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The bus rattled over a pothole in the mountain road, and Anya Forger’s head collided gently with the window. She groaned, peeling her cheek off the cold glass.
...suspension systems on these vehicles are substandard. If Father knew we were being transported like cattle, he’d have the headmaster replaced.
Though, looking at the topographical map, the incline suggests a 14% grade, which is dangerous for a vehicle of this weight...
Anya squeezed her eyes shut. "Shut up," she whispered.
"I didn't say anything, stubby legs," the boy sitting next to her snapped.
Anya cracked one eye open. Damian Desmond was sitting with his arms crossed, staring rigidly ahead at the winding gray road.
He was sixteen now, with a jawline that could cut glass and a scowl that had only deepened with puberty.
He wore his Eden Academy windbreaker like it was a suit of armor.
"Your brain," Anya mumbled, rubbing her temple. "It's loud. It's talking about... suspension systems."
Damian stiffened. He shot her a glare that was half annoyance, half panic. "Stop being weird, Forger. And stop drooling on the upholstery. It’s pathetic."
She looks exhausted. Why does she have dark circles? Is she not sleeping? Is that idiot father of hers making her study too late? She’s going to get sick in this altitude. Look at her, she’s shivering. Should I close the vent? No, if I close the vent she’ll think I’m doing something nice and look at me with those bug eyes…
Anya sighed. This was her life.
Ten years. It had been ten years since she punched him in the face on the first day of school, and the dynamic had barely shifted. They were "friends," technically.
Part of the same social circle, mostly due to Becky’s insistence and the inexplicable loyalty of Damian’s lackeys, Ewen and Emile.
But inside his head, Damian was a whirlwind of criticism. Every time Anya looked at him, his mind spat out a rapid fire list of her flaws, his annoyances, and rigorous academic trivia.
She had concluded long ago that he simply tolerated her existence because he was too polite (or too afraid of Becky) to tell her to leave.
"The Advanced Leadership Retreat," Becky chirped from the seat behind them, leaning over the backrest. "Isn't it romantic? Stranded in the wilderness, relying on body heat to survive?"
"It's a graded exam, Blackbell," Damian said coldly, not turning around. "If we fail the orienteering segment, it goes on our permanent record."
And if I fail, Father will never look at me again. I have to be perfect. I have to lead the squad. I can't let Forger drag me down. She’s going to get distracted by a squirrel and wander off a cliff. I have to watch her. I have to watch her constantly.
Anya slumped. Great. I'm a burden.
"I won't fail," Anya declared, reaching into her pocket for a crumpled bag of peanuts. "I have survival skills. Papa taught me how to make a trap out of a shoelace."
Damian looked at her, his expression unreadable. Of course he did. Her family is bizarre. Shoelaces. She’s going to try to trap a bear and get eaten.
"Just stay close to me," Damian muttered, turning back to the window. "And don't eat those peanuts. They smell."
God, why did I sit next to her? My heart is beating so fast I think I’m going to have a cardiac event. She smells like vanilla and dusty books. It’s suffocating. I hate this.
Anya chewed her peanut resentfully. He hates me. He hates sitting next to me. He thinks I smell dusty.
She shifted as far away from him as the narrow seat allowed, staring out at the menacing pine trees whipping past.
Operation Strix was stalling. She was sixteen, and she still hadn't secured an invite to the Desmond estate.
Plan B was a bust. Damian Desmond was an impenetrable fortress of grumpiness, and Anya was tired of banging on the gate.
The lodge was less a "rustic retreat" and more a "fortified military outpost for rich children." The air was thin and biting.
Master Henderson stood on a stump in the center of the clearing, a megaphone in hand.
"Elegance!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the granite cliffs. "Survival is the ultimate test of elegance! You will be paired off. You will be given coordinates. You must navigate to the summit checkpoint by sunset. No GPS. No phones. Only a map, a compass, and your wits."
Anya shivered. Her track suit was not thick enough.
"Pairs!" Henderson shouted. "Desmond! You are with... Forger!"
A collective gasp went through the group.
Damian froze. Anya saw his shoulders hike up to his ears.
No. No, NO, NO. This is a disaster. I can't be alone with her in the woods for six hours. I’ll say something stupid. I’ll look at her too long. My palms are sweating. Why is the universe punishing me?
