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Silence stretched over the classroom like a blanket, the thick musk of old books and wood infiltrated the air. Damian Desmond sat at his usual seat at the back, waiting for his classmates to arrive.
He was early as usual, most of the dorm staff hadn’t even been up at this time yet Damian was, he wasn’t like them, he was persistant, immaculate and a Desmond.
Desmonds are always the first ones to enter and leave a room. No. Matter. What. He always kept that in mind. Even his father would start crying once he saw Damian’s daily routine, which commenced with a four a.m. run everyday.
“ ow !” Came a soft, high pitched voice that haunted Damian’s drea-uh-nightmares.
It was her.
The absolute bane of his existence.
The devils spawn( sorry pops).
Anya forger.
Damian squared his shoulders, a retort already at the tip of his tongue within seconds.
“ yeah, yeah, I fall like a deranged goose. Save it, Damian” she bit out before the words left his tongue.
He scoffed, how dare this commoner speak to me like that ? Just because I’m terrified of Becky, doesn’t mean she gets to…to…not hear what I have to say ! Yeah, and how could she even trip ? There was literally nothing to trip over, he thought as he gritted his teeth and continued glaring daggers at her back.
Her pink hair looked extra glossy today, like she tried to cover it in some pink glitter gloss. Her scent was her usual-vanilla and…peanuts. Damian sighed, he found it irritating and utterly infuriating how he noticed these things about her.
He hated how he could pick her apart easily from a crowd, hated how her eyes alw- “ you’ve been extra quiet, Damian” Anya singsonged as she turned in her seat to look back at him, tilting her head to the side, her glossy pink hair falling from her shoulders.
Damian felt heat creeping up his neck…because…he was furious ! Her entire existence made him want to do furious things.
He snarled, hoping he looked menacing and not at all like a red tomato. “ why would I talk to you, forger ?” He bit out, his voice colder than the Arctic Ocean. The voice he used with those girls that tried to kiss up to him so they could get close to his father. Damian almost felt bad for using it on Anya, she wasn’t like them.
Anya forger was the only genuine person in his life.
He didn’t know why she made him feel so…restless or make his heart race so fast he thinks he’s going into cardiac arrest.
But…he did know that in all his eighteen years of life, he’d never met a more sincere person other than her. The way she laughed with such carefreeness, the way she tries to hug him Everytime he’s gone somewhere dark in his mind. She’s always there.
“ well, your friends aren’t going to be here for… I dunno…a while ? So I thought you should talk to me !” Anya said enthusiastically, while folding a piece of origami paper into…he had no idea what that was.
He sighed, defeated. He didn’t even bother with a reply. It was too early, he was tired and he didn’t want to say anything…stupid.
He watched as Anya got up from her seat and walked toward him, with an eerily calm expression on her stupidly pretty-ugly ! Face.
She grabbed his exposed hand which was lying flat on the table and pulled lightly. Damian’s brain short circuited, her touch burning his skin. “ come with me” she said as she pulled him toward the exit. Damian’s feet betrayed him and followed her, his brain was shouting over how small and soft her hands were.
A terrifying realisation downed upon him. Damian Desmond would jump off of a cliff, so long as it was Anya forger leading him there. Oh god, he thought as they went down a narrow and old hallway no one used.
He became alert, scanning the area for forger’s potential assassination plans. Where is she taking me ? Is she still mad I called her a pig yesterday ? He thought as Anya shoved him inside a storage room and got in with him, locking the door behind them.
Damian swallowed hard.
The storage room was tiny.
Like—tiny, tiny. Barely enough space for one person, let alone two fully grown, emotionally constipated eighteen-year-olds who definitely did not think about each other way more than necessary.
Dust floated through the single stream of light from the high window. Old brooms and boxes pushed against his back as Anya stood directly in front of him, their chests almost touching.
Almost.
Damian’s breath caught.
Why was it suddenly hard to breathe? The air wasn’t even that thin. It was her. Her vanilla-peanut smell. Her stupid, glossy pink hair. Her big green eyes staring at him like she was about to—
“Calm down,” she said softly, too softly, which only panicked him more.
“Calm down? CALM DOWN? We’re locked in a closet—WHY—did you drag me here? Are you trying to kill me? Is this revenge for the pig thing—?”
She slapped a hand over his mouth.
Damian froze.
Anya’s palm was warm. Her fingers slowly curled to cup his cheek—not intentionally, he assumed, but unfortunately, that’s exactly where they ended up.
His brain melted.
He. Could. Not. Move.
“Damian,” she whispered, leaning closer.
