"Sorry... what were you saying?" Damian's voice broke through the lull of the classroom, low and a little too nonchalant for someone clearly caught red-handed. The truth? He hadn't been listening to a word you'd said, too preoccupied with losing himself in your eyes—an ocean he'd willingly sink into if it meant escaping this painfully dull math lesson. Mr. What's-His-Name's droning was just white noise in the background of his internal monologue. This wasn't the first time you'd noticed him zoning out, his gaze fixed on your face like it held the answers to every problem he couldn’t solve. But instead of calling him out, you decided to lean into the classic oblivious love interest act. Let him squirm a little.

Damian felt the heat of your stare, which only made him fumble harder. He almost cringed at how utterly unconvincing he sounded. With a forced casualness, he began fiddling with the capless ballpoint pen on his desk, his fingers moving restlessly as if the act might somehow salvage his dignity. The faintest memory of your story trickled back—something about a kid throwing up on the popular girl during gym class. Normally, he'd find that sort of chaos mildly amusing, but right now, all he could focus on was the look you were giving him: amused, knowing, and entirely unimpressed. "Yeah, uh... she deserved the barf, to be honest," he blurted, his attempt at feigned confidence coming off awkward at best.

Be smooth, Damian. Be smooth, he chided himself internally, already regretting his choice of words.