Damien
"You're walking too fast."
"I'm walking at a normal pace."
"Yeah, well… I'm wearing heels. And I'm delicate."
I glance sideways.
Vivienne Crestwood is not delicate.
She's sparkles and hurricanes. Sugar and supernovas. Diamond earrings and death threats.
But right now, she's slightly breathless, trotting beside me in a fluffy cream coat, gripping my arm like she's worried someone's about to snatch me off the sidewalk.
She's been attached to me since lecture ended. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.
"Where are we going again?" I mutter, as she tugs me across the road like I'm the lost one.
"Celebration," she says proudly. "You survived Monday."
"…It's Tuesday."
"It's still a win."
We end up at this pastel-colored café she loves—Sakura Sips. Cherry blossom decals on the windows. Bubble tea in every color of the rainbow. I see two baristas already whispering behind the counter when they spot us.
Correction: when they spot her.
Vivienne Crestwood is the type of girl people notice.
Because she doesn't try to be noticed. She just… is.
She swings my arm like we're in kindergarten. "Order something with strawberry. You need more color in your life."
"I don't even like—"
"Damien." She stops and looks up at me with those wide, caramel eyes.
"…Fine."
She claps.
We're next in line when some guy behind us leans forward—too close—and says, "Hey. You're that girl from the Ashford party last summer, right? Vivienne something?"
I stiffen.
She blinks up at him. Smiles politely. "Yes."
He grins. "Knew it. You looked gorgeous that night. Like really—"
"She always looks like that," I cut in flatly.
The guy falters.
I don't.
Vivienne hums under her breath like I just handed her a bouquet of roses. She tightens her grip on my arm until we're practically fused.
"Aw, Damien," she says, leaning her head against my shoulder dramatically, "you're so protective."
The guy behind us backs off. Quickly.
She peers up at me with mock innocence. "You jealous?"
"No."
"You sound jealous."
"Not jealous. Just aware."
She giggles, like I said something romantic.
We order. We sit. She takes my hoodie sleeve and loops her fingers through it like it's a comfort blanket.
I watch her sip her bubble tea, extra pearls, pink glittery straw and everything.
She's ridiculous.
And maybe the most comforting thing in my life right now.
"You know," she says suddenly, "you don't smile enough."
"Maybe you talk too much."
She sips again. "Maybe. But you'd miss me if I didn't."
I don't reply.
She doesn't need me to.
She already knows.