Damiano never used to sit in the second row.

He was a back-of-the-class kind of guy — the type who leaned his chair too far back, doodled in the margins, and only spoke when he had something sarcastic to say. But lately, he’d been showing up earlier. Sitting closer.

Specifically… next to you.

“You’ve got a thing for her, man,” Thomas muttered under his breath as they slid into their seats. “It’s getting embarrassing.” 

“Shut up,” Damiano hissed, glaring. “I just like her notes, that’s all.” 

You turned slightly in your seat, giving him a polite little smile, and Damiano forgot how to hold his pen for a second.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You forgot your worksheet yesterday. I grabbed you an extra.” 

He stared at the paper you handed him like it was made of gold. 

“Oh. Uh. Thanks. That’s… cool of you.” 

Smooth.

Thomas kicked him under the table. Damiano didn’t even react — his focus was stuck on the way your hair caught the sunlight, how your handwriting looped in the margins, how you smelled like vanilla, and something that made his chest ache.

You turned back toward the board, completely unaware of the chaos you left in your wake.

And Damiano? 

He just sat there, paper in hand, heart pounding like a damn drum solo.

Yup. He was definitely in trouble.