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Eden Academy under the March twilight had that orange glow that turned even the most severe buildings into something almost romantic. Almost. Because for Damian Desmond, sixteen years old and carrying the weight of Ostania's most important surname on his shoulders, there was nothing romantic about this building that had been his prison for a decade.
He walked through the east wing hallway with Ewen and Emile flanking him like they had for years, though lately something had shifted in their dynamic. They no longer laughed at his biting comments. They no longer joined in his teasing. They just... walked. In silence.
"Are you going to the student committee meeting?" Ewen asked cautiously, like he was stepping through a minefield.
Damian didn't even look at him. "Obviously. I'm the class representative."
"Anya's going to be there too," Emile murmured, and the silence that followed was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
The name. That damn name that made something in his chest twist in a way he'd been denying, suppressing, burying under layers and layers of feigned indifference and calculated cruelty for years.
"And?" The word came out sharper than he intended.
His friends exchanged one of those looks. Those damn looks full of pity that Damian hated with every fiber of his being because they meant they knew. That they saw through him in a way no one else could. That they'd witnessed his slow, painful self-destruction for years.
"Nothing," Ewen said finally, with that sadness in his voice that lately seemed to be his default tone when they talked about her. "Nothing at all."
Damian remembered with painful clarity the exact moment everything went wrong.
He was eleven. She was ten, though she always lied and said she was his age with that mischievous smile that made his heart beat too fast. It was an afternoon after school and she'd run toward him with something in her hands—a badly made origami dog that was supposed to be Bond.
"Sy-on boy! Look what I made! Becky says it's horrible, but I think it's cute."
He'd smiled. Actually smiled, not that mask he wore for the rest of the world. He was going to take the origami, say something—he didn't know what, but something that wasn't cruel—when his father's voice echoed in his memory like a whip.
"The Desmond name doesn't mix with just anyone, Damian. Especially not with the daughter of a middle-class psychiatrist and a simple municipal employee. Do you understand me?"
The words had burned themselves into his brain with fire. And then there were the rumors—poisonous whispers from other students about how "inappropriate" it was for Donovan Desmond's second son to spend so much time with "that weird girl."
So instead of taking the origami, he'd said: "It's pathetic. Like you."
The way her smile had faded was like watching a light go out. And Damian knew, with a certainty that made him sick, that he'd crossed a line from which there was no return.
But he kept crossing it. Again and again. For years.
At sixteen, Anya Forger had become someone Damian barely recognized.
She was still short—irritatingly short, which meant when they argued (which happened with alarming frequency) he had to tilt his head down to glare at each other properly. But everything else had changed.
She no longer wore her hair in those childish pigtails. Now she wore it loose, falling in pink waves to her shoulders, framing a face that had lost all its childhood softness. Her green eyes—those damn eyes that had haunted him in dreams for years—held a depth that wasn't there before. Like she'd seen too much, known too much, and decided that sweetness was a luxury she could no longer afford.
She was popular. Painfully popular. Where Damian was respected for his surname, Anya was loved for her personality. Always surrounded by people, always laughing, always organizing something.
And never, ever including him.
She didn't look at him unless absolutely necessary. She didn't greet him in hallways. When they worked on group projects (because fate or some cruel god seemed to enjoy torturing him), she was professional, efficient, and completely distant. Like he was furniture. An obstacle to be navigated around.
It was unbearable.
What was worse—much worse—was that she'd developed a special talent for driving him absolutely crazy with seemingly innocent comments that weren't innocent at all.
"Oh, Desmond," she'd said last week during a student committee meeting, with that smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I heard you turned down being a tutor for the first-years. Is it because you're afraid of being seen being nice to someone? It must be exhausting maintaining that facade all the time."
He'd clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. "It's not a facade. I simply have standards that most people can't meet."
"Standards," she'd repeated, testing the word like it was something bitter. "That's an interesting way to describe your issues."
And then she'd left, leaving him boiling with a rage that was almost indistinguishable from another emotion he refused to name.
But the worst—what was really killing him inside—was that she knew.
He didn't know how or when she'd figured it out, but Anya Forger knew exactly what she did to him. Every comment was surgically designed to destabilize him. Every look was a challenge. Every smile was a mockery.
And he, like the idiot he was, kept falling for the trap every single time.
Like that time she'd started dating some guy from Class B. A brainless idiot named Thomas who didn't have a fraction of Anya's intellect but was apparently "fun" and "relaxed"—everything Damian supposedly wasn't.
It lasted exactly two weeks.
Damian knew exactly what happened (a "casual" conversation here, an insinuation about Thomas' family history there, maybe mentioning that the Desmond family had... influence in certain circles), but Thomas suddenly decided it was better to be friends.
After that there were others. An exchange student from Westalis. A member of the tennis team. A guy from the music club who played violin.
None lasted more than a month.
And Anya never said anything, but sometimes—when she thought he wasn't looking (though he was always looking, always, it was pathological)—he'd catch her watching him with an expression he couldn't decipher. Like she was waiting for something. Or preparing for something.
The breaking point came on a Tuesday afternoon.
