a blanket burrito.

 

He blinked.

 

“…She was awake two minutes ago.”
He stepped out, went to the trunk, grabbed his duffel, then circled to the passenger side.

 

He opened the door carefully, leaning in to scoop her up—

 

Skin brushed skin.

 

Her bare thighs against his fingers.
Her tiny top sliding as he lifted her slightly.
Her breath warmed his collarbone.
And then—

 

“MWAH—WHAT—HEY—WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING ME.”

 

Anya jolted awake like someone fired a gun.
Damian froze mid-carry, absolutely caught like a criminal.
“I—You—You were asleep!” he blurted.
“You didn’t have to grab me!”

 

“I wasn’t— I was lifting— because you were—your seatbelt— and—”

 

They stared at each other, both red.
She cleared her throat and tugged his jacket tighter around her chest.

 

He looked anywhere but at the tiny bra
under it.

 

“We’re here,” he said stiffly, stepping back.

 

“And I need your help to get the key.”
“Your mom hides keys now?”
“Apparently.”

 

He motioned her to follow, leading her to the
ladder that stretched up, connecting tree to tree. High above them sat the sprawling cabin—built like a witch’s cottage fused with a luxury loft.

 

Anya’s eyes widened.
“This is… huge.”
“Mm.”

 

“And the key is where?”
Damian pointed at a tiny birdhouse

 

perched on a branch suspended between two trunks.
Anya blinked.

 

“…Damian. That is ten feet up.”
“I can’t reach it.”
“Clearly.”

 

He gave her a look.
“What would you have done without me?” she teased. “It’s a good thing I’m here.”

 

“I would’ve broken the branch,” he muttered.
Then he squatted down.
Anya stared.

 

“Uh… what are you doing?”

 

“Get on my shoulders,” he said, motioning. “We’ll climb, and you reach for it.”
“YOU want ME to get on YOU?”

 

“We don’t have time to debate this.”
She hesitated—but then placed her hands on his shoulders and swung one leg over.

 

The problem?
Her legs.
Bare.
Soft.
Warm.

 

Wrapping around his neck.
Damian’s soul left his body.

 

He stood—very carefully—and started up the ladder.
“Damian, don’t drop me.”
“Not planning on it.”

 

“Damian, my thighs are—”
“Please don’t finish that sentence.”

 

They reached the top.
Anya, still sitting on his shoulders, carefully stretched forward.

 

“I see it… almost… got it…”
As she leaned, her inner thighs pressed closer around his neck—
And Damian moved one inch too far.
His lips brushed the inside of her thigh.
Very lightly.
Very accidentally.
Very catastrophically.

 

They both froze.
Damian’s heart stopped.
“I— I DIDN’T MEAN— I SWEAR—” he

sputtered, panicked, ready to swan dive off the tree from shame.
Anya smirked down at him, eyes gleaming.

 

“Do it again.”
“ANYA.”
He nearly dropped to his knees.

 

“Don’t— don’t taunt me right now.”
She giggled, utterly delighted with how red he’d turned.

 

“Maybe later,” she teased quietly.
His grip on her legs tightened in warning.
Or desperation.
Possibly both.

 

She finally grabbed the key from the birdhouse and thumped his head affectionately.

 

“Okay! Got it!”
“Great,” he croaked. “Please get off before I die.”

 

She slid off his shoulders—slowly, because she was evil—and they climbed into the cabin.

———-

The moment they stepped inside…
a wave of hot air slammed into them.

 

Both groaned in pure, involuntary bliss.
“Oh my god,” Anya mumbled, melting on the spot. “It’s warm. Damian. It’s so warm.”

 

Damian closed the door behind them, exhaled, and dropped the duffel.
“Yeah.”

 

For a moment, neither moved.
They just stood there—dripping rain, flushed from the cold, from the heat…
And from each other.

 

Then Anya let out a soft laugh.
“Girlfriend privilege number six,” she declared, tugging his jacket around herself even tighter.

 

Damian raised an eyebrow. “What now?”
She touched his wrist, smiling gently.

 

“I get to help you.
Even with stupid treehouse missions.
Even when you don’t ask.”
He swallowed.

 

“…Good,” he said quietly, something warm curling in his chest. “Because I… kind of need you.”

 

The tension tightened between them—dangerous, warm, impossible to ignore.
But Damian snapped himself back to reality.

 

“Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “Let’s find this notebook and get out of here.”
They started searching.

 

Anya checked shelves, pulling out old photo albums and dusty candles.
Damian rummaged through drawers with increasing irritation.

 

“Your mom hides things in the weirdest places,” Anya muttered, opening a basket full of seashells.

 

Damian scoffed, checking behind a stack of board games. “Last time she sent me on a ‘simple’ task, I ended up in a basement full of taxidermy frogs.”

