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The Eden Academy common room had never been this quiet.
Which, to be fair, meant it was only mostly quiet—punctuated by the scratch of pens, the low hum of the heater, and Ewen’s whispering commentary that he absolutely believed counted as “inside voice.”
“This couch is eating me alive,” Ewen muttered, slouching so far down his seat he looked like a discarded scarf.
“Shut up,” Damian hissed automatically, eyes glued to the stack of notes spread across the coffee table. “Some of us are trying to revise.”
Some of us, Anya thought, were pretending to revise while very obviously rereading the same sentence for the fifth time.
She sat on the far end of the couch opposite Damian, legs tucked under her, history textbook open but forgotten.
Her brain buzzed with far too many thoughts that had nothing to do with foreign policy treaties.
Group study session. Becky’s idea. Becky’s fault.
Becky Blackbell, seated cross-legged on the floor with a glittery pen she did not need, leaned over dramatically. “Anya, darling, your face says you’ve astral projected again.”
“I’m listening,” Anya said, affronted. “Just… quietly.”
Damian snorted before he could stop himself.
He froze.
Why did he snort.
Why was he reacting.
Why was she looking at him like that—head tilted, curious, soft—
Focus.
Study.
Imperial Scholar responsibilities. Legacy.
Father.
And definitely not the fact that Anya Forger smelled faintly like strawberry shampoo and warm laundry because she’d claimed the couch first.
He shifted slightly, shoulder brushing hers.
Anya stiffened for half a second.
Oh.
Oh no.
Her brain promptly malfunctioned.
It was nothing.
Just a shoulder.
Very normal.
Very platonic.
She did not need to think about how warm he was or how his posture had relaxed just a bit instead of pulling away.
She didn’t move.
Damian noticed.
His heart attempted to escape his ribcage.
She didn’t move.
So he… also didn’t move.
This was fine.
This was absolutely fine.
He could handle this.
He had faced down examiners, nobles, and his father’s disapproval.
A shared couch was nothing.
Then Anya yawned.
It was small, barely contained, but contagious enough that Damian’s jaw cracked open before he could stop it.
“No sleeping!” Becky sang. “This is a study session.”
“Tell that to my soul,” Emile muttered, face down on his notebook.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
The heater hummed louder.
The lights felt warmer.
Pages went unread.
Anya’s head dipped forward once.
Twice.
Damian felt it when her temple gently
knocked against his shoulder.
Every muscle in his body locked.
She’s asleep.
She’s actually asleep.
What do I do.
Move her?
Wake her?
If I move she’ll wake up.
If I don’t move—why am I not moving.
Her weight settled, light but undeniable, cheek resting against him.
Anya’s thoughts were fuzzy, dreamlike. Couch comfy.
Damian warm.
This is nice.
She slept.
Damian stared straight ahead, soul leaving his body in slow motion.
Okay. Okay. Breathe.
Don’t move. Do not—do not—let anyone notice.
Across the room, Becky noticed immediately.
Her eyes sparkled with the light of chaos.
She slowly, silently, reached into her bag.
Camera out.
Click.
Another angle.
Click.
“Oh my GOD,” Becky whisper-screeched. “They’re asleep.”
Ewen looked up.
Took one look.
Screamed.
“DESMOND IS BEING USED AS A PILLOW—”
Damian jolted.
Anya shifted but didn’t wake, only burrowing closer with a soft sigh.
Damian died.
Spiritually.
Instantly.
“SHUT UP,” Damian stage-whispered, face burning. “What is wrong with you?!”
“You didn’t move,” Emile said, awe-struck. “You could’ve moved.”
“I—” Damian opened his mouth, then closed it.
Because yes.
He could have moved.
But he hadn’t.
Becky was already scrolling through photos.
“This one’s going in the vault. For blackmail. And the wedding slideshow.”
“There will be no wedding slideshow,”
Damian snapped.
Anya stirred at the word wedding, brow
furrowing briefly, but she stayed asleep.
Damian’s heart tried to explode again.
She’s so close. I can feel her breathing.
Don’t look down. If you look down, you’re doomed.
He looked down.
Big mistake.
Her face was relaxed in sleep, lashes resting against her cheeks, mouth slightly open.
She looked younger somehow, softer, nothing like the sharp, teasing girl who beat him in half their classes.
Something warm and terrifying bloomed in his chest.
I don’t hate this, he realised.
That realisation scared him more than Becky’s camera roll.
“Should we wake them?” Ewen asked, suddenly whispering.
“No,” Becky said. “This is art.”
Minutes ticked by.
Anya shifted again, hand brushing Damian’s sleeve.
Her fingers curled there unconsciously.
Inside her dreams, warmth.
Safe.
Familiar.
Damian.
She smiled faintly.
Damian nearly passed out.
This is it.
This is how I die.
Suffocated by feelings.
When Anya finally woke, it was slow. Gentle.
Her eyes blinked open, unfocused.
She registered warmth first.
Then the very solid reality of Damian Desmond beneath her cheek.
She froze.
Oh.
Oh no.
She lifted her head slightly.
Their eyes met.
For a split second, the world stopped.
Neither spoke.
Then Becky’s camera clicked again.
Anya screamed.
Damian yelped.
They sprang apart like startled cats, both standing at once.
“How long,” Anya demanded, mortified, “was I asleep.”
“Long enough,” Becky said cheerfully.
Damian cleared his throat, adjusting his jacket like his dignity hadn’t just been emotionally obliterated. “You—uh—you fell asleep. I didn’t want to—move you.”
Anya blinked.
“You didn’t?”
He shook his head, cheeks pink. “Didn’t seem… right.”
Her chest did something weird.
“Oh,” she said softly.
Ewen grinned. “So… same couch next session?”
“No,” Damian said immediately.
“Yes,” Anya said at the same time.
They glanced at each other.
Neither looked away.
And neither of them, this time, minded at all.