꒰ 🦇 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 you and damian are ruthless college rivals until a party game forces you to reevaluate those feelings. AKA seven minutes isn’t enough for either of you.
IT IS EXHAUSTING JUST EXISTING IN THE SAME SPACE AS DAMIAN WAYNE.
he is rude. snobby. arrogant. the kind of brilliance that doesn’t ask for respect, it demands it, and the worst part is he gets it. professors nod, classmates defer, and somehow the world bends around him while you fight to claw a fraction of recognition. you hate him. you hate that he exists, that he excels, that he is everything you’ve worked to become in half the time, that the world seems to reward him for it while your own victories feel smaller.
it wasn’t just that he was brilliant; that would be tolerable. people could be smart. people could even be modestly competitive. but damian? damian had to win. every assignment, every pop quiz, every seminar debate, every tiny insignificant grading rubric, he dominated it all without even trying, and with an air of disdain for anyone who didn’t keep pace.
it wasn’t just the way he performed, it was the consistency of it. damian wayne didn’t have off days. he didn’t have moments of forgetfulness or distraction or fatigue. his brilliance wasn’t seasonal, it wasn’t luck, it wasn’t an occasional flash of genius that people could ride their own egos against. it was constant. he had a reputation, one that preceded him into lecture halls, libraries, labs: he would be first, he would be right, and he would make sure everyone else knew it.
everyone knew better than to test him. not because they were intimidated, though most were, but because it was exhausting and hopeless to try. any attempt to “outsmart” him, to challenge him in discussion or debate, felt like pushing against a wall of bricks. the stories circulated, the warnings: do not ask him a question you cannot fully answer yourself; do not correct him in class; do not linger too long on points he could dismantle in a sentence.
his scores were another layer entirely. he didn’t just get As, he got perfect scores. 100 percent on midterms, flawless papers, unchallenged presentations. it was the kind of record that made deans pause, that made scholarship committees nod and cross-reference their expectations. it was the kind of record that erased your own hard work the second you saw it, that made your “A” feel provisional, temporary. he was extremely smart, borderline terrifyingly smart, but it was the discipline behind it that made him inhuman: the long hours of study nobody could measure, the focus that erased sleep and hunger, the refusal to let failure touch him even in trivial matters.
that discipline fed directly into the reputation he carried. he was the smartest kid in the school, it wasn’t a debate; it was a fact. an unchallenged, universally acknowledged fact, the kind that teachers referenced in department meetings and freshmen whispered about in hallways. his name came up before you even met him: oh, you’re in that seminar? damian wayne is in that class. good luck.
it got to the point where rumors drifted between students about the way he worked, stories of him finishing a twenty-page research paper in a single sitting, of mastering material weeks before the syllabus caught up, of reading entire textbooks the first night of class and annotating them like puzzle maps. nobody knew if those stories were true, but nobody doubted them either. that was the problem: with damian wayne, the unbelievable was always plausible.
even professors seemed to adjust themselves around him, as though teaching him required a different level of preparation. some grew sharper, more precise, eager to see if they could stump him; most didn’t bother, because they couldn’t. there were moments when a professor would pose a question to the class and you’d feel a flicker of hope, thinking maybe, just maybe, you’d get there before him, but he always answered first.
you sometimes wondered if he even knew. if he noticed the way conversations dipped when he walked past, the way people’s voices tightened when speaking to him, the way every student learned, within days, to avoid sitting too close to him unless they wanted to feel stupid by proximity. but then again, damian wasn’t oblivious. he wasn’t clueless or naive. he saw everything. he read people like he read textbooks.
it was exhausting. truly exhausting. existing in the same space as him, trying to measure yourself against someone whose standards were both impossibly high and cruelly exacting, who didn’t need to show off to prove he was ahead, who didn’t stumble, who didn’t forgive weakness, who made mediocrity feel like a personal affront.
maybe, maybe, it wouldn’t have gotten under your skin the way it did if you weren’t used to being that person. that benchmark. that miracle everyone else measured themselves against.
your entire life, you’d been the one teachers whispered about in the hall, the one guidance counselors used as an example for struggling students, the one classmates turned to when they didn’t understand something. you were the one people asked for notes, the one people wanted to study with, the one whose name carried reputation even before you entered a room.
you’d always been remarkably, undeniably smart. not just “good student” smart—sharp, quick, intuitive, the kind of mind that solved puzzles before most people recognized they were puzzles at all. you thrived on it. you didn’t flaunt it, but you knew what you could do. you’d grown up in the glow of being the best, and it shaped you, your confidence, your expectations, your understanding of who you were.
