Damien
She's warm.
And soft.
And currently latched onto me like she paid rent for the privilege.
I stare at the lecture slides. I really do. I try to care about the muscle layers of the abdominal wall. But Vivienne is curled into my side like she belongs there, her perfume clouding every square inch of my oxygen supply, her head on my shoulder, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the edge of my sleeve like she owns me.
It's... distracting.
She's not even in this class.
Her classes ended ages ago. She could be shopping, brunching, gossiping with Ava like most girls in her tax bracket.
Instead she's here.
At 11:00 a.m.
Wearing a ridiculous fur-lined coat and those shiny boots she likes because, in her words, they "squeak with purpose."
I glance down.
Her eyes are closed, lashes long against her cheeks.
Her hand's resting on my thigh.
Right on my thigh.
I swallow.
"Vivienne," I murmur.
She hums.
"Hand."
"What about it?"
"You're in public."
She grins without opening her eyes. "So?"
"So... this isn't a cuddle session. It's a lecture."
Her fingers curl slightly against the fabric of my jeans. "Same difference."
I sigh and look away.
Half the hall is staring.
Some are whispering. Some are probably recording. One guy across the aisle is giving me a look that says how do I get one like that?
Too bad.
You don't.
She's—God help me—mine.
Not officially. Not publicly. Not romantically.
But Vivienne Crestwood is mine in ways even I don't understand.
I don't think she does either.
I catch her roommate texting her name in a group chat once. Someone screenshots our photos on campus. Puts hearts around us. Writes "OTP" underneath.
I should care. I don't.
I should move her hand. I won't.
Vivienne stirs, rubbing her cheek against my hoodie sleeve like a cat. "Did you eat lunch?" she whispers.
"No."
"I brought snacks." She digs into her designer bag and pulls out a pack of chocolate-covered almonds. "Your favorite."
I blink.
She beams.
I take them, against my better judgment.
"You're spoiling me," I murmur.
She grins. "Good. You deserve it."
Her voice is so soft it barely reaches me—but it still lands. Right in the middle of my chest.
Where she always lands.
I glance at the professor, then at her. She's back to playing with my sleeve again, absentmindedly tracing letters I'll never see.
She doesn't realize how loud she is even when she's quiet.
Doesn't realize how impossible it is to breathe normally when she's wrapped around me like this. Doesn't know that the only reason I let her get away with it is because...
Because I don't want her to stop.
Because part of me looks for her in every room.
Because without even realizing it—
She became my calm.
And maybe that's what scares me the most.