 

“Why does she even have that?”
“I’ve stopped asking.”

 

They searched the living room.
Nothing.
The bathroom.
Nothing.

 

Finally, they both stood in the kitchen.
Damian yanked open a cabinet above the sink—then froze.
“…Found it.”

 

Anya gasped as she leaned in beside him.
The notebook sat between a jar of honey and a bag of rock salt.

 

“Of course,” she muttered. “Why wouldn’t it be there?”

 

Damian grabbed it, shaking his head. “Let’s go before she makes me do anything else.”
They walked to the front door.

 

Damian pulled it open—
And the world outside roared.
Wind whipped violently.

Rain fell in sheets, not drops.

The walkway was half-flooded, water rushing like a miniature river.

Trees groaned under the force of the storm.
Anya stepped back immediately. “Nope.”

 

Damian stared grimly. “Yeah. We’re not driving in that.”

 

Lightning cracked across the sky.
A tree snapped somewhere in the distance.
Damian shut the door.

 

“We’re stuck here tonight,” he said, tone flat.
Anya’s eyes widened. “Wait—here? As in this forest treehouse that looks like it wants to blow away?!”
“It’s reinforced,” he said. “Mostly.”
She glared.

 

He cleared his throat.

“Look… there’s only one bedroom.”
Anya blinked. “One?”
“One.”
“As in ONE?”
“As in… yes.”

 

She stared at him like he personally designed the cabin to create drama.

 

“Why would your mom build a giant two-story treehouse with ONE bedroom?”

 

“It’s her private retreat,” he said quickly. “Not a family cabin.”
Anya threw her hands up. “But she has three couches! And thirty jars of honey!”
“Correct.”

 

She groaned dramatically. “This is ridiculous.”

 

Damian rubbed his forehead. “Trust me, I agree.”
They walked back into the living room.
He dropped his duffel on the couch and tried to breathe normally.

 

“There’s a wardrobe there,” he said, pretending to sound casual. “You’ll find clothes. Probably. She keeps random stuff everywhere.”

 

He reached for the hem of his soaked shirt—
And tugged it off.

 

In one smooth, efficient motion.
Anya blinked.
Then blinked again.

 

Because Damian Desmond—damp, sculpted, muscles flexing, hair dripping, skin flushed—looked like a forbidden painting someone left in the rain.

 

Her brain bluescreened.
“T-Thanks,” she squeaked, then bolted toward the wardrobe before she combusted.
Inside, she closed the door behind her and whispered desperately into the hanging
coats:

 

“Oh my god.”
She rifled through the clothes until she found a white cotton shirt—soft, oversized, definitely not meant to button all the way.
Her sports bra was soaked and miserable, so she unclasped it, wrung it out, and set it aside.

 

“Whatever,” she muttered. “It’s just Damian.”
(A lie.)

 

She stepped out.
Damian turned—

 

And immediately malfunctioned.
His eyes widened.
Then darkened.

 

Then snapped toward the fireplace like it personally offended him.

 

Because Anya stood there in his oversized
shirt—bare legs, bare collarbones, neckline dipping low enough to make him forget his name.

 

“Oh,” she said lightly, pretending not to notice him short-circuiting. “Found something comfy.”

 

Damian swallowed. “Yeah. I see that.”
“Is it okay?”

 

He nodded—too fast. “Yes. Fine. Perfect. It’s… it’s a shirt.”

 

“Exactly,” she smiled. “Just a shirt.”
It was not just a shirt.
He cleared his throat and yanked on his own dry shirt like it was a life jacket.

 

“You take the bed,” he said firmly. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Nope.”
“Anya.”
“Nope.”
“It’s fine—”
“Nope.”

 

He sighed. “The couch has structural integrity issues.”

 

“That’s EXACTLY why you’re not sleeping on it.”
He stared.
She stared harder.

 

“You carried me out of a pond,” she said, poking his chest, “climbed a tree with me on your shoulders, nearly died retrieving a key, and now you want to sleep on a couch that squeaks when you BREATHE on it?”
“I—”

 

“No buts. You’re sleeping with me. I’ll get cold.”

 

He opened his mouth.
Then closed it.

 

“…You can take all the blankets.”
“No,” she said softly. “I want you.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
Charged.

 

His jaw clenched.
His eyes dropped—briefly—to the dip of her shirt before snapping back up.
“Anya,” he said, voice low, “you can’t say things like that.”

 

She stepped closer.
Close enough for him to feel her breath.

 

“Then I’ll say this,” she whispered.
“Come to bed with me. Please.”
He caved instantly.
“Fine.”

 

She pulled the blankets back, patting the space beside her like he was a nervous stray cat.

 

Damian hesitated at the edge of the bed, rigid as a statue, every nerve on high alert.