then you got here, and damian wayne existed, and suddenly your answers didn’t silence rooms. your perfect scores didn’t make professors pause. your insights didn’t draw nods of impressed recognition. it wasn’t that you stopped being brilliant, you were still driven, still effortlessly ahead of almost everyone else, but next to him, your achievements felt smaller. eclipsed.
nobody said it out loud, but you felt it. in the way classmates stopped coming to you with questions. in the way your name slipped lower on the unspoken hierarchy of the academically gifted. in the way praise from professors felt thinner, like they were remembering, mid-compliment, that there was someone brighter sitting in the room.
it wasn’t jealousy. you weren’t naive enough to think you had a right to the top just because you’d held it before, but the shift scraped at something inside you, because damian wasn’t just smart, he was infuriating.
arrogant. dismissive. scathing when he chose to be, silent when silence would cut deeper. he carried his intellect like a blade and used it with precision, slicing through discussions, dismantling arguments, making you feel reckless every time you tried to challenge him.
the entire school knew it. knew you two were rivals in that way people don’t even bother to pretend is friendly. there was a particular heaviness that settled over rooms when both your names appeared on the seminar roster, an actual physical dread, like everyone collectively braced for impact, because you and damian wayne didn’t just disagree; you detonated.
the first time it happened, people had tried to intervene. professors attempted to redirect the conversation, classmates tried to change the subject, someone even coughed loudly in the hopes of breaking the tension. none of it worked. you and damian locked in like natural enemies, like tectonic plates grinding against each other, neither willing to yield even an inch.
after a while, everyone learned. the moment you two raised your hands at the same time, a hush fell over the room. people exchanged glances, resigned, nervous, thrilled. people say “here we go.” others grumble “god, just let them kill each other already.”
group projects were a nightmare. professors stopped assigning you together after the incident in Comparative Politics, which no one talked about but everyone remembered. office hours were worse. on more than one occasion, another student had walked into a professor’s office only to walk right back out, because you and damian were already there arguing.
not even the productive kind of arguing. this was the kind of arguing that made people clutch their backpacks like shields and reconsider their major.
you and damian couldn’t agree on anything. not a thesis statement, not an interpretation of a symbol, not the meaning of a single sentence in a fifty-page reading. if he said the character was motivated by fear, you would say it was guilt. if you argued the economic model was flawed, he would argue it was intentionally structured. your disagreements weren’t debates. they were wars fought in syntax, tone, and violently well-cited sources.
the only time the two of you spoke was when one of you was trying to prove the other wrong or brag. everyone knew you hated each other. everyone.
freshmen whispered about it during campus tours. upperclassmen warned the incoming students—
“if you see both their names on the discussion list, run.”
“don’t sit between them. i’m serious. don’t.”
professors had treaties about the two of you, trading cautionary notes like you were natural disasters: “keep them separated.”
“don’t put their presentations on the same day.”
“do NOT call on both of them during the same discussion—i’m still recovering from last semester.”
there were even rumors that the humanities faculty held a meeting once solely to decide how to keep the two of you from derailing another seminar. someone said a professor actually sighed in relief when he saw one of you was absent.
then there were the grades. god, the grades. you couldn’t just get an A. you had to get a higher A than damian.
when the professor handed back papers upside-down to avoid humiliation, you flipped yours over only to feel a familiar heat crawl up your neck, because his was already on his desk, and you knew he had noticed the number in the corner of yours was lower than his.
the worst part: eye contact. he’d glance your way and you knew he was silently asking, that’s the best you could do?
so you’d glare back, a silent answer: i’ll beat you next time.
and the cycle repeated.
maybe you could have lived with it if it were just rivalry. if it were that light,- un competitive push people bragged about in college brochures. iron sharpens iron, healthy challenge, two bright minds motivating each other to grow. but damian didn’t “challenge” you. he targeted you.
there was no friendliness in it, no hidden mutual respect, no grudging admiration under the surface. nothing that made you think this was two geniuses sharpening each other. it was personal with him. always personal.
damian wasn’t just rude, he was cruel in the way only someone raised on discipline and impossible standards could be. he didn’t argue to win. he argued to belittle. he didn’t correct you to be helpful. he corrected you to remind you he was above you. every time you raised your hand, he found a way to dismantle whatever you said, each word chosen not just to counter your point but to cut through your confidence, and he did it without raising his voice, without losing his composure, without even looking particularly invested, like proving you wrong was just a reflex for him.
he spoke to you the way he spoke to first-year students who accidentally used the wrong terminology. he dismissed your arguments with a roll of his eyes. he interrupted you in seminars. sometimes he would say, “if you had actually read the study carefully,” in front of an entire room. sometimes he didn’t have to say anything at all, just that look, that cold, disapproving glint that made you feel like you hadn’t studied enough, hadn’t prepared enough, hadn’t earned the space you were standing in.
