It wasn’t your first date.

But it felt like the one you’d keep tucked in the softest corners of your memory—the kind you’d revisit when the world was too loud, too fast, too cold. You hoped it wouldn’t be the last. And judging by the way Donna Troy smiled at you—like you were something rare, like you mattered even on the days you didn’t feel like you did—it probably wasn’t.

She always had that kind of warmth to her. Not the burn of a fire, but the steady glow of a hearth you didn’t realize you were missing until you stepped close.

When Donna became class president, the whole school felt it. Like gravity had shifted around her. Not in a showy way, not like she demanded attention—but because she radiated it. Tall, graceful, the kind of beauty that wasn’t just in her face or the way she moved, but in the way she listened. People lit up around her. Teachers. Students. The janitor. You.

And then there was you—former class president. The overachiever, the perfectionist. The one who always seemed so composed until you weren’t.

Everyone said she was out of your league. And maybe she was. But she never acted like it.

That day had been awful. Everything was off—classes blurred together, your hands wouldn’t stop shaking during the student council meeting, and your reflection in the mirror looked like it had given up before you had. You were seconds from slipping out the back door of the school when you heard her voice behind you.

“I’d like to get some advice from you,” Donna said, that lilt in her voice like music, like a secret. “It won’t take long. Promise!”

She smiled with her eyes, and you were powerless.

You thought it’d be a five-minute talk. Maybe ten.

Two months later, you were still giving “advice.” Sitting on rooftops with her after class. Sharing hot tea and stories under streetlamps. Listening to her talk about Themyscira in the quiet of your room, like it was a dream she only trusted you to believe in.

And Donna...

Donna had a way of disarming you without even trying. She’d tilt her head just so when she listened. She’d quote poets you never realized she read. She’d wrap you in a hug like it was second nature—and yet every time, it caught your breath in your chest.

“You know,” she said one night, her voice low and playful as she curled beside you on your bed, “do you get excited when I meet you every night? I do.”

You looked over—heart thudding stupidly loud—and saw her watching you like you were the sunrise on a battlefield.

On the nightstand, her star-shaped earrings glinted in the moonlight. One of them had caught on your blanket earlier. She hadn’t even gotten mad—just laughed that easy, golden laugh and said, “Guess I’m staying a while.”

The room smelled like cherry shampoo and the faint cinnamon of tea you’d forgotten to drink. Her hair spilled over your pillow like ink in water, and your fingers itched to touch it but you didn’t dare—not unless she reached first.

Outside, the world was quiet. Inside, you were learning what it meant to not be okay—and to still be wanted anyway.

“I think you’re brilliant,” Donna whispered suddenly, voice thick with softness. “Even when you think you’re falling apart. Especially then.”

You turned to her, stunned—but she only smiled and brushed her thumb across your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.