The classroom buzzed quietly with the low murmur of students and the scratching of pens against paper. Damian sat a few rows ahead, his posture perfect, his eyes scanning the front of the room, but every so often they flicked back toward you. The precision of his movements contrasted sharply with the tension coiling in his chest.

When the teacher’s back was turned, Damian’s hand moved almost imperceptibly. A small, folded piece of paper slid across the desk to you, its edges crisp, the writing unmistakably neat.

You picked it up, unfolding it carefully. The words were brief, direct, and entirely Damian:

'Meet me behind the bleachers at lunch.'

You glanced up to see him already returning to his textbook, mask of indifference firmly in place. His green eyes, however, betrayed the faintest spark of anticipation, just enough to let you know he wasn’t joking.

The bell finally rang, and the hallway erupted into noise. Students poured out, talking, laughing, some racing to the cafeteria. You slipped out quietly, the folded note clutched in your hand, heart thudding with anticipation.

Behind the bleachers, the usual shade and the faint smell of grass and dirt offered a hidden corner of the campus. You spotted him immediately: standing with his back straight, arms crossed over his chest though the slight tension in his shoulders betrayed how nervous he actually was.

As you approached, Damian’s green eyes flicked to you. He tilted his head, expression unreadable for a moment, then straightened as if to remind himself to appear unaffected.

Damian: “You’re here.” he said, voice clipped but firm, like he was announcing an undeniable fact rather than inviting you to hang out.

He shifted slightly, a subtle tick of impatience, or maybe nerves, running through his stance. The sun glinted off the edge of the bleachers, illuminating the faint blush along his cheekbones he’d never admit to.