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The ballroom prep room is too small.
Too warm.
Too filled with the sound of Anya Forger humming to herself as she stands way too close to Damian Desmond, fingers on his collar, pretending to “fix” his tie.
He has no clue why she insisted on helping him. His tie wasn’t even crooked.
His life was crooked, maybe, but the tie? Perfect.
But then she stepped in front of him, grabbed the knot with gentle fingers, and murmured, “Hold still,” and suddenly Damian forgot how to breathe.
Her fingertips skim too close to his throat.
He swallows.
She notices.
She smiles.
Dangerous.
“You’re really bad at standing still,” she says softly.
“That’s because,” he mutters, “you’re—You’re—”
She raises a brow.
“I’m… what?”
Damian clenches his fists.
Beautiful. Distracting. Impossible. Mine—
He clears his throat.
“Never mind.”
She tugs the tie, and as she leans in, her wrist brushes the side of his neck.
It’s barely a touch.
Barely a whisper of skin on skin.
But Damian jolts like she’s set him on fire.
His hand shoots up on instinct and grabs her wrist.
“Don’t.”
The word comes out low. Strained. Nothing like anger.
More like a warning.
More like a plea.
Anya freezes, stunned.
“Damian…?”
He should let go.
He doesn’t.
Her wrist is warm. His pulse is pounding under her fingertips. Her breath fans his cheek. There is no space, no air, no distance.
And her eyes—wide, curious, bright—study him like she’s seeing something no one else ever has.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“You can’t…” Damian swallows hard. “You can’t touch me there.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m—”
He breaks off, jaw tightening.
“What? Ticklish?” she teases lightly.
He looks at her like she just held a match to gasoline.
“Please,” he whispers, too raw, too honest, “don’t test me like that.”
Anya stares at him.
Then — because she is Anya Forger and chaos incarnate — she slides her fingers back up, deliberately tracing the same place.
The exact same spot.
Soft. Slow. Intentionally gentle.
A feather-light touch, right under his jaw.
“Like this?” she whispers.
Damian stops breathing.
Then he breaks.
It’s not dramatic — it’s terrifyingly quiet, the way his composure shatters. His hand leaves her wrist only so he can cup her jaw instead. His other hand finds her waist like it’s been waiting to touch her forever.
“Anya,” he says, voice shaking, “don’t do that unless you—unless you know what you’re doing.”
She tries to smirk. “And what am I doing?”
He looks at her lips.
She forgets how to breathe.
“You’re driving me insane,” he says, barely audible. “You have no idea what you’re—”
“I do,” she whispers.
He goes still.
Every line of him tightens. His fingers press firmer into her waist. His eyes flick to hers—question, warning, desire, fear—everything tangled at once.
And Anya?
She tips her chin up, just a little.
Just enough to ruin him completely.
“Damian,” she murmurs, “kiss me.”
He doesn’t move for one second.
Then—
He snaps.
He kisses her like he’s been holding himself back for years.
His hand slides to the back of her neck, pulling her in. He traces her neck with his lips. Her back hits the table behind them with a soft thud.
His mouth is warm, desperate, rough in the gentlest possible way. Not rushed — just full. Intense.
Like he’s wanted this so long he doesn’t know how to be careful.
Anya gasps against him, fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer. The sound she makes—soft, surprised, wanting—undoes him.
The kiss deepens.
His thumb sweeps under her jaw exactly where she’d touched him.
“See?” he mutters against her lips. “This is what happens.”
“Damian—”
He swallows the rest with another kiss.
He’s not calm. He’s not composed. He’s not the Damian Desmond the world knows.
He’s the boy who’s been quietly in love with her forever.
And she can feel it in every second.
When he finally pulls back, he’s breathless.
Ruined.
Her lipstick is smudged. His tie is crooked. Their chests rise and fall in sync.
She opens her mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Damian stares at her — flushed, shaken, eyes burning — like he’s trying to memorize her before she disappears.
Then, too fast for her to grab him, he steps away.
“Don’t… touch my neck again,” he says, voice unsteady, “unless you want me to do that.”
She’s still pressed against the table, stunned.
He runs a shaky hand through his hair.
“I—I need a minute,” he mutters. “Before the event. To… cool down. Or breathe. Or something.”
He turns toward the door.
Stops.
Looks back at her.
And she’s still staring at him like he just turned her entire world inside-out.
His voice drops.
“… Please stop looking at me like that.”
“I’m not looking at you like anything,” she whispers.
“You’re looking at me,” he says, “like you want me to kiss you again.”
Her pulse spikes so hard she sways.
Damian grips the doorknob like it’s the only thing keeping him from going back to her.
“Don’t tempt me,” he whispers.
He leaves.
The door clicks shut.
Anya slides down the table to a shaky sit, burying her burning face in her hands.
“Oh my god.”
Her fingers touch her lips.
She’s still breathless.
“Oh. My. God.”
And outside the door, Damian is leaning against the wall—eyes closed, hand over his heart, whispering, “What did I just do—?!”
—————————
THE NEXT DAY…
Anya and Damian avoided each other like the plague.
Which was impressive, considering they were in the same hallway, the same classes, the same group, and shared a gravitational pull stronger than every science textbook had ever prepared them for.
The day after the kiss, they didn’t speak. They didn’t bicker.
They didn’t insult each other.
Which horrified their friends.
Becky whispered aggressively at lunchtime, “Why are they being civil? WHAT HAPPENED? Did someone die? Did they die? Is this an afterlife simulation?!”
Ewen gasped. “Maybe they finally murdered each other.”