he never smiled at you. not once. not even mockingly. it was humiliating. you were smart. you are. people had always recognized that, teachers praised you, classmates relied on you, mentors told you they saw brilliance in you. your academic record wasn’t an accident, it was the result of years of work, effort, discipline you were proud of.
but whenever damian was in the room, it didn’t matter. he made you feel small without ever needing to raise his voice. made you question your own intelligence, your instincts, your arguments. made you feel like you were sprinting just to keep up with someone who wasn’t even breaking a sweat.
he treated everyone else with more courtesy than he gave you. he never gave kindness, not quite, but he gave a restrained politeness. a controlled civility. he nodded when others spoke, he allowed them space to finish their thoughts, he didn’t cut their legs out from under them every chance he got.
with you? he didn’t extend that courtesy. he never had. it was like something about you specifically ignited that competitive edge in him, like he needed to stay ahead of you, above you, better than you at all costs.
you didn’t know what you had done. if you had done anything at all. but damian wayne treated you like a problem. and that, that, was what made your blood simmer every time you even heard his name. it wasn’t just that he was arrogant or disciplined or smarter than anyone had a right to be, it was that he acted like your very existence inconvenienced him.
so of course it made perfect sense that tonight—of all nights, of all places—you would see him again. a party. a crowded, sweaty, too-loud, too-bright college party. your hell.
you hadn’t even wanted to be here. your friend had practically shoved you into the uber, insisting you “needed a break from studying” and “should try doing something normal for once,” like joy was a group assignment you were failing. you’d barely crossed the threshold of the house—bass thumping through the floorboards, bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, someone already spilling something sticky on the counter—when your eyes snagged on a familiar profile.
dark hair. sharp posture. the only person in the room who looked allergic to the concept of fun.
damian.
fucking.
wayne.
you actually stopped walking, like your body instinctively recoiled before your mind caught up, because what was he doing here? he didn’t go to parties. he didn’t even go to campus events unless they were mandatory. he was supposed to be in the library right now, rewriting the rubric in his head or tormenting someone else with his perfection.
but no—he was here. in a crowded living room. at the same party your friend had dragged you to. surrounded by noise and people and chaos and bad lighting. he didn’t fit. he stuck out like a scalpel in a box of crayons. you glared. immediately. viscerally. he noticed instantly. his eyes snapped to yours with that same razor-edged precision he used in seminars, like he could feel your irritation from across the room. his expression tightened, that fractional narrowing of his gaze that meant oh. it’s you.
the look he gave you was the exact same one he used when you made a point he hated in class: assessing, annoyed, mildly astonished that you had the audacity to exist in his vicinity. you wanted to turn around and leave. your friend caught your wrist before you could. “don’ttt,” they pleaded, already reading your face. “you’re not ditching after I dragged you here. it’s a big house, you won’t even see him.”
you didn’t bother explaining that “not seeing damian wayne” was impossible when he radiated irritation like a heat source. he was one of those people whose presence infected the room. a single glance from him could change the temperature of the air around you—drop it by entire degrees.
your friend tugged you deeper into the house, past groups of laughing strangers and the kitchen overflowing with red solo cups and the unmistakable scent of cheap vodka, but your gaze kept dragging back toward him like there was a hook in your sternum. you hated that. hated that you had to check where he was so you could steer clear. hated that you were already bracing yourself for him to appear behind you or beside you, ready to make some cutting remark about your presence lowering the collective IQ of the event.
he hadn’t said a word—god forbid he actually deign to speak to you at a party—but the glare had been enough. enough to remind you that even outside the academic arena, even here, in a place full of sweat and bad decisions and off-key singing, the rivalry still lived. thrived, even.
and you could tell he hated this just as much as you did. he stood rigidly near the wall, posture perfect, looking like he’d rather be dissecting a corpse than tolerating small talk. someone tried to hand him a drink; he gave them a look so cold they backed off without a word. another person attempted conversation; he dismissed them with a curt nod and turned his face away.
he didn’t belong here. you didn’t want him here. and yet you were trapped in the same stupid house with the same stupid boy who had made your life academically miserable since day one.
it was like the universe had decided tonight wasn’t chaotic enough and needed to add the one person who could sour your mood faster than a ruined grade.
you couldn’t stand him. couldn’t stand the way he held himself, the way he always acted like he was above everything, like everyone else was sloppy or incompetent or beneath his time. you couldn’t stand that he looked at you as if you embodied all those things. couldn’t stand that he walked through life with that effortless superiority you had spent years trying to earn, and hated that he wielded it without even trying.
you despised the way he dismissed your answers in class. the way he interrupted you. the way he spoke to you like your intelligence was a misprint on the syllabus. the way he made you feel like you were always one step behind him, even when you weren’t. even when you beat him by a single point and he stared at his paper like he’d been stabbed.
seeing him here, in a place that wasn’t built for him, in a context where grades didn’t matter, where no one cared how perfect his record was, only made it worse, because even in this environment, even stripped of his academic armor, he still found a way to get under your skin.
your friend nudged you gently. “just… try to have fun? pretend he’s not here.”