 

“This is… a terrible idea,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself.
Anya tilted her head, pink cheeks glowing, and whispered, “Are you seriously going to sleep like you’re being held hostage?”
He didn’t answer.

 

So she scooted closer, the warmth of her body brushing against his arm.
“Damian?”

 

He inhaled sharply, chest tightening.
“…Yeah?”

 

Another beat of silence.
Then, very softly:
“Can I… cuddle you?”

 

He turned toward her, eyes unreadable, the lightning outside casting fleeting shadows across his face.
“…You want to?” he asked, almost afraid to hope.

 

“Yes,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “I really do.”

 

He exhaled, a slow shuddering sound, and finally—carefully, almost reverently—pulled her close.

 

Her head nestled against his chest.
His arm wrapped around her waist.

 

The other hand rested lightly on her hip, unsure, tentative, but protective.

 

The heat between them was immediate—dangerous, electric.

 

Anya let out a contented sigh.
He swallowed audibly, heart hammering.

Her fingers traced the fabric of his shirt absentmindedly, testing him, teasing without meaning to.

 

“Damian?” she murmured.
“Mm?”
“This is my favorite… girlfriend privilege.”

 

He closed his eyes, breathing her in—the soft scent of rain, shampoo, and her skin.
“…Mine too,” he admitted, voice low, almost a growl of surrender.

 

They stayed like that for a long moment, listening to the rain hammer against the cabin, the creaking of the treehouse swaying in the wind.

 

Outside, the storm raged.
Inside, the world had narrowed to just the warmth, the heat, and the danger of feeling too much.

 

Anya shifted slightly, pressing closer.
Damian stiffened for a heartbeat before relaxing into her, the tension melting slowly, dangerously.

 

“…Don’t get used to this,” he muttered, half-joking, half-serious.

 

“Too late,” she whispered back, a smirk in her voice, her thumb brushing softly against his ribs.

 

He exhaled, tension loosening, chest rising and falling against hers.
“I… I think I might,” he started, voice breaking slightly, “be okay with it.”

 

Anya giggled softly, burying her face further against him.

 

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m staying right here. All night.”
Damian swallowed, almost undone by the simplicity of her words.
He tightened his hold just slightly, a quiet promise:

 

“I… won’t go anywhere either.”
And for the first time in hours, maybe days, the storm outside didn’t matter.

 

Because they had each other—and that was more than enough.

 

Damian’s arms tightened around her instinctively, his body taut beneath hers.

 

The warmth of her pressed against him was… distracting. Torturous. Delicious.

 

Anya tilted her head up slightly, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You’re tense,” she murmured, voice low and teasing. “Relax. Just… cuddle me.”

 

He exhaled sharply, trying to focus, but every nerve in his body was alive. Her chest pressed to his, her bare skin brushing the damp fabric of his shirt, her hair tickling his neck. “I… I’m fine,” he said, voice tight, and immediately cursed himself for lying.

 

Her hand traced lightly along his arm, slow, deliberate, making him shiver. “Mm-hmm,” she whispered, pressing herself closer.

 

“You’re not fine. You’re… hot.”
Damian froze mid-breath. Her words, her body, her warmth—it was all a dangerous combination. “Hot…?” he repeated, voice rougher than he intended.

 

“Yes,” she said softly, letting her lips brush against the curve of his collarbone, teasing just enough to make him groan. “Hot. Sweaty. Distractingly hot. And it’s all my fault because… girlfriend privilege.”

 

He swallowed hard, every instinct screaming both to pull back and to hold her tighter. His hands moved on their own, one tracing the curve of her back, the other resting lightly on her hip, fingers brushing against bare skin through the thin cotton of her shirt.

 

“Anya…” he muttered, low, ragged. “You’re… impossible.”

 

She giggled, soft, warm, and pressed a little more into him. “Am I? Or are you just… malfunctioning?”

 

He swallowed, jaw tightening, heat pooling in his chest. “Maybe a little… malfunctioning,” he admitted, voice husky, eyes dropping to her lips for the briefest of moments before snapping back to her eyes.

 

She caught that glance, a tiny, victorious smirk curving her lips. “Mhmm,” she whispered, nuzzling closer, letting her warmth seep into him. “That’s what happens when you get too close to me.”

 

Damian groaned softly, the sound deep and low, involuntary. He pressed his forehead against hers, the heat between them crackling. “Stop… teasing me,” he rasped.

 

“Never,” she murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw, then letting her lips trail down to his neck, just brushing, not claiming—but enough to make him shiver violently.

 

He tightened his arms, holding her closer, body taut with desire he wasn’t ready to name. “Anya… now’s… dangerous,” he

 

whispered, breath hot against her hair.
“Mm,” she purred, nuzzling closer. “I like dangerous.”

