The night air was cool, laced with the scent of freshly cut grass and something faintly metallic—like the tension clinging to Gilbert's chest. The school building behind him glowed softly under the flickering campus lights, casting long shadows across the now quiet courtyard.
Gilbert strolled out, his bag slung lazily over one shoulder, eyes scanning the near-empty grounds. He should be focused—valedictorian speeches don't write themselves—but his thoughts refused to cooperate. Instead, they circled back, again and again, to one person.
Michelle.
He spotted her standing beneath a lamp post near the gate, arms folded, face half-lit in gold. The sight of her made his pace slow. His heart, uninvited and unhelpful, gave a small, hopeful flutter.
"Hey," he said when he reached her, voice calm—too calm. Inside, he was all nerves and misplaced expectations.
She turned to him, lips curling in a polite smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Hey," she replied quietly.
He hesitated, then said, "You heading home? I can give you a ride. I don't mind."
Michelle shifted her weight, glancing down at her phone. "No. My ride is coming," she said, a little too quickly. Her voice had a practiced distance, like she was bracing for this.
Gilbert's throat tightened, but he nodded anyway, forcing a grin. "Right. Of course."
Silence fell between them. Not the comfortable kind. The kind that buzzed in your ears and made every second feel ten times too long.
Trying to salvage something, he asked, "So… still preparing for the finals?"
Michelle nodded. "Yeah. You?"
"Trying," Gilbert said. "But it's hard to think straight lately."
Michelle gave a soft hum in response, glancing again toward the road. He caught the meaning behind it—**please don't make this harder than it already is.**
A pair of headlights cut across the courtyard. A sleek black car rolled to a smooth stop, humming like it had secrets. The door opened, and he stepped out.
Tall. Confident. Polished.
Gilbert knew him. The same guy from the youth talk. The one who made Michelle laugh. The one who clearly wasn't *just a ride.*
"Hey, baby," the guy said, pulling her into a hug before placing a slow, soft kiss on her lips—like he was claiming something.
Gilbert froze. The air in his lungs turned to lead.
Michelle's arms wrapped around the guy briefly before she pulled back, glancing toward Gilbert like she'd just remembered he existed.
"This is Gilbert," she said, voice neutral. "A friend… from school."
Gilbert offered a stiff nod. "Nice to meet you."
The guy barely glanced at him, his attention fixed on Michelle like Gilbert was just background noise. "Friend, huh?"
Gilbert held his ground. "Yeah."
As the couple turned to head back to the car, Gilbert muttered, "Bye, Claire."
The guy paused mid-step. His brows lifted slowly as he turned back, voice cool but clearly displeased. "'Claire'? That's... bold."
He looked Michelle over, then turned to Gilbert with a smug half-smile. "Didn't realize it was on a first-name basis now."
Michelle stiffened, her smile faltering. "He's just being friendly—he's a student, yes, but… we've talked a few times."
The guy's smile didn't move. "Right. Still don't think it's a great idea, students calling you by your name. Bit… unprofessional."
Then he turned to Gilbert, letting his arm slide around Michelle's waist.
"Anyway—see you around, **kiddo.**"
He said it with that **carefully calculated smugness**, like Gilbert wasn't worth taking seriously.
Gilbert's jaw clenched, fingers curling into fists deep in his pockets. He didn't answer.
Michelle looked away, clearly uncomfortable. "Let's go."
The car door closed. The engine purred.
Gilbert stood there in the dark, shoulders stiff, staring after the taillights as they disappeared into the night.
He had nothing left to say. But the silence?
It said everything
The moonlight shimmered across the surface of the pool, casting flickering silver waves that danced along the tiles. Zendaya stood by the edge, arms folded, glaring at Damon like he was the devil with dimples.
"I'm not coming in," she said firmly, backing away a step.
Damon just tilted his head, that ever-present smirk tugging at his lips. "Did I ask you to?"
The smug tone in his voice made her twitch. She narrowed her eyes. "You're such an ass."
"I get that a lot."
He turned away casually, swimming a slow circle, deliberately giving her his back. She stared at him for a moment—at his lean, wet body gliding through the water like sin itself—and cursed under her breath.
Screw it.
Before she could change her mind, she dropped her towel and stepped in, the cold rush making her gasp.
"I said I wasn't coming in," she muttered, paddling toward him.
"And yet…" Damon turned, a cocky brow raised. "Here you are. Typical Zendaya. Always saying one thing and doing the opposite."
"Bite me."
"Tempting."
Then, in a move so smooth it made her heart skip, Damon reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist—tight and firm.
"What are you—Damon—"
Before she could finish, he *pulled*, dragging her against him in one swift movement. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, clamping to keep balance. The heat of his skin contrasted with the cool water, and her breath hitched.
"Damon, the *fuck*?!" she snapped, flushed and flustered.
But Damon didn't flinch. His face was dangerously close, water glistening on his lashes, lips parted slightly.
"It was here," he said quietly, voice low like a secret. "Right here… I realized I had feelings for you."
She blinked. "Wait… you mean… the night your mom invited me over?"
He nodded once. "Yeah. That night. When you kissed me like you hated me, then ran like you were on fire. You messed me up."
A slow, dangerous smile curled her lips. She leaned in—close enough that their noses brushed—before she whispered, "I remember that kiss."
And then she kissed him. Hard.
This wasn't a first-time flutter or a soft trial—it was the kind of kiss that ripped oxygen from lungs and replaced it with hunger. Her fingers buried in his hair, her body arching into his as the water sloshed around them.
Damon groaned against her mouth, gripping her tighter by the waist. His hands slid—exploring boldly but leaving just enough room for implication. The tension simmered just beneath the surface, right on that dangerous line.
She pulled back just slightly, eyes glazed and lips swollen.
"Damn, Zee," he panted, "you can't just stir up the lion and leave it hanging."
Her brow arched. "Lion?"
He dipped his head to her neck, brushing her skin with heated breath. "I'm *very* hard right now, and it's your fault."
She froze for a half-second—then laughed breathlessly, resting her forehead against his. "You're such a mess."
"And you're the reason for it," he shot back.
His hand slid up her thigh underwater, slow and teasing, stopping right at the edge of decency.
"Dare me to behave," he murmured.
She swallowed. "You wouldn't."
"I would. You know I would."
And the way she looked at him then—half in challenge, half in surrender—made him crazy.
But instead of going further, Damon simply kissed her again—deep, slow, claiming her lips with the intensity of a boy who's been haunted by a memory for far too long. And for once, she didn't stop him.