He felt her breath against his skin. He was going to pass out. He was definitely going to pass out.
“You’re being loud,” she murmured, eyes flicking to the door. “Someone might hear us.”
Hear… what?
His heart rammed against his ribs.
What did she think they were doing in here?
What did she want to do in here—?
Anya slowly removed her hand from his mouth.
Very slowly.
Damian could still feel the ghost of her touch on his lips.
“…Explain,” he croaked, voice
embarrassingly uneven.
Instead of answering, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the origami she’d been folding.
The weird little shape he couldn’t identify earlier.
Except now, he could.
It was a heart.
A slightly lopsided, aggressively folded, very Anya-like heart.
Damian’s eyes widened. “Wh—”
“Don’t freak out,” she said quickly, holding it between them like a peace treaty. “It’s not…it’s not a confession or anything.”
He shouldn’t have felt disappointed.
He absolutely shouldn’t have.
But he did.
“It’s just—it’s your birthday tomorrow. And I didn’t know if you’d want a gift. I mean, you’ll probably pretend you don’t. Or throw it away. Or burn it. Or stomp on it like how you stomp on my hope every time you make fun of me—”
“I don’t stomp on your hope!” he snapped, offended.
“Okay fine, then you karate-kick it.”
“I DO NOT—!”
“Damian.” Her voice softened. “Just…take it.”
She held out the little paper heart.
He stared at it like it was a grenade.
No one—no one—gave him something hand-made. Genuine. Personal.
Not for him.
Not because they cared.
His throat tightened, the words stuck somewhere painful.
“…Why,” he managed. Barely.
Anya blinked up at him. “Because you’re my friend.”
He felt something crack open inside his
chest.
Friend.
He didn’t want to be just that. Hadn’t, for years. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t risk it.
But her saying it still hit him like lightning.
Anya sighed, stepping a little closer so their shoes lightly brushed. “And also because you look sad lately.”
His heart stuttered.
“…I don’t look sad.”
“Damian,” she said gently. “Your soul has been screaming since Monday.”
He almost choked. “MY WHAT—”
“Telepath perks.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I just wanted to make you smile. Even if it’s tiny. Even if you hide it. Even if you never admit it.”
She placed the paper heart into his palm.
Her fingers lingered.
He swallowed, his voice barely a whisper.
“…I’m not throwing it away.”
She froze.
Her cheeks reddened slightly. “Oh. Um. Good.”
Silence prickled the air again.
Hotter.
Thicker.
Charged.
Too charged.
he said quietly, stepping half a centimeter closer on instinct.
She looked up at him, startled. “Yeah?”
He didn’t touch her.
He didn’t dare.
But his hand twitched like he wanted to.
Wanted to so badly.
“Don’t lock me in a closet again,” he murmured.
Her lips twitched up. “Then stop running away when I try to talk to you.”
“I don’t run.”
“You sprint.”
Damian scowled. “I do not—”
She reached up and flicked his forehead.
His breath caught.
“Come on, Damian,” she whispered, turning to unlock the door. “Let’s get back before people start rumors.”
He stood there for a second, staring at the little paper heart in his hand, feeling the burn of where she had touched him.
Feeling the ache of everything he never said.
Anya tried opening the door, but to Damian’s and her absolute horror, it wouldn’t budge.
Anya turned slowly to look at him, “ er, let me just” she said as she violently shook the door Handel.
Damian took a deep breath. “ Anya. What did you do ?” He asked in a soft tone, which was borderline lethal.
Anya rattled the doorknob so aggressively it sounded like she was trying to rip it off the universe itself.
“It’s—stuck—Damian—I swear—this door hates me!”
Damian dragged his hand down his face.
“Of course it’s stuck,” he muttered. “Of course. Of course the day you drag me into a closet is the day we get trapped in it.”
Anya glared.
“Well if you weren’t built like a six-foot brick wall maybe you wouldn’t have bumped something closed!”
“I did not bump anything—YOU slammed the door like an angry troll!”
“I AM NOT A TROLL—!”
“Oh really? Because right now your strength is definitely—"
“Don’t finish that sentence, Desmond.”
Damian shut his mouth.
Mostly because Anya stepped closer, eyes narrowed, face inches from his.
His brain stopped working again. Convenient.
She turned back to the doorknob and shoved her shoulder into it. The door didn’t even tremble.
Damian sighed, placing his hands on her shoulders and gently pulling her away, ignoring how warm she felt under his palms.
“Move,” he said.
“No,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “I got us into this mess. I’ll get us out.”