 

His chest pressed into hers, hands restless, heart racing. Every brush of her skin, every soft laugh, every teasing whisper was electricity, sparking through him in ways he could barely control.

 

“You’re… teasing me,” he admitted, voice low, ragged. “You know that, right?”

 

“I do,” she whispered, lips brushing the sensitive spot just below his ear. “And I like it. You like it too.”

 

Damian groaned, tilting his head back, burying his face into her hair. “I… do,” he admitted, voice thick, almost desperate.

 

“Too much.”
She giggled, soft and warm, and pressed herself impossibly closer, letting every curve of her body mold against his. “Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m not moving. Not even a little.”

 

And for the first time, Damian didn’t want her to.

 

Outside, the storm raged, wild and relentless.
Inside, the heat between them burned

brighter than any lightning strike, stronger than any wind.

 

Every soft brush, every teasing touch, every whispered word was a promise of the

 

tension they both knew was building—an unspoken understanding that this night would be theirs in ways neither could ignore.

Chapter 14

Summary:

Becky freaks out Anya and Damian going missing, Damian and Anya have a cute morning together where Anya tests Damian’s restraint.

Becky Blackbell paced back and forth in her living room, clutching her hands together—a habit she only fell into when she was truly nervous.

 

She had gone to check on Anya last night.

Thunderstorms freaked Anya out.

A friend checking in on a friend.
Completely normal.
But when she opened Anya’s bedroom door—
Empty.
Absolutely empty.

Even her phone was on her desk. Untouched.

 

Not a blanket displaced, not a slipper in sight.

Just a neatly made bed and her friend nowhere to be found.

 

Becky hadn’t slept a single second since.
She’d been pacing since 3:17 a.m.

Running theories like a conspiracy theorist with a corkboard.

 

Kidnapped?
Abducted by forest cultists?
Eaten by wolves?
Secret spy mission??

Did she…run away with Damian Desmond???

 

The last one made Becky press a hand to her chest like she was having heart palpitations.

 

“Hey—Becky?” a voice cut in.
Ewen rubbed his eyes, hair sticking up like an electrocuted pineapple.

 

“What’s wrong? You look like you witnessed a murder.”

 

Becky whirled around.
“EWEN. ANYA IS GONE.”
Ewen blinked.
Then blinked again.

 

Then shrugged.
“Maybe she went for a walk?”
“In the middle of the night during A STORM?”
“…Maybe she went for a traumatic walk?”
“EWEN.”

 

Ewen raised his hands in surrender.
“Okay, okay! Let’s think. Is she with someone?”
Becky froze.
Slowly turned.
“…Check if Damian is in his room.”

 

Ewen shrugged again, walked off, disappeared into the hallway—
Then sprinted back out ten seconds later.

 

“He’s gone too.”
Becky’s entire soul left her body.
“Oh. My. GOD.”

Ewen scratched the back of his head.
“Should we… uh… track him?”
Becky blinked. “Again?”
Ewen puffed his chest proudly.
“Yeah.”
Becky stared.
“…okay”

 

Becky did not have the energy to process why he sounded so proud of himself.

 

“Fine. Show me.”

 

Ewen pulled out his phone, tapped the app, and rotated the screen toward her.
A little blinking dot pulsed on the digital map.

 

In the middle of the forest.
Becky’s eyes widened.

 

“WHAT—why are they THERE—?!”
Ewen squinted.
“That’s… Melinda Desmond’s treehouse cabin.”

 

Becky’s mouth dropped open.
A moment of silence passed.
Then a second.

 

Then:
“SHOULD WE FOLLOW THEM??” Ewen asked, already halfway toward the door.

 

“Nope,” Becky said immediately, grabbing his shirt collar and yanking him backward.
Ewen stumbled. “But—”

 

“Let them have a break,” Becky said, lifting a finger like she was delivering sacred wisdom.

Her voice softened to something almost smug.
“Anya deserves it.”
Ewen blinked.

“O…kay? But what if Damian—”
Becky’s face turned dark.
Very dark.

 

“If Damian makes her even remotely uncomfortable,” she said sweetly, “I’ll cut him.”

 

“C-cut him?” Ewen squeaked.
“Yes,” Becky nodded solemnly. “Vertically.”
Ewen swallowed.

 

“Should we… maybe tell the others ?”

 

“NO,” Becky snapped. “No one else needs to know. They probably just needed… privacy.”
Ewen tilted his head. “Privacy? For what—”
Becky smacked him on the back of the head.

 

“DON’T FINISH THAT SENTENCE. THEY’RE PURE.”

 

Ewen rubbed his skull. “Ow—okay, okay!”
Becky straightened her posture, hair wild from pacing, but eyes glowing with fierce loyalty.

 

“We,” she declared, “will sit here, mind our business, and let our girl enjoy her romantic forest getaway.”