“that’s impossible,” you huffed, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “he ruins the air quality of any room he’s in.”
“i know,” they sighed, half-laughing, half-apologizing. “i didn’t know he’d be here. seriously. nobody did. it’s weird, right? he doesn’t do parties. he doesn’t do… people.”
“he shouldn’t,” you snapped. “he should go home. or back to whatever cave he broods in.”
your friend gave you the kind of look someone gives a person suffering from a chronic, unsolvable issue. “i’m sorry. really. but it’s a big house. there are two floors and a backyard. just avoid him. don’t go nuclear. please?”
“i’m not the problem. he’s the problem.”
“sure,” they hummed, patting your arm. “but if you two make this party implode, i’m pretending i don’t know either of you.”
hours passed. or maybe it was one hour stretched thin by irritation and the constant awareness that damian existed somewhere inside these walls. you let your friend drift off to greet another group, exchanging quick smiles with acquaintances, making small talk that didn’t stick. you tried, really tried, to settle, to let the ambient noise bury your annoyance.
eventually the dryness in your throat forced you toward the drink table. you navigated a cluster of people, eyes unfocused, reaching for a cup —- and collided with a solid shoulder. a familiar, unwelcome voice cut in immediately. “watch where you’re going.”
you stiffened. “you walked into me.”
“unlikely,” he said flatly, not even bothering to mask the disdain. “i’m capable of spatial awareness.”
you turned to face him fully, already scowling. “wow. one single night, and you still can’t manage basic decency.”
“don’t assign blame to my behavior when you’re the one causing disruptions.”
“disruptions?” you repeated, incredulous. your jaw clenched. “are you actually this unpleasant outside of class too? or do i just get the special, concentrated version of your personality?”
“you get exactly what you earn,” he replied, eyes narrowing minutely. “and you’ve earned very little goodwill.”
“you’ve never had goodwill toward me.”
“you’ve never warranted it.”
“you know what? i’m done talking to you.”
“excellent,” he said, stepping past you. “do try to keep it that way.”
infuriating. horrifying. unbelievable. you stood there for a full second, staring at the space he’d just vacated, feeling something inside you coil so tight it bordered on painful. there were rude people, arrogant people, people with more ego than personality—college was full of them. you’d dealt with all kinds.
damian wayne existed on a different spectrum entirely. he wasn’t accidentally dismissive, or socially awkward, or unaware of his tone. it was humiliating how quickly you spiraled from mildly irritated to genuinely angry. your pulse thudded at your neck, your palms felt tight, you were suddenly aware of how hot the room felt, how loud the laughter was, how the lights glared in streaks against your vision. all of it pressed in at once.
you needed a drink. not water. not soda. alcohol. something to smother the acidic burn still crawling under your skin, something to dissolve his tone, the way he looked at you like you were an unnecessary variable in an already perfect equation. you marched back to the table with more force than finesse, grabbed the first bottle you recognized, and poured without caring for ratio, etiquette, or taste. the cup smelled strong, harsher than you remembered, but you didn’t care.
the first swallow stung. the fourth went down easier. you leaned against the nearest wall, letting the noise of the party swell around you. you spent the next stretch of the night navigating the house like a minefield. each room required a quick scan: corners, couches, doorways. no rigid posture, no disapproving glare? good. you could breathe. you stayed near your friend’s group for a while, nodding along to conversations about classes and clubs and weekend plans. you laughed when appropriate, sipped your drink at intervals that bordered on desperate.
every so often, you caught a glimpse of dark hair or the faint outline of someone tall in the crowd, and your heart lurched into a stutter—only to settle when it wasn’t him. you took another drink just to punish the thought. and then another.
the party loosened around you. you felt lighter—floaty, even—your shoulders less rigid, your thoughts moving slower. your friend reappeared at some point and shoved a shot into your hand with a triumphant grin, and you didn’t even think before knocking it back. the burn made you gasp, then laugh, then lean into the dizziness that followed. for a blessed stretch of time, you forgot about him.
you danced a little, or something close to dancing. you drifted between conversations, rediscovering people you barely talked to in class and suddenly deciding you adored them. you let yourself be pulled into a group photo, half-blinking, half-grinning. you tasted something fruity handed to you in a plastic cup and immediately decided it was your new favorite drink.
you were—shockingly—having fun.