Damian was in the library, reviewing material for his thesis on Ostania's economic policy, when Anya materialized on the other side of his table. She didn't sit down. She just stood there, arms crossed, with that look that lately seemed to see straight through him.
"I need to talk to you," she said without preamble.
"I'm busy."
"I don't give a damn."
That made him look up. She never cursed openly—not with him, at least. She was too careful, too controlled for that.
"What do you want, Forger?"
"I want you to stop sabotaging my love life."
The book he was holding nearly slipped from his hands. What?
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, please." Her laugh was like glass breaking. "Kevin from the debate club suddenly decides to transfer after you two 'talked.' Brian starts avoiding me after that dinner where your family was present. And don't get me started on what happened to Thomas."
Damian felt something hot and horrible rising in his throat. "Maybe they just realized you weren't worth it."
The slap that should have come never did. Instead, Anya leaned over the table, bringing her face close to his until he could count each of her eyelashes.
"You know what I think, Desmond?" Her voice was barely a whisper, but it had the edge of a knife. "I think you have forbidden feelings. I think you've been torturing yourself for years over something you'll never admit. I think you're a coward hiding behind your surname because the alternative—being honest with yourself—terrifies you."
Damian's heart was pounding so hard he was sure she could hear it. "You're delusional."
"Am I?" She tilted her head, studying him like a laboratory specimen. "Then look me in the eyes and tell me you don't think about me. Tell me you don't care who I date. Tell me that if I disappeared tomorrow, it wouldn't affect you at all."
He opened his mouth. The words were there, the perfectly formulated lies, but they stuck in his throat like glass.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
Finally, Anya straightened up, and the expression on her face was a mixture of bitter triumph and something that looked dangerously like disappointment.
"That's what I thought," she murmured. And then, with one last look that pierced him like an arrow: "You're pathetic, Damian. And not the way I was when I was six. You're pathetic in the way that actually matters."
She left before he could find his voice. Left him alone in the library, with his heart shattered and his mind screaming denials that no longer sounded convincing even to his own ears.
Two days later, Damian received a message.
*Classroom 3-B. 6 PM. We need to talk about the comparative literature project. —A.F.*
He should have known something was wrong. Anya never sought him out. Never initiated contact. And she definitely never asked him to meet in an empty classroom after hours.
But he went anyway, because he was an idiot and because a part of him—that pathetic part that had been there since he was six years old and she'd punched him—would always answer when she called.
Classroom 3-B was in the north wing, far from the main routes. When he arrived, she was already there, leaning against the teacher's desk with a posture too casual to be sincere.
"You're late," she said without looking at him.
"You're annoying," he responded automatically, and then internally cursed himself because why couldn't he just talk to her like a normal person?
"Close the door."
He obeyed without thinking, and it was only when he heard the click of the latch that he realized his mistake.
He turned to her, pulse accelerating. "What—"
"There is no project, I know you know it" Anya said simply. "I lied to you."
Damian felt a wave of something—fury, panic, anticipation, he wasn't sure. "Why the hell would you do that?"
"Because I needed to have you alone. Without Ewen and Emile as shields. Without pressure from other students. Just you and me and all the crap you've been avoiding for years."
He tried to move toward the door, but she moved with surprising speed, blocking his path. And it was then that he really looked at her—really saw her—and realized there was something different in her eyes. Something dark and determined that made him take an involuntary step back.
"Move, Forger."
"No."
"I don't have time for your games."
"Oh, but you do." Her smile showed all her teeth. "You have all the time in the world to sabotage my life. To follow me. To make sure no one gets too close. But facing what you actually feel? For that you never have time."
"I don't know what you're talking about!" His voice came out higher than intended, almost hysterical.
"You don't?" She took a step toward him, and he backed up until his back hit the wall. "Then why do you have photos of me hidden in your room?"
The world stopped.
No. No, no, no. How...?
"How do I know?" Anya completed his thought as if she could read it (and for one terrifying second, he almost believed she could). "Because I know you, Damian Desmond. I know you better than you know yourself. I know you think about me when you think no one's watching. I know that every time you act like a jerk, you regret it inside. I know you're obsessed."
"You're crazy," he managed to say, though his voice sounded strangled.
"Maybe." She moved closer, invading his personal space in a way that made his brain stop functioning properly. "But at least I'm not a coward."
"I'm not—"
"Shut up."
And then she was there, her hand on his chin, tilting his face down so their eyes met. There was no softness in her touch. No affection like he'd fantasized about in moments of weakness. Only iron determination and something that looked like revenge.
"I've waited years," she said quietly, "for you to stop being an idiot. To be honest. To fight for what you want instead of destroying it because your daddy says you have to."
"Anya..." It was the first time he'd said her name in years. It sounded broken on his lips.
"But I think I've waited long enough."
And then she kissed him.
The kiss wasn't sweet. It wasn't romantic. It was almost violent in its intensity—a collision of lips and teeth and years of pent-up frustration.
Damian froze for one eternal second, his brain trying to process what was happening, and then—God—he responded. His hands found her waist without permission, pulling her closer, and she made a low sound in her throat that nearly destroyed him.
When they finally pulled apart, he was trembling. "Anya, we can't—"
"Why not?"