 

Ewen nodded slowly.
“…Do we at least text her?”

 

“No.-“ Becky exhaled “-her phone is in her room. No point and it’s intrusive to disturb them.”
“…So we do nothing?”
“Correct.”
“ operation DAMIANYA can take care of itself”

Ewen blinked.

 

“Okay. But if she comes back with a broken leg, I’m saying ‘I told you so.’”

 

Becky groaned and dragged a hand down her face.
“Dear god. Just sit down.”

 

————

 

Damian opened his eyes. The bright morning sunlight seeped through the curtains and painted a bright streak across his chest and Anya’s cheek.

 

He tucked his chin in and looked down at her. She was fast asleep, her eyelashes fluttering amidst what he assumed was a very compelling dream.

 

She was warm—so warm she was sweating at the neck and on her forehead; her candy pink bangs had curled up into tiny cork screw shaped curls .

 

His heart clenched in his chest…she was absolutely adorable in every way.

 

He glanced over at the clock. He sighed deeply upon discovering that it was half past nine.

 

He couldn’t remember a time in his life where he slept past eight fifteen, yet, now, he had the audacious to sigh, thinking it’s too early. What had gotten into him ?

 

. He looked back down at Anya, who was snoozing away without a care in the world.

 

He knew he should get up, but the compulsion to stay intertwined with her for as long as possible pulled him under like a siren song. He closed his eyes again and drifted back to sleep, knowing the girl of his dream was wrapped in his arms.

——————

Anya stirred awake and rubbed her eyes, then sheepishly wiped a small puddle of drool off of what she thought was her pillow at first, but was actually Damian Desmond, her boyfriend’s, bare chest.

 

She was always groggy in the morning, needing a minute or two to gather her bearings.

 

Where were they? How did they get there? And why were they in bed together? Did they—

 

All at once, the memory of the night before flooded back to her. Damian sneaking out and her following him and the storm and how they had to share a room. Anya cursed herself for smiling at the last part.

She had forced him to sleep in the same bed as her, she knew that it wouldn’t be comfortable sleeping on a couch and he’s her boyfriend now…anyway, she was expecting Damian to scold her and immediately refuse when she asked to cuddle but was shocked when he agreed.

 

Her eyes widened slowly, then very slowly darted down.

 

His hand.
On her waist.
On her bare waist.
Her breath stilled in her lungs.

 

Oh.
Oh no.
Oh yes—
But also oh no.
She swallowed.

 

Did he sleep like this the whole night?
Did she?
Why is his hand so big?
Why is it warm?

Why is it on her SKIN AND WHY DOES IT FEEL SO GOOD—

 

Anya bit her lip to keep from squeaking.
She lifted the blanket a tiny inch and peeked.

 

Yup.
That was definitely her waist.
Bare waist.

His fingers were spread, curved inward—like he had subconsciously claimed the spot.
She blinked.

Then swallowed again.
“...Oh my god,” she mouthed silently.
Her face burned hotter than the cabin’s heating system.

 

She dared another glance at him.
Damian Desmond.
Asleep.
Careless.
Breathing slow.

Looking like something out of a very illegal magazine.
His hair was messy.
His jaw was sharp.

His chest looked like a sculptor had gotten paid overtime.
And his lips—
Relaxed, soft, parted just enough to be distracting.
Very distracting.

 

We slept like THIS the whole night?
Anya Forger, how are you still alive?
How is HE still alive?
How did neither of you spontaneously combust?

 

Her pulse thundered.
Then—
He shifted.

 

His fingers curled slightly into her waist.
She froze so hard her soul left her body and screamed into the void.

 

A tiny, involuntary noise escaped her throat—something between a gasp, a choke, and the noise a dying toaster might make.

 

Damian’s brows twitched.
Her heart stopped.
His hand tightened—just a little, like his sleeping brain wanted to keep her there.
And then—

His eyes fluttered open.
Slow.
Groggy.
Unfocused at first.

 

Until they focused directly on her.
There was a long, silent beat.
Then another.

 

Then a third, in which both of them realised the exact position they were in.

 

His voice came out low, rough, sleep-heavy and confused:
“…Good morning.”
Anya squeaked again.

 

Damian blinked slowly, looked down—
And saw his hand on her bare waist.
He froze.

 

Absolutely, completely froze.
Then:
“…Oh.”
His ears turned red so fast it was a medical emergency.

 

He yanked his hand back like he’d touched fire, coughing once—violently—turning his face away, trying to look anywhere except at her exposed skin.

 

“I—I wasn’t— it must’ve just— we fell asleep and— I didn’t mean to—”
He tripped over every syllable like they were landmines.

 

Anya couldn’t help it—she laughed.
Soft.
Breathy.
Warm.
“It’s okay,” she whispered.
Damian stared at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him.
“It is not okay,” he muttered, mortified. “I was—touching you.”
“We were cuddling.”

