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The gym smelled like rubber mats and citrus cleaner, the sharpness of it still clinging to the air long after the last whistle blew.
Students filtered out in noisy clusters, laughing, groaning, shoving one another toward the locker rooms.
Damian Desmond sat alone on the lowest bench near the equipment rack, jaw tight, pride wounded far more than his shoulder.
He’d tripped during drills—sloppy footing, someone else’s elbow—and scraped himself against the wall.
It wasn’t bad.
He’d already decided that much. Just a stupid scrape. Barely anything.
Unfortunately, Anya Forger had seen it.
“Take off your shirt,” she said, flatly.
Damian blinked. “W–What?!”
She stood in front of him, hands on her hips, pink hair tied back from PE, eyes sharper than usual. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing,” he snapped, instinctively pulling his gym shirt tighter around himself.
“I don’t need—”
“You’re bleeding,” she repeated, slower this time, as if speaking to a particularly stubborn child. “And you’re bad at pretending you’re not hurt.”
His face flamed. “I am not!”
Anya leaned closer, peering at his shoulder where a faint red stain had already spread through the thin fabric.
Her voice softened despite herself. “Damian. It’s going to get infected if you don’t clean it.”
He swallowed.
There were a thousand things he could say.
A dozen excuses he could hide behind.
Pride, reputation, the fact that half the school whispered about his name like it was something fragile and expensive.
None of them worked when Anya looked at him like that.
“…Fine,” he muttered.
He tugged the shirt up and over his head, movements stiff and awkward, and folded it into his lap like it was a shield.
Cool air brushed over his skin, raising goosebumps.
Anya froze.
She hadn’t expected—well. She had. Obviously.
But knowing and seeing were very different things.
Damian sat there shirtless, shoulders tense, collarbones sharp, the scrape along his upper arm angrier than it had looked through fabric.
His ears were red. He refused to look at her, eyes fixed stubbornly on the far wall.
“Sit still,” she said, a little breathless despite herself.
She grabbed the small first-aid kit from her bag—leftover habit from years of being overly prepared—and knelt in front of him.
The gym suddenly felt too quiet, every sound magnified: the rustle of gauze, the click of the disinfectant cap, the soft hitch of his breathing.
Her hands shook.
She noticed immediately, annoyed at herself. Get it together. It’s just a shoulder. A dumb, annoying, surprisingly warm shoulder.
She dabbed the disinfectant onto the gauze and brought it closer.
Damian flinched when she touched him.
“S–Sorry,” she said instantly.
“I’m fine,” he lied, voice tight. “Just…do it.”
She pressed the gauze gently against the scrape. He hissed under his breath, muscles jumping beneath her fingers.
The contact sent a strange awareness through both of them—her touch careful, his skin sensitive, the space between them suddenly electric.
Neither spoke.
Anya focused hard on the task, eyes tracing the line of the scrape, the rise and fall of his chest.
She was very aware of how close she was.
Too close.
Close enough to feel his warmth, to smell soap and sweat and something unmistakably him.
Damian, meanwhile, was fighting a losing battle not to look at her.
Her brow was furrowed in concentration. Her lips were parted just slightly.
A loose strand of pink hair had escaped her tie and brushed her cheek.
Every time she leaned in, his heart slammed harder against his ribs.
This was a terrible idea.
“Y–You don’t have to—” he started.
“Hold still,” she said, firmer now.
He did.
Her thumb brushed his skin accidentally as she adjusted the gauze.
The contact was brief, but it lingered like a spark. Damian’s breath stuttered. Anya noticed.
Her eyes flicked up to his face.
Their gazes met.
The world narrowed.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The gym, the school, everything else faded into background noise.
There was only this—his eyes wide and uncertain, hers searching and a little too aware.
“You’re staring,” he blurted.
“So are you,” she shot back.
He looked away immediately, mortified. “I’m not!”
She smiled despite herself, small and soft. “You’re really bad at lying.”
Her hands steadied as she finished cleaning the scrape, though her pulse hadn’t slowed. She taped the gauze in place, fingers lingering just a second too long.
“All done,” she murmured.
Damian exhaled, relief and something else tangled together. “Thanks.”
She nodded, then hesitated. The space between them felt charged, unfinished.
“You should…uh. Avoid PE for a couple days,” she said. “At least until it heals.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Right.”
He reached for his shirt, then paused.
“Anya?”
“Yeah?”
“…You were shaking.”
Her cheeks warmed. “You noticed.”
“Hard not to,” he muttered, then winced. “I mean—not in a bad way. I just—”
She cut him off by leaning forward.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rushed. Just a quiet decision.
Her lips brushed his cheek, light as a breath.
Damian froze completely.
She pulled back just as quickly, heart pounding. “That was—um. For being brave.”
His face went redder than ever. “I—I wasn’t brave!”
She smiled again, brighter this time. “Sure you were.”
He stared at her, stunned, then laughed—soft, disbelieving. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “You’re welcome.”
She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder, then paused at the door. “Don’t take the bandage off tonight.”
“I won’t,” he promised.
When she left, Damian sat there for a long moment, fingers brushing the gauze on his shoulder.
It still tingled.
So did everything else.