"Because I... my father... people are going to..."
"People are going to what?" Her voice was like steel. "Talk? Judge? They already do, Damian. They already think what they think. The difference is that if you do this—if you choose me—at least it'll be real."
"I can't." The words came out broken. "I can't be what you want. I can't be brave enough to—"
She interrupted him with another kiss. And then another. And another. Each one more desperate than the last, like she was trying to erase years of distance through sheer physical contact.
Damian's thoughts were chaos. This is wrong. This is right. I want her. I can't have her. I've wanted her since I was six. I'm going to ruin this. I already ruined it. God, she tastes so good. Why didn't I do this before? Because I'm a coward. Because I'm scared. Because she deserves better than a disaster like me.
But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Because she was right—he'd been running for so long he'd forgotten what it felt like to stand still. And now that he finally was, now that he finally felt, it was overwhelming.
Anya's hands were in his hair, ruining the perfect style he'd spent twenty minutes achieving that morning. Her lips moved against his with a precision that spoke of intention, not wild passion. This wasn't love. Not yet. This was punishment and liberation and a twisted form of healing, all mixed into one act.
Time lost meaning. It could have been minutes or an hour or an eternity. All Damian knew was the warmth of her mouth, the weight of her hands, the sound of her breath mingling with his.
When they finally separated—truly separated—he couldn't breathe properly. His tie was crooked, his shirt wrinkled, and he knew his face must be red and his lips swollen and God, anyone who saw him would know exactly what he'd been doing.
Anya looked equally disheveled. Her hair was a mess, her blouse untucked, lips reddened. But there was a satisfaction in her eyes that hadn't been there before. Like she'd finally won a battle she'd been fighting for years.
"Stop being a damn coward," she said, her voice hoarse but firm. "No matter how much you lie to yourself, it's not going to change what you feel."
He looked at her, really looked at her, and saw everything he'd been refusing to see for years. The strength she'd developed because he'd forced her to. The hardness that hid the wound he'd caused. The determination of someone who'd decided that if she was going to be hurt, at least it would be on her own terms.
"Next time you're an jerk," she continued, with that smile that was half-mockery, half-promise, "I'll teach you a lesson you'll never forget. I'm warning you, Desmond."
She pulled something from her pocket—a key, he realized belatedly—and opened the door with an ease that made it clear she'd never actually been trapped. Not physically, at least.
"Think about it," were her last words before she left, leaving him alone in the empty classroom with his heart racing wildly and the taste of her still on his lips.
Damian stood there for a long time after she left.
His legs felt unsteady. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. Part of him wanted to run after her, apologize for everything, beg her to forgive him. Another part wanted to deny anything had happened, retreat back into his facade of indifference.
But he couldn't do either.
Because she was right. About everything.
He'd been in love with Anya Forger for years. Obsessed with her in a way that wasn't healthy but was undeniable. Every decision he'd made, every guy he'd driven away, every moment of cruelty—all of it had been a desperate, pathetic attempt to suppress something that was never going to disappear just because he wanted it to.
And the worst—the absolute worst—was that she knew. Maybe she'd always known. Maybe that's why she'd waited. Because she knew eventually he'd reach this point: broken, vulnerable, with nowhere left to run.
He thought about the photos hidden in the false bottom of his drawer. Polaroids he'd taken over the years when he thought no one was watching. Anya laughing with Becky. Anya studying in the library, her brow furrowed in concentration. Anya at the school festival, eyes bright as she watched the fireworks.
He had dozens of them. A secret album of stolen moments of someone who supposedly mattered less than nothing to him.
How had she discovered them? Had she broken into his room? Or did she just know him so well she'd guessed?
"I know you better than you know yourself."
Her words echoed in his head.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. A message from Ewen.
You okay? We saw you leave with Anya. Did something happen?
Damian stared at the message for a long moment. Then he typed and deleted three different responses before finally writing:
Everything's fine.
It was a lie. Nothing was fine. Everything had changed in a fundamental way that terrified him.
But maybe—just maybe—that wasn't a bad thing.
That night, Damian stayed up late, staring at the ceiling of his room.
He could still feel the ghost of her lips on his. Could still hear her voice in his head, mocking and serious all at once.
"Stop being a damn coward."
He thought about his father. About expectations. About the weight of the Desmond name and everything it was supposed to mean.
And then he thought about Anya—about six-year-old Anya who'd punched him and then cried apologizing. About eleven-year-old Anya who'd offered him that terrible origami Bond with a hopeful smile. About sixteen-year-old Anya who'd just kissed him senseless and then left him with the most terrifying and exciting warning of his life.
He got out of bed and opened the secret drawer. The photos stared back at him, a record of years of unacknowledged longing.
He took one—the one of her at the festival, with the light of the fireworks reflected in her eyes—and put it in his wallet instead of the secret compartment.
He didn't know what would happen next. He didn't know if he'd have the courage to face his father, the school, himself.
But for the first time in years, the idea of trying didn't feel completely impossible.
Next time, he thought, remembering her words.
Because there would be a next time. Anya had made sure of that.
And Damian Desmond, certified coward and tsundere in recovery, found himself waiting for it.