 

“I was still touching you.”
“It was accidental.”
“It was—your waist.”
“…Yes?”

 

He buried his face in his hands.
“Oh my god.”
Anya giggled again.

 

But then she softened—her eyes drifting over his features.

The shadows under his lashes.
The curve of his cheekbone.
The way he looked so… human.

So unguarded.
So hers.
Her voice came out small, but sincere.
“I liked it.”
His hands dropped.

 

His eyes snapped to her.
Wide.
Startled.
Darkening.
“…You did?”

 

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I… felt safe.”
His breath hitched—just once, but enough for her to hear it.
Something inside Damian cracked open, slow and dangerous and unbearably warm.
He swallowed.
Hard.

 

Then he whispered, voice barely steady—
“…Good.
I… wanted you to feel that.”
Her cheeks flushed.
So did his.

 

The air between them tightened, thick and warm.

 

And in that quiet, intimate morning light, with the forest humming outside and the cabin wrapped around them like a secret—
Damian Desmond realised something with brutal, startling clarity:
He could get used to this.
Waking up with her.
Her warmth.
Her laugh.
Her weight against him.
Her trust.
Her everything.

 

He could get very, very used to this.
And that terrified him just as much as it thrilled him.

 

“ We have got to stop being so awkward…”
Anya muttered, voice muffled as she buried her burning face into the warm space between Damian’s shoulder and neck.

 

Damian stiffened—because of course he did—and then after a very delayed, very Damian moment of processing, his hand rose and landed on her head.

A single pat.
Then another.

Then gradually, his fingers softened and began to stroke through her hair with hesitant care.

 

His thoughts, however, were on fire.

 

Awkward? She thinks this is awkward? She fell asleep on me like a cat in a sunbeam. I woke up with my hand on her bare waist. She drooled on my chest. And I—
Anya kissed his neck.

 

Everything in Damian’s brain short-circuited.
His hand froze mid-stroke.

His breath stuttered.
His pulse punched the inside of his ribs.
Then she kissed him again — slower, like she was testing how much she could get away with.

 

A quiet, deep sound slipped from Damian’s throat before he could stop it.
A sound embarrassingly un-Desmond of him.

 

Anya giggled softly against his skin, smug and warm.

 

Her morning shyness had completely dissolved now, replaced with that bold affection that made Damian’s sanity bend at the edges.

 

He tilted his head for her instinctively, giving her full access to his neck.
He didn’t think.
Didn’t plan.

 

Just reacted — like her lips rewired every instinct he had.
“See?” she whispered, brushing another kiss along his jaw. “You act all tense, but you’re always the first to melt.”

 

“I am not—” he began, but then she kissed a spot just below his jaw and a sound—an honest-to-god groan—slipped out of him.
A deep one.
A dangerous one.
A what-is-happening-to-me one.

 

His fingers slid down her side, warm and deliberate, finding her waist — the same curve he’d held all night without knowing.

 

This time he touched her on purpose.
This time he meant every inch of it.

 

His thumb traced a slow, possessive stroke over her skin before he squeezed gently, just enough to make her breath catch and her body arch a little into him.

 

The reaction shot straight through him.
“Not my fault,” Damian murmured, his tone dropping in a way that made her shiver. “You keep testing my patience with your tempting words…”

 

His thumb pressed again, firmer this time.
“…and your actions.”
Anya’s face grew hot.

Her fingers slid up, trailing the back of his neck, brushing the soft hair there.

 

Damian inhaled sharply — a quiet, involuntary intake that made heat curl low in her stomach.

 

He leaned in closer, forehead grazing hers, eyes half-lidded, voice husky from sleep and from her.

 

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he whispered.
“I’m your girlfriend,” she breathed back. “I’m allowed to.”

 

Damian’s lips curved — not a smirk, not quite — something softer, deeper, almost reverent.

 

Dangerously tender.
“You’re allowed to do anything,” he murmured. “Anything you want.”
Her heart stuttered.

 

He felt it — literally felt the flutter against his chest — and his breath caught.

 

The morning light spilled warm across the bed, across her flushed cheeks, across his bare chest rising and falling just slightly too fast.

 

He touched her waist again, slower this time.
Softer.
Meaning more.

 

And as she kissed the hollow of his throat, as her hands slid around him, as her laughter warmed his skin, Damian’s inner monologue collapsed into one quiet, devastating truth:
I love waking up like this.
With her.
Because she’s mine.
And I’m hers.

 

And I want this — every morning.
The thought terrified him.
And warmed him.
And pulled him toward her even more.

 

After lying in each other’s arms for ten painfully slow minutes, Damian couldn’t take it anymore.