"I object!" Damian shouted, stepping forward. "Master Henderson, Forger’s navigation skills are nonexistent! She still gets lost going to the cafeteria! This compromises the integrity of the exam!"
Anya’s face heated up. She stomped her foot. "I do not! I just take scenic routes!"
"You ended up in the boiler room last Tuesday looking for the library!"
"Silence!" Henderson commanded. "The pairing is final. Mr. Desmond, a true leader can guide any subordinate to success. Miss Forger, try not to walk into a tree. Begin!"
Damian turned to Anya, his face a mask of frustration. He shoved the map into her chest.
"Hold this," he ordered. "Don't fold it wrong. And don't drop it."
"Bossy," Anya muttered, clutching the map.
They marched into the treeline.
The first hour was mostly silence, punctuated by the crunch of boots on snow and Damian’s internal screaming.
North north west. Adjust for magnetic declination.
Is she keeping up? I can hear her breathing. She’s wheezing. Is she asthmatic? I should slow down.
But if I slow down, she’ll think I’m weak. But if she passes out, I have to carry her. I can't carry her. If I touch her, I’ll die.
"Slow down, Sy-on Boy," Anya panted. "My legs are shorter than yours."
Damian stopped abruptly. He didn't turn around. "Walk faster. We’re losing daylight."
She called me Sy-on Boy. She hasn't called me that in months. Why does it sound so... cute?
Stop it. Disgusting. Focus on the map.
Anya frowned at his back. His mind was a mess.
One second he was analyzing the topography, the next he was screaming at himself for thinking she was "cute" in a tone that sounded remarkably like he was disgusted by the idea.
"Why are you so mean?" Anya asked, stepping over a log.
"I'm not mean, I'm efficient," Damian shot back. "We need to get to the checkpoint. My father expects…"
"Your father isn't here," Anya interrupted.
Damian stopped. The forest seemed to go quiet.
He’s always here, Damian thought. The thought was so heavy, so cold and dark, that Anya shivered. It wasn't a scream. It was a lead weight.
He’s always watching. Failing isn't an option. If I’m not the best, I’m nothing. And if I’m nothing, I can’t... I can't ever have…
The thought trailed off into static.
"Let's just keep going," Damian said, his voice quieter.
They were halfway up the ridge when the weather turned. It wasn't a gradual shift; it was an ambush.
The blue sky was swallowed by charcoal clouds, and the wind picked up, howling through the pass like a wounded animal.
Snow began to fall, hard, stinging pellets that reduced visibility to a few feet.
"We need to find shelter!" Damian yelled over the wind. He grabbed Anya’s arm to keep her from blowing over.
"The checkpoint is close!" Anya yelled back.
"Forget the checkpoint! Look at this!" Damian gestured to the whiteout. "We’re off course. I lost the trail markers ten minutes ago."
I’m an idiot. I was too busy watching her stumble that I missed the turn. I’m going to get us killed. Father was right. I’m incompetent.
"There's a cave!" Anya pointed. Her telepathy picked up the frantic thoughts of a squirrel nearby, scuttling into a hole. "Over there!"
"That's a badger hole, you moron!"
"No, big cave! Behind the rock!"
She dragged him toward a shadowy overhang beneath a slate cliff. It was tight, damp, and smelled of wet earth, but it was out of the wind.
They collapsed onto the dirt floor, breathing hard. The temperature was dropping rapidly.
Damian sat up, brushing snow off his shoulders.
He looked at Anya. She was shivering violently, her teeth chattering. Her lips were turning a pale blue.
She’s hypothermic. Her jacket is useless. Why does she dress like a child? Idiot. Absolute idiot.
"You're freezing," Damian accused her.
"I'm f-f-fine," Anya stuttered.
"You're not fine. You're shaking like a leaf."
Without a word, Damian unzipped his windbreaker. Underneath, he wore a thick wool sweater and a thermal shirt. He took off the windbreaker.
"Here," he threw it at her.
Anya stared at the jacket. "But you..."
"I have layers. Put it on before you die and I get charged with manslaughter."
Put it on. Please. I can't watch you shake. It makes my chest hurt. I’d rather freeze.
Anya pulled the jacket on. It was warm from his body heat and smelled like him, expensive soap and cedar. She pulled her knees to her chest.
"Thanks," she whispered.