Emile gasped louder. “MAYBE THEY KISSED.”
Becky choked on her juice.
“No. They would never.”
Anya coughed violently on her water.
Damian dropped his fork.
All three friends gasped.
“AHA!” Emile pointed dramatically.
“NOTHING HAPPENED!” Anya and Damian
shouted at the same time.
Which definitely made it seem like something happened.
For two days, they circled each other like planets in orbit — technically never touching, but always drawn in.
Damian stared at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.
Anya stared when she knew he wasn’t looking.
Except…
They always caught each other.
Damian would glance up from his book — she’d whip her head away.
Anya would look over her shoulder — he’d snap his gaze to the window.
They made eye contact in the hallway once and BOTH immediately turned to the
nearest wall like it would save them.
But the real danger?
When they got caught staring at the same
time.
A staring contest would erupt. Neither looked away.
Their friends waved hands in front of their faces — nothing.
One time Becky snapped her fingers between them. “HELLO? EARTH TO DUMB AND DUMBER? SNAP OUT OF IT!”
No reaction.
Not even a blink.
It was a problem.
And now—
Now they sat in the dimly lit Language Studies classroom, the teacher droning on about ancient linguistics, symbols, usage, syntax, blah blah—
Damian wasn’t listening.
He was busy watching the back of Anya Forger’s head like it was the only media he consumed.
Her pink hair swayed slightly every time she shifted.
Her shoulders were tense, too tense, like she was hyper-aware of his attention.
Because she was.
He knew she felt him. He saw her grip her pen tighter. Saw the way she straightened in her seat, probably trying to pretend she wasn’t melting.
He wanted to stop staring.
But he couldn’t.
Because now that he knew what she tasted like, what she sounded like when she gasped into his mouth, what her breath felt like against his cheek—
Damian Desmond was doomed.
He tried to look at the board.
He failed.
He looked at her again.
Her neck was visible from where her hair parted.
The same neck he kissed. The same neck he touched first.
Something inside him twisted.
He swallowed.
Hard.
She shifted again, just a slight turn, but enough that he could see the faintest sliver of her profile.
Her lips—
Nope. No. Forbidden. Illegal. Dangerous.
He looked away again—
Then immediately looked back.
Anya stared at her notebook, pretending to take notes.
She had not written a single real word.
Her entire page was just:
This is fine.
I’m fine.
Everything is normal.
Stop staring at me.
Actually don’t stop.
HELP.
Because she could feel him.
Every stare.
Every centimeter of attention.
Burning into her skin.
She didn’t dare turn around—
But her traitorous body leaned back slightly, just enough to feel the air shift.
Just enough to sense him against her spine.
She didn’t hate it.
She really, really didn’t hate it.
Twenty more agonising minutes passed.
Then—
Damian leaned forward.
Not enough to make it obvious.
Just enough that his breath brushed the back of her neck when he whispered:
“Stop pretending you’re not thinking about it.”
Anya froze.
Absolutely froze.
Her pen slipped from her hand.
Her heartbeat punched through her chest.
She didn’t turn around.
She didn’t trust herself to.
“Damian…” she whispered back, barely moving her lips, “we’re in class.”
“I know,” he murmured.
“And you keep looking at me like you want me to do something reckless.”
She squeezed her notebook until it crumpled.
The teacher kept droning on.
Anya whispered through gritted teeth, “I am not looking at you.”
“You looked at me eight times since the lesson started.”
She gasped softly. “I— I did not—”
Damian leaned closer.
His lips were near her ear.
“I counted.”
Her spine turned molten.
“Stop,” she whispered, “or someone will hear—”
“Then stop staring at me,” he breathed.
Her breath hitched.
She didn’t answer.
She didn’t breathe.
She didn’t move.
Because Damian’s hand brushed the very
edge of her chair — not touching her.
Not quite.
But close enough that she felt the heat.
“Damian…” she whispered, barely audible, barely functioning.
Then he whispered her name.
“Anya.”
Her pulse crashed.
A second later—
Her chair scraped.
She stood up abruptly.
The teacher stopped mid-sentence.
“Miss Forger? Everything alright?”
Damian jolted upright too, like she was a magnet he had no choice but to react to.
Classmates stared.
Becky, Emile, and Ewen immediately perked up like predators smelling drama.
Anya’s voice cracked.
“I— um— bathroom—!”
She bolted.
Like actually bolted.
The class burst into whispers.
The teacher sighed and resumed the lesson.
Damian lasted exactly thirty seconds before standing abruptly too.
“Sir, may I… also go to the bathroom?”
Whispers intensified into feral chaos.
“YES. DRAMA,” Ewen hissed.
“THEY’RE GONNA KISS AGAIN,” Emile whispered loudly.
Becky practically vibrated. “GO, DAMIAN, GO!”
Damian ignored them and walked out.
Except—
Once the door shut behind him, he didn’t walk.
He ran.
Anya leaned against the cold wall, breathing hard.
Trying desperately to pull herself together.
But she didn’t stand a chance.
Because a second later, Damian turned the corner, saw her—
And stopped like he’d been punched.
Their eyes met.
A beat.
A spark.
A pull.
An inevitability.
“Anya,” he whispered, breathless.
And she whispered—
“Don’t.”
But it was the same way he had said it yesterday.
Not a warning.
A dare.
Damian’s resolve shattered in an instant.
He stepped forward.
Grabbed her waist.
Pressed her to the wall.
And kissed her again —
Hotter.
Deeper.
Zero hesitation.
The kind of kiss that says avoiding you was impossible.