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Damian Desmond was seven years old the first time he truly understood envy.
It wasn’t about money—he had more than he could ever spend in a lifetime. It wasn’t about toys or attention. It was about something far simpler, and yet infinitely more complicated: it was about the ease with which Becky Blackbell could wrap her arms around Anya Forger.
Just like that. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Anya!” Becky would sprint across the Eden Academy courtyard, her brown hair bouncing in the sun, and throw herself at the pink-haired girl who always seemed to be in another world. Anya would stumble from the impact, but smile—that genuine smile that made something twist uncomfortably in Damian’s chest.
He watched from his spot beside Ewen and Emile, pretending not to pay attention, but his hazel eyes tracked every movement. Becky could hold her hand during lunch, hug her when they said goodbye, sit so close their shoulders touched.
And nobody found it strange.
Nobody raised an eyebrow.
Nobody whispered.
I want to be there, Damian thought, even when he didn’t fully understand what that “there” meant. He just knew Becky had something he didn’t: unquestioned, unrestricted access to Anya Forger.
“Lord Damian, are you alright?” Ewen’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.
“Of course I am,” he replied more sharply than necessary, looking away from where Becky was hugging Anya by the swings.
Damian and Anya’s friendship had blossomed unexpectedly, like wildflowers in concrete cracks. After years of denial, of “it’s not like I care” and “we’re just classmates,” something changed.
Maybe it was the school project that forced them to work together for two weeks. Maybe it was when Anya, at seventeen and with fewer filters than ever, told him directly, “Damian’s a good friend, even if he’s a grumpy.”
Whatever it was, it worked.
Now Damian could sit beside her at lunch. He could lend her his jacket when it was cold. He could walk her home some days, when their schedules aligned.
But still.
Still, Becky was the first person Anya called. The first to know her worries. The one who got the late-night texts and the whispered confessions.
And Damian, who had learned to cherish what he had rather than lament what he didn’t, decided to be the best friend he could possibly be to Anya.
If he couldn’t be first, he would at least be important.
Anya noticed the differences.
Becky and Damian were, in many ways, similar: both came from extremely wealthy families, both had brown hair and golden eyes. and that aura of “superiority” that terrified many. Both had built emotional armor to protect themselves from the world around them.
It was almost like having two Beckys—one who loved soap operas and one who preferred soccer. One who helped her with national language and one who helped with history.
But there were differences Anya couldn’t ignore.
Damian’s hands were bigger. She noticed it every time he helped her up, or when they played rock-paper-scissors to decide who paid for dessert. His fingers were long, his palms warm and rough from training.
He was taller too—she no longer had to stand on her tiptoes to reach him when whispering secrets in his ear, but now he had to lean down slightly to hear her.
It was comfortable. It was familiar.
But when Damian’s mother saw them sitting together in the library, Anya caught her thoughts: “They make such a lovely couple. Perhaps in the future…”
Anya quickly pulled her telepathy away from Mrs. Desmond’s mind, blushing without fully understanding why.
Something could happen.
Something she didn’t fully comprehend, but felt approaching like a storm on the horizon.
Adolescence made everything more complicated.
Anya could no longer sit in Damian’s lap like she did as a child—it felt… different now. Weird. Her heart would beat too fast and her cheeks would heat up for no apparent reason.
When she grabbed his waist in crowded subways, (The times when her friends decided to "go out like normal kids" and Anya would go with them.) It wasn’t the same as with Becky. With Becky it was natural, thoughtless. With Damian, she was conscious of every inch of contact, the solidness of his body, the scent of his cologne.
She wasn’t sure exactly when it started. Or maybe she did know, but didn’t want to admit it.
It began with curiosity—with noticing how their hands interlocked differently than with Becky’s. With wondering why her pulse quickened when Damian leaned close to show her something on his phone.
What would it feel like to kiss him?
The thought appeared one afternoon while they studied in the library. Anya glanced sideways at him: Damian was focused on his economics textbook, brow slightly furrowed, biting his lower lip unconsciously.
It wasn’t like Becky’s soap operas, with dramatic music and tearful confessions. It was simpler than that.
It was curiosity. Pure and simple curiosity about the difference between a boy and a girl, between a friend and… something more.
And the familiarity she felt with him—that sense of safety and comfort they’d built over years—made the curiosity seem less frightening.
It happened in Damian’s room, during a spring afternoon when they were supposedly studying for finals.
Anya had taken the curiosity too far, leaning toward him with a question on her lips that never formed because, instead, she kissed him.
Simple. Direct. Without preamble.
Damian froze for three full seconds before responding, his hands finding Anya’s waist almost by instinct. The kiss was clumsy at first—awkward and uncoordinated—but they quickly found a rhythm that worked.
When they broke apart, breathing softly, Anya watched Damian’s hazel eyes open with surprise and something else—something dark and hungry that made her stomach flip.
“Anya…” he began, his voice rough.
But she kissed him again, more confidently this time, and her fingers found the buttons of his school shirt with a determination she didn’t know she possessed.
Clothing became an annoying obstacle. Damian’s hands were warm against her skin, his lips left trails of fire along her neck. Somehow they ended up on the bed, Damian above her, his weight pleasant and real.
And Anya discovered she liked it. A lot.
Damian Desmond had become, officially and unofficially, Anya Forger’s favorite friend.
They spent time together constantly—more than before, even. They studied together (though they studied less and got distracted more). They ate lunch together. They texted late into the night.
Anya never imagined a “best friend” could be… so different from Becky.
Constantly, Damian left her exhausted, with messy hair and flushed cheeks, with marks on her neck she had to cover with foundation and scarves. With a deep sense of satisfaction in her bones that made her want to curl up against him and sleep for hours.
They were exploring together, learning with a shared urgency, trying everything they could within the safe confines of their intimacy.
“I don’t understand,” Becky said one afternoon as they had tea in her room. Anya had arrived late, her hair more disheveled than usual and a particular shine in her eyes. “Since when are you so… close with Damian?”
Anya almost choked on her tea. “Huh? We’ve always been friends.”
“Yes, but lately it’s different.” Becky watched her with those overly perceptive light brown eyes. “You spend more time with him than with me. You smile more when he texts. Yesterday I saw him drop you off and… I don’t know, Anya. It seems like he’s becoming your favorite person.”
Anya felt heat rise up her neck. It wasn’t that Becky was wrong, but how could she explain that Damian had become something completely different for her? That she’d discovered familiarity could transform into something new and exciting?
“Becky is my best friend,” she finally said, taking her friend’s hand. “That will never change.”
“But Damian is… what, exactly?” Becky insisted, with a mix of curiosity and what might be jealousy in her voice.
Anya thought of Damian’s big hands holding her. Of his kisses that left her breathless. Of how he was now the first to receive her calls, the first to know her worries.
I finally have that special place with someone, she thought. And he has that special place with me.
“He’s… different,” Anya replied softly. “Damian is different.”
And as Becky frowned, clearly unsatisfied with the vague answer, Anya felt her phone vibrate with a message.
Damian:Free tonight?
She smiled without meaning to, her fingers already typing an affirmative response.
Yes, Damian had become her favorite friend.
But they both knew “friend” was no longer the right word for what they were.