Damian grunted, looking away. He was shivering slightly now, in just his sweater, but he sat rigidly near the cave entrance, watching the storm.
"Damian?"
"What?"
"Why do you care if I die?"
Damian whipped his head around. "Are you serious? It would be a bureaucratic nightmare. The paperwork alone…"
"Liar," Anya said. She didn't mean to say it. It just slipped out.
Damian narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me?"
"You're thinking..." Anya paused. She had to be careful. "You're thinking that you'd rather freeze than watch me shake."
Damian went dead still. His eyes widened, pupils constricting.
How the hell... Did I say that out loud? No. I didn't. I couldn't have. Does she know? Can she see it on my face? I’m so transparent. Pathetic.
"I didn't say that," Damian said, his voice tight.
"You thought it."
"I don't think about you, Forger. Don't flatter yourself."
The lie was so blatant, and the thought behind it so contradictory, I think about you every second of every day, that Anya felt a sudden flash of irritation.
"Yes, you do!" Anya snapped. "You think I'm stupid. You think I'm weak. You think I have bug eyes and messy hair and that I'm a burden to the Desmond family legacy!"
Damian stared at her, mouth slightly agape.
"I hear you!" Anya cried out, frustrated by the decade of noise. "You're always yelling inside! 'Look at her hair, look at her grades, she's so annoying, why is she here?' I get it, okay? You hate me. You've hated me since we were six. So just... stop pretending to be nice and giving me your coat. I can handle the cold!"
She moved to take off the jacket.
"Keep the damn jacket on!" Damian shouted, lunging forward to stop her hands.
They froze, his hands gripping her wrists, their faces inches apart in the gloom of the cave.
Damian was breathing hard. His mind was racing so fast it was a blur of colors and noise.
She thinks I hate her. She really thinks I hate her.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. The anger drained out of his face, replaced by a raw, terrified vulnerability that Anya had never seen before.
"You think..." Damian started, his voice cracking. "You think I hate you because I notice your hair?"
Anya blinked, confused by the shift in his tone. "You say it's a bird's nest."
"Because I want to touch it," Damian whispered.
The thought crashed into Anya’s mind with the force of a freight train.
I want to touch it. I want to run my fingers through it and see if it's as soft as it looks.
I stare at your eyes because they're the only honest thing in this entire fake school.
I notice your grades because I want you to stay here with me, not get expelled.
Anya’s eyes went wide. "What?"
Damian let go of her wrists and scrambled back, pressing himself against the cave wall. He put his head in his hands.
"I don't hate you," he said, his voice muffled. "God, Anya. I don't hate you."
I’m terrified of you.
Anya sat there, the wind howling outside, the world tilting on its axis.
"But... you're always angry. Your mind... it's always shouting."
Damian looked up. He looked miserable. "Because you're dangerous."
"I am?" Anya asked, hopeful. "Like a spy?"
"No," Damian let out a jagged laugh. "Dangerous to me. To my plan. I’m supposed to be a Desmond. Cold. Unfeeling. Perfect. And then you walk into a room and you... you trip over nothing, or you smile at me with peanut crumbs on your face, and I forget my own name."
He looked her dead in the eye.
"You make me weak, Anya. And I can't afford to be weak."
Anya stared at him. The code was breaking. The enigma machine of Damian Desmond was finally spitting out a clear message.
The static, the shouting, the insults, the criticism, it wasn't hatred.
It was panic. It was the sound of a boy fighting a war against his own heart because he had been taught that love was a liability.
"Oh," Anya whispered.
"Yeah. Oh." Damian avoided her eyes."So there. You win. The great Damian Desmond is obsessed with the commoner. Go ahead. Laugh. Tell Blackbell. Ruin me."
Anya watched him. She listened to the hum of his mind. It wasn't shouting anymore. It was a low, sad drone of resignation.
She’s going to laugh. She’s going to leave. And I’ll be alone again. Just like at home.
Anya crawled across the dirt floor.
Damian flinched, but he didn't move.
Anya reached out and poked him in the forehead.
"Ouch," Damian scowled. "What was that for?"
"For being dumb," Anya said.
She shuffled closer until she was sitting right next to him, their shoulders touching.
She pulled one side of the windbreaker open and draped it over his shoulder, so they were both huddled under it.
"What are you doing?" Damian stiffened.
"Sharing body heat. Survival skill number one," Anya said matter of factly.