“okay everybody, circle! circle!!” someone shouted, clapping loudly from the living room. “we’re doing games! c’mon, move your asses!”
a chorus of whoops followed. bodies shuffled toward the center of the room, the furniture pushed back, the carpet becoming a messy constellation of crossed legs and clutched drinks. someone tugged your wrist, laughing, urging you to join, and you stumbled forward willingly, still warm, still spinning slightly.
you plopped into the forming circle, knees bumping the person beside you, the air buzzing with anticipation and alcohol. the circle ballooned in seconds, people squeezing in, laughing, passing drinks over heads, shouting rules no one would remember. you saw damian didn’t join the players, but he stood just outside the ring of bodies with the other people who were choosing to just watch, arms crossed, posture razor-straight, expression carved from something cold and deeply unimpressed. he blended into the crowd hovering behind the circle, the cluster of spectators who didn’t want to play but didn’t want to leave either. of course he wasn’t participating. damian wayne would sooner swallow glass than willingly join a party game. but he was watching. and, unfortunately, he was watching you.
you tried not to look directly at him, because every time your eyes flicked up you caught the evaluating stare of a man who was clearly wondering which poor decision had led him into this room. he stood just close enough to be unavoidable, just far enough to make it impossible to accuse him of looming. typical.
“okay!” someone shouted, clapping loudly. “we’re starting easy. truth or dare!”
groans and cheers rippled around the circle, hands already pointing, drinks being raised in preparation. a girl to your left bounced excitedly, nearly spilling her beer. the guy across from you was already calling dibs on going third for no clear reason.
you felt warm—giddy, almost. maybe it was the alcohol; maybe it was the blur of faces lit by string lights. the room felt full of people you liked, or at least people you were currently convinced you liked. everyone was funny. everyone was charming. everyone had great vibes.
well. almost everyone.
“alright,” the designated game-runner said, spinning an empty beer bottle in the center of the circle. “ffirst victim!”
the bottle whirred, clinking against the wood floor, making half the circle shout for no reason at all. you leaned forward, grinning. the bottle slowed… wobbled… and pointed at someone who cheered loud enough to startle you.
truth or dare. laughter. teasing. way too-personal questions. dares involving crawling under furniture. people wrestling over a stupid cowboy hat someone introduced as a “punishment accessory.” it was stupid and messy and fun, and half the time you were wheezing with laughter at jokes that probably wouldn’t be funny tomorrow morning. you were having a good time.
the second game came next—twister—which devolved into a pile of limbs, shrieking, and one guy dramatically declaring he pulled a hamstring (he did not). you watched from the circle’s edge, clutching your cup, giggling every time someone fell.
someone passed you a deck of cards against humanity next, and your group launched into it with drunk fervor. combinations that would’ve made no sense sober had you crying with laughter. you were loose, warm, your cheeks hurting from smiling too much.
“okay, my turn,” the guy across from you slurred, drawing a black card. he cleared his throat dramatically. “what ended my last relationship?”
everyone scrambled through their hands. you tossed in your card without looking, already giggling. he read the submissions aloud.
“crippling student debt. real.”
“biting someone during sex. wow. powerful.”
“my father, who is also my cousin.”
“a surprisingly aggressive goose.”
you were still laughing when someone shouted, “okay, okay, we need a new game!”
“spin the bottle?”
“strip jenga?”
“never have i ever?”
a chorus of drunken suggestions rang out until someone yelled— “SEVEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN!”
the room whooped like they’d just been handed free concert tickets. “nooo,” someone groaned.
“yesss,” someone else insisted, they must have came here as a pair.
“you’re all such messy people,” another laughed.
the bottle was placed dramatically in the center, hands clapping, bodies swaying, the circle swelling with drunken friendships. people on the outside leaned in to watch, including, unfortunately, damian wayne, who stood with his arms crossed, posture razor-straight, expression etched with disdain. he looked like a man witnessing a crime.
“oh my god,” someone giggled, spotting him in the cluster of spectators. “wayne’s judging us.”
he didn’t deny it. “this is idiotic,” damian said flatly. “statistically, at least one of you is going to contract mono.”
“okay nerd,” a guy near him laughed. “then get in the circle and make it less stupid.”
“absolutely not.”
“c’mon,” someone slurred. “don’t be scared.”
damian’s jaw ticked. he was not scared. he was disgusted. he was also, unfortunately, prideful. “yeah, damian,” someone else chimed in. “prove you’re not terrified of a bottle.”
his lips thinned. you watched, half-amused, half-horrified, because you knew that look: the challenge settling under his skin, irritation blooming. damian wayne hated being baited. and drunk people were experts at baiting.