 

The softness of her body pressed against him…

the warmth of her breath…
the way she unconsciously curled into him like he was something safe—
Yeah.

 

It was contributing directly to the hardness of him.

 

A very real, very urgent problem.
He had a full-on boner, and if he didn’t get out of this bed soon, Anya would absolutely never let him live it down.

 

Not for a week.
Not for a year.

Possibly not for the rest of his natural life.
He tried to ignore it.

Tried to think of anything else—math equations, politics, Henderson’s eyebrows—
But then he made the mistake of actually looking at her.
Really looking.

 

And that was when everything went straight to hell.

 

The loose white shirt she’d pulled from the wardrobe had ridden up overnight, bunched just under her ribs.

Her stomach was bare.
Her waist was bare.

Her chest—
Her chest was practically out in the open, the neckline hanging dangerously low, hinting at everything his imagination absolutely should not be filling in right now.

 

Damian swallowed hard.

Too hard.
Then his gaze dropped even further—because he was weak and stupid and

 

curious and already doomed.
Her panties.
White.
Soft.
Cotton.

 

And for some god-awful, universe-hating reason, that made it ten times hotter.
His brain short-circuited entirely.

 

Fuck.

 

He cursed himself internally so violently it could’ve qualified as a national disaster.
Why did something so simple look that good?

Why did the sight of her thighs and that stupidly innocent underwear make heat punch down his spine like a meteor strike?

Why was he like this?
Why was she like this?

Why was this allowed to happen to him at nine in the morning?

 

Stop looking, he told himself.
Stop looking, stop looking, STOP—
He didn’t stop.

 

And now he was very, very sure he wasn’t getting out of this bed without humiliating himself.

 

“Get up, you little gremlin,” he muttered, trying to push her head away from his chest and get even one centimeter of space between her body and his very obvious

 

morning problem.
Anya didn’t budge.
If anything, she burrowed closer.

 

She made a sleepy noise that should have been illegal.
Then:
“No.”

 

Damian’s soul left his body.
“No?” he repeated. “What do you mean ‘no’? Get—move—stop—Anya—”
She cracked an eye open.

A mischievous glint.
A smirk forming.
Oh no.
“Make me,” she said.

 

Damian made a noise only dogs could hear.
Her hair was a mess, her shirt was slipping even lower, her thigh was—why was her thigh THERE—

and she said “make me” like she wasn’t a tiny, adorable menace sent from the heavens specifically to test his self-control.

 

“Don’t,” he warned, voice cracking like a prepubescent goose. “Don’t start.”

 

She stretched lazily, entirely on purpose, the shirt riding up even higher.

 

“I said,” she murmured smugly, “make me.”
Damian snapped.

 

“Oh, you want to play? Fine.”
He lunged—not sexually, just survival-instinct-level panicked—

and grabbed her sides.
Anya shrieked.

 

“DAMIAN—!”
He tickled her.
Mercilessly.
Scientifically.
Like a man possessed.

 

Anya flailed, kicking her legs, laughing so hard her voice cracked.

 

“STOP—STOP—DAMIAN— I’M GONNA DIE—”

 

“That’s the point,” he deadpanned, even as he smiled despite himself. “Suffer.”

 

Her shirt—God help him—rode up even more during the chaos, exposing a stretch of soft stomach and just the faintest lower curve of—
No.
No, nope, nuclear-level nope.

 

His brain supplied a thought with the force of a train:
Don’t look there. Do NOT.
Do not, do not— GOD DAMMIT YOU LOOKED.

 

And because the universe hated him, she twisted again, hair in her face, shirt half-open, thigh over his hip, panties—
White.
Soft.

Pure trouble.
His breath stuttered.
His mind went straight to the gutter, uninvited:
What would it feel like—if he pushed those panties aside and slid into her—

 

Damian’s whole body short-circuited so violently he practically threw himself backward off the bed.

 

“OKAY—ENOUGH—GAME OVER—WE’RE DONE—WE’RE SO DONE—”
Anya wheezed laughing, curled up, tears in her eyes.

“Why are you freaking out?!”
He pointed at her wildly.

 

“You—you—are dangerous!”
“I was just stretching!”
“You were weaponizing it!”
Anya blinked innocently.

 

“…Weaponizing my existence?”
“Yes!” he shouted. “Precisely!”
She grinned slow, wicked, knowing.

 

Then she sat up on her knees—shirt hanging off one shoulder, hair a mess, eyes glowing
with mischief.

 

“Then why,” she said sweetly, “did you look flustered?”

 

Damian choked on air.
“I—I wasn’t flustered!”
“You look flustered now.”
“I’m not— this isn’t— YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING—”

 

He grabbed a pillow and shielded himself like a medieval knight preparing for battle.
She leaned closer.
“Damian?”
“No.”
“Damian.”
“Nope.”