“You got us into this mess,” he agreed, “but your plan to get us out involves dislocating your shoulder.”
“Let me try again—”
He grabbed her wrist mid-attempt. “You’ll break the door.”
“Good!”
“And probably your bones.”
“…Less good,” she admitted.
Damian exhaled—long, suffering, princely.
He stood in front of the door.
Rolled up his sleeves.
Cracked his knuckles.
Anya blinked.
“Oh no. What are you doing?”
“Applying logic,” he said, placing his ear against the door. “The frame is old. The hinges are rusty. The lock is probably
jammed from the pressure. If I—”
“Damian just say you want to kick the door.”
He glared. “…I want to strategically kick the door.”
“Sure.” Anya grinned. “A genius kick.”
“Do not mock my genius.”
“Never.”
She absolutely was.
Damian backed up as much as the tiny room allowed.
Anya watched him brace himself, hands slightly shaking (from adrenaline probably?),
face set with pure Desmond determination.
He inhaled deeply.
“Okay… one… two—”
Right as he lifted his leg—
BANG.
The door smacked inward, hitting him square in the forehead.
Damian collapsed backward in shock.
Anya screamed.
A janitor stood in the doorway holding a mop, baffled.
“…Why were you two in the storage room?” he demanded.
Damian, dazed, pointed blindly at Anya. “HER idea.”
Anya slapped his arm. “DON’T THROW ME UNDER THE BUS LIKE THAT.”
“You locked us in!”
“You followed me!”
“YOU HELD MY HAND!”
“YOU LET ME!”
The janitor stared.
Deeply concerned.
“ don’t want to know,” he said flatly, stepping aside.
Damian scrambled up, straightening his uniform with intense mortification. “We were—checking inventory.”
Anya nodded too fast. “Yep! Very important! Broom counts!”
The janitor’s eyebrow twitched. “…Go to class.”
They ran.
They booked it down the hallway like two suspects fleeing the scene of the world’s least intimidating crime.
Halfway there, Anya burst out laughing. Loud, bright, uncontrollable.
Damian stared at her, rubbing the sore spot on his forehead.
“This isn’t funny,” he grumbled.
“It’s so funny,” she wheezed, wiping tears from her eyes. “Damian Desmond—caught in a closet. With ME.”
He flushed from the neck up. “Never mention it again.”
She bumped her shoulder lightly against his. “Thanks for trying to break the door.”
He looked away, ears pink. “It was a genius plan.”
“It really wasn’t.”
“It WAS.”
“It almost knocked you unconscious.”
“That was a tactical miscalculation.”
She snorted. “Sure, Damian.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
They reached the classroom door.
Before they went in, Anya tugged gently at his sleeve.
His breath hitched.
“…Thanks for not freaking out,” she whispered.
“I freaked out the entire time,” he replied truthfully.
She smiled.
“That’s okay. I liked being stuck with you.”
Damian’s soul imploded.
He opened the door for her anyway.
Because apparently he was that far gone.
—————-
By the time they made it into class, Damian realised something horrifying.
They were late.
Damian Desmond. Late. LATE.
His father would feel the disturbance in the universe and materialize out of thin air to slap him back into punctuality.
“Oh. Crap,” Anya muttered as she scrambled forward. “We’re so dead.”
“You’re dead,” Damian corrected automatically, speed-walking like his honor depended on it. “I’m merely—delayed.”
“Delayed by five minutes because we were stuck in a closet together.”
“DO YOU WANT PEOPLE TO DIE FROM MISUNDERSTANDINGS TODAY—?!”
They reached the classroom door. Damian’s hand hovered over the handle. He shot her a
glare.
“No talking,” he hissed. “No giggling. No explaining. No breathing, if possible.”
Anya rolled her eyes. “Drama queen.”
He growled, swung open the door—
—and the room went silent.
Everyone was seated. The teacher paused mid-sentence. Becky’s eyes widened, scandalised. Ewen dropped his pen. Emile mouthed “bro???”
And just to make it worse, Anya’s hair was slightly mussed from the storage room.
And Damian’s collar was crooked.
Oh. Fantastic.
Perfect.
This was how his reputation died.
“Miss Forger? Mister Desmond?” the teacher said, eyebrow arching. “Care to explain why you’re both late?”
Before Anya could even inhale, Becky slammed her hand on the desk.
“They came in together,” she whispered loudly.
“We were gone for two minutes!” Anya whisper-shouted back, horrified.
Damian pinched the bridge of his nose.
And then—
Right on cue—
The class clown, Felix from the front row, smirked.