“he won’t,” another voice chimed. “he thinks he’s above it.”
that did it. he stepped forward, not into the circle, but close enough that he could lean down just slightly and say, smooth as ice, “if i participated, the result would be predetermined. i have no interest in watching grown adults handle a probability they clearly can’t manage.”
the group booed theatrically. “just spin it once,” the game leader offered. “one spin. if it lands on someone not playing, we redo.”
“yeah, dude, it’s not that serious.”
damian exhaled sharply, the kind of exhale that meant he’d rather fling himself out a window than be here, but the jeering continued, building, alcohol making everyone bold. so he reached down, irritation tightening his posture, and spun the bottle with a controlled flick, like even this needed to be done correctly.
the glass whirled as the circle held its breath. around and around and around —- until the spin slowed. until the bottle stuttered once. twice. and pointed.
directly.
at you.
for a second, no one reacted.
the room didn’t cheer. it didn’t scream. it stilled, like everyone was witnessing the beginning of a natural disaster. then—
“ohhh shit.”
“no way.”
“NUH-UH.”
“L bruh.”
“they’re gonna kill each other.”
you felt heat crawl up your face, anger bursting through the alcohol haze. “absolutely not,” you snapped, already shaking your head. “no. redo. he didn’t even want to play—”
“i agree,” damian cut in sharply. “this is clearly rigged.”
the game leader, a cheerful, overly drunk girl wearing glow-stick bracelets, threw her hands up. “nope! rules are rules! bottle doesn’t lie!”
“you’re drunk,” damian said flatly.
“and you spun it,” she countered. “so now you gotta pay the price, big guy.”
“i am not—”
“i also refuse—”
you spoke over each other. damian’s eyes flicked toward you, annoyed, like he couldn’t believe you were even breathing the same air as him, much less being paired with him in a game as stupid as this.
“both of you,” the girl running the game said, pointing at the nearest closet with manic glee, “inside. seven minutes. go.”
you crossed your arms. “absolutely not.”
damian mirrored you. “i will not be —“
“then kiss!” someone shouted drunkenly. “that’s the alternative rule!”
dead silence. both you and damian went completely still.
his expression sharpened. “we will use the closet.”
“great!” the game leader chirped, shoving you both to your feet like cattle. “off you go!”
the door clicked shut behind you with a final, echoing thunk, and the cheers from outside dissolved instantly, as if the closet swallowed the noise whole. silence. thick. close.
the space wasn’t tiny, but it wasn’t comfortable either. old coats hung from metal hooks, boxes stacked unevenly along the back wall, a mop shoved in the corner like someone had violently abandoned it. everything had an odd, dusty smell, like forgotten dorm storage. you weren’t pressed against damian, but you were close.
he looked wrong in the dark. or maybe too right.
some people looked awkward in shadow, damian looked sharpened by it. like darkness was his natural environment. he didn’t look like a college student forced into a party game; he looked like something coiled, dangerous, waiting. you didn’t know why. you didn’t know how. you just knew every instinct in you went watchful around him.
he stood with perfect posture despite the cramped space, arms crossed tight, gaze trained on you like you were the problem in the room, not the crowd that shoved you in here, not the stupid bottle, not the chanting drunks. just you.
“do not,” he said, voice controlled, “expect anything from me.”
you scoffed immediately, crossing your arms in reflex, more defensive than you meant to be. “please. as if i—”
“good,” he interrupted. “then we understand each other.”
god, he was impossible. even in a closet. even in the dark. even trapped with you for seven minutes he didn’t want. “could you not breathe directly at me?” he gestured sharply, a vague irritated little swipe of his hand.
“oh, i’m sorry. is my breathing is too aggressive for your royal highness?”
“don’t call me that.”
“then stop acting like it.”
he scoffed, low and derisive, and shifted just slightly, only for his shoulder to hit a stack of whatever junk was crammed in here. something clattered. he froze, jaw tight. “this is absurd.”
“welcome to college parties,” you rolled your eyes.
“if college parties are just exercises in forced proximity with people i can’t stand, then my expectations were, unfortunately, accurate.”
“wow,” you deadpanned. “a whole sentence without insulting my intelligence specifically. personal growth?”
“don’t tempt me,” he said. “you’re standing too close.”
you blinked. then pointed at the wall. “there’s literally nowhere else to stand, damian.”
“you’re leaning in.”
“i’m not leaning in—”
“you are.”
you took a carefully exaggerated half-step back, lifting your hands like you were approaching a feral animal. “there. happy?”