 

“Damiaaaan,” she sing-songed.
He squeezed his eyes shut.

 

“Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what?” she smirked. “Like I know you’re hiding something?”

 

Damian internally screamed.
Outwardly, he said, voice high and unconvincing:

 

“I AM HIDING NOTHING.”
She stared at him.
Then, with evil precision:

 

“Move the pillow.”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT.”
She cackled.

 

Damian Desmond—future CEO, top Eden student, feared by half his class—was now red-faced, pillow-clutching, and deeply regretting waking up this morning.

 

And God help him:
He’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

———-

 

Cold water ran down his head. Damian braced his palms against the shower wall and let out a low, frustrated groan.

 

Great. Perfect. Spectacular.

 

He was eighteen years old, dating the girl he’d been obsessed with since he was six,

 

and somehow he still couldn’t go twenty-four hours without humiliating himself.

 

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried—desperately—to think of literally anything unsexy.

 

Grandma’s unibrow. Uncle’s toenail collection. The time Ewen tried to eat a rock. Calculus homework. No—harder. Focus, Desmond.

 

He thought of how fast and quiet he could be if he wanted to jerk off, but Anya would probably start banging on his door and ask why he’s crying. She could be very intuitive sometimes it scared him.

 

But every time his brain managed three seconds without thinking about Anya’s bare legs tangled with his last night, or the way she murmured “make me” in a tone that absolutely should not have been allowed—
BAM BAM BAM

 

“Damian?? Are you stuck in there?” Anya’s voice came through the door, confused and annoyingly adorable.

“Why are you showering like you’re fighting the water??”

 

Damian’s soul left his body.
“I’m not— I’m fine!” he shouted back, voice cracking like a dying violin. “Just—just give me a minute!”

 

“You already had ten!” she called. “Did you slip? Do you need help?”

 

Help.
No. Absolutely not. Never.

He would rather perish in this cabin.

 

“I’m fine!” he yelled again, turning the water off so fast the pipes thunked in complaint.

 

He dried himself at the speed of light. Being flustered around his own girlfriend was ridiculous. Painful. Stupid. Inevitable.
And entirely her fault.
He opened the door—

 

Anya was standing there, hair messy from sleep, wrapped in a blanket like a grumpy burrito.

 

“I’m hungry,” she announced.
Damian blinked. “Then go shower.”

 

She pointed at herself. “I just said I’m hungry.”

 

“Yes,” he said, valiantly pretending he had not just spent ten minutes fighting for his life in the shower. “And you can eat afterward. Go clean up.”

 

She squinted at him suspiciously. “You’re acting weird.”

 

Damian’s heartbeat did a full gymnastics routine.

“No, I’m acting normal,” he said, which is absolutely what someone acting normal would say.

 

Anya leaned closer, searching his face like he was a puzzle she could solve by staring.
“...Fine,” she said finally, brushing past him and heading to the bathroom. “But if the water’s cold I’m suing you.”

 

He exhaled so hard his knees almost buckled.

————

 

The moment she stepped into the bathroom, she frowned.
He totally panicked.
Why?

 

She replayed the last few minutes in her mind, then replayed last night.
Oh.

Maybe she did tease him too much.
A slow smile crept across her face.
Serves him right.

 

She showered quickly—half because she was hungry, half because she was eager to go poke at him again—and came out with damp hair, wearing one of the oversized shirts he packed.

 

Damian was in the kitchenette, slicing bread with a seriousness usually reserved for global diplomacy.

He had set out honey, butter, and two cups of tea.

 

“You made breakfast?” she asked softly.
He cleared his throat without looking at her. “Yeah.”

 

She came up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and he nearly dropped the knife.

 

“You’re so cute,” she whispered.
“I’m not,” he muttered, ears turning bright red.

 

She rose on her toes, chin against his shoulder.
“You totally are. You’re all flustered.”

 

“I’m not flustered.”
“You’re slicing the bread like it personally offended your family.”

 

Damian set the knife down. “Maybe it did.”

 

She laughed into his back, and he tensed, every nerve lighting up at once. 
Cute. 
Sexy.
 Chaotic.
 This was her.
 His girlfriend.

 

He turned slightly, meeting her eyes. “Come eat before you distract me again.”

 

She grinned. “Oh? And if I don’t ?”
He swallowed. Hard.
“…Then we’re both starving.”
And Anya laughed again, bright and warm, filling the entire cabin.

Chapter 15

Summary:

Anya and Damian reads Melinda’s book, earning a Melinda and Donovan flashback.

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.

Notes:

OKAY SO, here’s a little Melinda and Donovan lore, I’m thinking of writing a separate fic for them and explain their story but lemme know what you think 💖💖

I hope you enjoyed reading !!

Next chapter will be a DAMIANYA chapter, trust