“Sooo… what were you two doing?” he sang.
The whole class snickered.
Anya shrank slightly, cheeks going warm, eyes darting everywhere except at Damian. She opened her mouth—
But this time, Damian didn’t let her speak.
He stepped forward, shoulders squared, voice sharp enough to slice stone.
“You will not talk about her like that.”
The room froze.
Damian didn’t yell.
He didn’t need to.
He used his Desmond heir voice—the one that sounded like power, legacy, and a threat wrapped in velvet.
Felix blinked. “I—I wasn’t—”
“Implying something," Damian finished coldly. "Yes, you were. Do not.”
Ewen let out a quiet “oh damn.”
Even the teacher sat back a little.
Anya stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
Damian didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. Not with his heart beating like it was trying to fight its way out.
“She tripped in the hallway,” he continued, tone clipped. “I helped her up. That is the beginning and end of your curiosity.”
Anya’s jaw dropped. He lied for her. He…defended her.
Out loud. To the entire class.
Felix swallowed. “Alright, alright—sorry.”
Damian nodded once, curt and lethal, then moved toward his seat like nothing happened.
Except everything happened.
As he passed by Anya, she tugged lightly on his sleeve.
He stiffened.
“…Damian,” she whispered, eyes soft, “you didn’t have to—”
“Sit down, forger,” he muttered, ears bright red.
She smiled.
Small, warm, devastating.
And for the first time in a very, very long time—
Damian Desmond felt proud of being late.
———-
Damian sat rigidly in his seat.
Back straight.
Hands folded.
Eyes forward.
He looked like the perfect model student.
Except his brain?
His brain was on fire.
Actually, no—his brain had packed a suitcase, written a will, and jumped out a window.
Because Anya Forger was sitting exactly one row ahead, slightly to the left, and he could still feel the warmth of her hand from the storage room.
And worse—
She kept looking back at him.
Not obviously.
Not dramatically.
Just little glances.
Little “is he okay?” glances.
Little “thank you for defending me” glances.
Little “I know you’re losing your mind right now” glances.
And Damian was.
Losing it.
Completely.
She touched me. She touched my hand.
I defended her like some knight in a cheesy romance novel. Why did I do that?
Why did she smile at me like that? I hate her. Except I don’t. Except I—OH GOD STOP THINKING.
He was sweating.
He never sweated.
Desmonds didn’t sweat.
Why was he sweating?!
Ewen leaned over. “Dude. Are you okay?”
“I AM FINE,” Damian snapped a little too fast, sounding exactly like someone who was not fine.
Ewen blinked. “You’re gripping your pencil like you want to strangle it.”
Damian looked down.
Oh.
He was strangling it.
The pencil now had a bend that violated multiple laws of physics.
“Mind your business,” he hissed, tossing the pencil aside before it broke.
Emile slid closer too, whispering, “Why did you go full royal-wrath-mode on Felix? Did something happen with Forger?”
Damian’s eye twitched.
“No,” he said.
Emile squinted. “Are you lying?”
“No.”
“…Are you about to pass out?”
Ewen nodded. “He looks like he’s about to pass out.”
“I AM NOT—”
And then it happened.
Anya turned around in her seat, leaned
slightly over the edge, and whispered—
“Damian.”
His name in front of everyone.
His actual name.
Not “ Desmond.”
Not an insult.
Just his name.
Soft.
Warm. Almost…fond.
Damian’s heart executed a full gymnastics routine.
His soul left his body, observed the scene from the ceiling, and said “wow, we’re embarrassing.”
“Wh-what?” he croaked, voice cracking like a stressed baby bird.
She held up something between her fingers.
A tiny, very poorly cut star sticker.
Pink.
Sparkly.
Shaped like joy.
“It fell off my notebook,” she whispered. “Can you pass it to Becky?”
Damian stared at her.
Stared at the stupid sticker.
Stared at her again.
Then—
He took it.
His fingers brushed hers.
He jolted like he touched an electric fence.
Ewen and Emile exchanged a silent, horrified “oh no he’s down bad” look.
Damian turned, shoved the sticker at Becky with the stiffness of a malfunctioning robot, then slumped back into his chair, covering his face with both hands.
He exhaled shakily.
He hated her.
He liked her.
He hated how much he liked her.
His heartbeat was so loud he couldn’t hear the teacher anymore.
He peeked between his fingers.
Anya had turned back around, humming softly and doodling in her notebook.
Completely oblivious to the destruction she left in her wake.
Damian rested his forehead on the desk.
He whispered into the wooden surface:
“I am so…so screwed.”