“no.”
a beat of silence, charged in that prickly way the two of you always managed. even in the murk of the dark, you could feel him glowering, feel that assessing stare like he saw more than he should. seriously, it was annoying how the dark suited him, brought out the cut of his cheekbones, the severity, like he was born for shadows. like he belonged in them.
you crossed your arms. “i didn’t exactly want to be in here with you either.”
“good,” he snapped. “then we’re aligned on something for once.”
“you could try being less of an ass for seven minutes. just as an experiment.”
“i don’t do experiments,” he said. “especially not with you.”
your mouth open and closed. “what does that even mean?”
“it means,” he said, tone dropping to something flat and cold in the dark, “that i have no interest in entertaining whatever ridiculous assumption everyone out there is making right now.”
“yeah, same,” you shot back. “everyone thinks we’re gonna make out, and i’d rather choke.”
“likewise.”
another beat. another stare you could feel but not see. you muttered a, “you’re insufferable.”
“and you’re loud,” he replied, immediate and dry. “tragically so.”
“you know, most people try to be at least a little pleasant in a tiny dark space with another human.”
“i am not most people.”
“no kidding.”
the closet seemed to shrink, too tight, the silence pulsing between you both, irritation layered over irritation, that strange magnetic tension you never acknowledged, the proximity that felt… different, now that there was nowhere to escape to. you exhaled through your nose, glaring into the vague outline of him. “of all people to get stuck with. what are the odds.”
“unfortunately high, given my luck tonight,” he muttered.
“you don’t even believe in luck.”
“correct. but if i did, it would be terrible.”
you huffed, shifting your weight, accidentally brushing a knee against some metal box wedged beside you. you winced. “and your stupid cologne is everywhere.”
“what?” he demanded, affronted.
“i can smell it. it’s—” you waved a hand, unable to articulate how it somehow managed to smell expensive, cold, and judgmental at the same time. “—doing too much.”
“i’m not responsible for your oversensitive nose.”
“oh my god. i’m saying it’s strong.”
“it’s not strong. you’re dramatic.”
“i’m trapped in a closet with you. dramatic is the default.”
he gave the smallest scoff. “you act as though this is my preference.”
“yeah, because it totally read like you were having a great time out there,” you shot back. “seriously, why are you even here? everyone knows you don’t go to parties.”
“none of your business.”
“oh, shocking,” you said drily. “damian wayne isn’t emotionally forthcoming. breaking news.”
“you can stop talking anytime.”
“you literally came to a party,” you argued, keeping your voice low even though irritation threaded every syllable. “and you’re acting like i’m the unreasonable one for asking why.”
“because you ask questions like you’re entitled to the answers.”
“i’m not entitled. i’m curious. it’s weird seeing you here.”
“i’m allowed to exist in public spaces.”
“yeah, but you usually don’t,” you poked. “you show up to class, to meetings, to argue with me, and then you disappear.”
he didn’t respond. not a word. you swallowed, suddenly aware of how long you’d been in here. two minutes? three? time stretched strangely when you were trapped with someone you couldn’t stand. you cleared your throat. “okay, fine. new question.”
“spare me.”
“why do you hate me so much?”
that one landed. you noticed. you pushed anyway. “no, really. why do you always—i don’t know—pick at me? everything i say, you have to contradict. everything i do, you act like you could’ve done it better. you always have to prove you’re smarter or faster or whatever.”
“i don’t have to prove anything,” he said coolly.
“oh, please,” you snapped. “you’re competitive with me about breathing.”
“you take up far more space than necessary.”
“that’s not an explanation.”
“it’s the only one you’re getting.” instead of letting the topic die, like he clearly expected, you opened your mouth again. he cut you off first. “you’re drunk,” he said flatly, as though diagnosing an infection. “i am not having this conversation with you while you’re intoxicated.”
“i’m not that drunk,” you protested immediately, which was absolutely the thing a drunk person would say.
he made a derisive sound, barely even a scoff, more like breath sharpened into judgment. “your balance is compromised. your tone is unregulated.”
“my tone is always unregulated around you,” you shot back.
“exactly.”
you bristled. “okay, you know what? maybe i am drunk. maybe that’s why i’m finally saying things you don’t want to hear.”
“things you’ll regret in the morning,” he said simply.
you shook your head, even though it made the closet tilt a fraction. “no. no, i won’t. because i’ve kept this to myself for too long and i don’t even know why.” he didn’t answer, or move, but something in the darkness shifted, attention sharpening, focus narrowing. a hunter stilling in brush. you swallowed, pulse kicking up. “you drive me insane, damian.”
“the feeling is mutual.” he replied dryly.