"I don't need…"
"Shut up, Sy-on Boy." Anya rested her head on his shoulder. It was bony, but surprisingly comfortable.
Damian went rigid. His heart rate skyrocketed. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.
She’s touching me. She’s leaning on me. Does she not understand? Does she not get it?
"I get it," Anya said softly.
Damian looked down at the top of her pink hair. "You... you do?"
"You're scared," Anya said. "Your dad is scary. Being a Desmond sounds hard."
Damian exhaled, a long, shuddering breath. "You have no idea."
"But," Anya said, looking up at him, "you don't have to be scared of me. I'm not scary. I'm just Anya."
Damian looked at her face, the round eyes, the small nose, the stubborn set of her jaw.
She’s everything, he thought. The thought was clear, quiet, and undeniable. She’s the only thing that matters.
"You're terrifying," Damian corrected her gently. He moved his arm, hesitantly, until it was wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer for warmth.
Anya froze for a second, then relaxed into him.
"So," Anya said after a moment of silence. "You think I'm pretty?"
Damian groaned, tilting his head back against the rock. "Don't push your luck, Forger."
Beautiful. You're beautiful.
Anya smiled. She heard him loud and clear.
The rescue team found them three hours later. The storm had broken, leaving the mountain glittering under a harsh, clear moon.
When the squad of teachers and medics hiked up to the cave, they found the two of them asleep.
Anya was curled up almost entirely inside Damian’s jacket, her head on his lap. Damian was asleep sitting up, his back against the wall, one hand protectively resting on her head.
Master Henderson held up a hand to stop the medics from rushing in too loudly. He adjusted his monocle.
"Elegant," he murmured. "Most elegant."
The Monday after the retreat, the Eden Academy cafeteria was buzzing with rumors.
Everyone knew Desmond and Forger had gotten lost together. Everyone expected Damian to be furious, to have sued the school, to have demanded Anya’s expulsion for incompetence.
Anya sat at her usual table with Becky.
"So?" Becky leaned in, vibrating with excitement. "What happened in the cave?
Details, Anya! Did you kiss? Did he cry? Did he confess his undying love?"
Anya crunched a peanut. "We survived. It was cold."
"Ugh, you're useless at romance!" Becky complained.
Across the cafeteria, the Imperial Scholars walked in. The room quieted down. Damian was at the front, flanked by Ewen and Emile.
He looked as haughty as ever, his uniform pristine, his expression bored.
He walked past Anya’s table.
Usually, he would sneer. Usually, he would make a comment about her eating habits. Usually, he would ignore her completely.
Damian stopped. He looked down at Anya.
The cafeteria held its breath.
Did you sleep okay? Your cough sounded bad on the bus ride back. Drink more water, idiot.
"Forger," Damian said aloud. "You have peanut shells on your skirt. Have some dignity."
But as he said it, he reached into his pocket and dropped a small, shiny object onto the table in front of her.
It was a box of high end, limited edition pistachios. The kind that cost more than Anya’s monthly allowance.
"Don't choke," Damian said.
He walked away. Ewen and Emile looked confused, but followed him.
Anya stared at the pistachios.
Becky gasped. "Did he just... buy you snacks? Damian Desmond just gave you snacks?"
Anya smiled. It wasn't the big, goofy smile she used to force. It was a small, knowing smile.
She tuned into the frequency she had finally deciphered.
As Damian walked away, amidst the static of his anxiety about his next class and his father’s expectations, there was a steady, rhythmic broadcast directed solely at her.
I hope she likes them. I hope she smiles. I’ll walk her to history class later. Maybe I can hold her hand again. No, too soon. Maybe next week.
"He's still loud," Anya muttered, popping a pistachio into her mouth.
"What?" Becky asked.
"Nothing," Anya said. "Just... the reception is much better now."
She looked at Damian’s retreating back. She still needed to help Papa with World Peace.
She still needed to navigate the complexities of high school. But for the first time, she didn't feel like she was fighting Damian Desmond.
She took a bite of
the expensive nut. It tasted like victory.
See you in history, Sy-on Boy, she thought, projecting it as hard as she could.
Damian stumbled slightly in the doorway, his ears turning red. He didn't look back, but Anya heard it.
She saw me stumble. Dammit. She’s laughing. Cute.
Anya laughed. "Yeah. I am.”