“no—you don’t understand,” you insisted, words tumbling now, too honest. “you drive me mad because you’re… you’re you. you’re brilliant and intense and—you make everything into a competition and it gets under my skin and i hate it.”
“fascinating.” he rolled his eyes, unimpressed.
“shut up, i’m not done.”
a soft exhale. possibly resignation.
you continued anyway. “but you also make me better, even when you don’t mean to. i do better work when you’re around, i focus harder, i pay attention differently. i can’t entirely dislike you for that. i’ve tried.”
his silence wasn’t smug this time. it wasn’t triumphant. it was… unreadable. you could feel his stare in the dark, the scent of his cologne, clean, expensive, annoyingly pleasant, felt closer now. finally, very quietly, he said, “you should dislike me.”
“what? why?”
“because i give you every reason to.”
you shook your head again. “yeah, you do. but you also—i don’t know. you make me want to prove i can keep up with you.”
he went still with something uncertain, like he didn’t know what to do with the sentence you’d just handed him. seconds stretched. “that is unnecessary. you already do.”
you stared at him, half sure you misheard. “what?”
a muscle feathered in his jaw, annoyance or discomfort, you couldn’t tell. “you keep up just fine.”
“wow,” you said. “riveting praise.”
“i am not praising you.”
“you kind of did.”
he exhaled sharply, the sound taut. “you’re drunk.”
“and you’re avoiding things.”
you didn’t know what made him speak next, your honesty, or the fact there was nowhere for him to escape to, but his voice came out edged with reluctant admission. “i did not intend to be here tonight.”
“yeah,” you said. “i figured. you don’t exactly scream ‘let’s shotgun a beer in someone’s kitchen.’”
he almost frowned. “i lost a bet.”
you blinked. “with who?”
“one of my brothers.”
“you have brothers?”
“that’s irrelevant.”
you bit your lip to keep from smiling too obviously. the fact that he’d answered you at all felt… bizarre. vulnerable, even.
“what was the bet?”
he sighed. “if i lost—which i did—i was required to… ‘actually interact with my peers.’”
oh. that explained why he’d been lurking like a feral cat in a room full of Roombas. “so this,” you said, sweeping a hand vaguely around the cramped closet, “is community engagement?”
“unfortunately.”
“and i’m assuming the assignment didn’t include ‘seven minutes in heaven with your academic nemesis.’”
“most certainly not.”
you let out a dry laugh and the sound felt almost absurd in the cramped closet. “well, congratulations, damian wayne. somehow the absolute pinnacle of human arrogance and discipline has been reduced to… this. a shitty college party and a closet.”
“it is… beneath me.”
“that’s putting it mildly,” you muttered, rubbing at the back of your neck. “like, you could be anywhere else. anywhere.”
“preferably anywhere else,” he admitted, voice clipped, but there was no edge this time, just the faintest trace of resignation.
you stared at him, realizing, in that odd, suspended way the closet enforced, that he actually looked… normal. not impossible. just human. cramped, tired, and mildly miserable like the rest of you. “so we agree,” you said, your tone still dry but lighter, “this party sucks.”
he exhaled, and it was soft. “it is remarkably stupid. and loud. unpleasantly loud.”
you laughed, tilting your head back against the wall. “yeah. no kidding. i’ve had easier missions in life than surviving an hour accumulation of drunk freshmen playing twister.”
“twister is… degrading,” he said, like he was genuinely offended on behalf of human dignity.
you laughed again, softer this time, and it caught in your throat. it wasn’t that you liked him, you weren’t there yet, but for a moment, in the absurdity of it all, you could see him as… tolerable. human. irritated, clearly, but not intentionally cruel in this moment. you decide to try again.
“why do you hate me so much?”
he froze, a flicker of consideration passing through his features. for a moment, it looked like he might soften, like he might actually answer without the usual venom, like he might, dare you hope, flatter, maybe even admit some part of what he really felt.
and then the wall went up again. his lips pressed into a thin line, eyes darkening. “i do not hate you,” he said finally. “i merely find your existence unnecessary.”
“unnecessary?” you repeated, heat creeping into your chest, because you could’ve sworn that just for a second you were doing so good, “are you serious right now? you can’t go five seconds without insulting me?”
“it’s not my fault that you cannot meet the standards of excellence. some people are simply incapable of keeping up.”
“oh, of course,” you spat, “you think being perfect gives you the right to humiliate literally everyone around you?”
“i merely state the facts. clarity is not cruelty. you choose to interpret it as such.”
“facts?” you laughed bitterly, stepping closer despite yourself. “you’re just mean! it’s not facts—it’s you being a pompous, insufferable—”
“pompous?” he interrupted, meeting your half step forward. “i am disciplined. competent. the difference is obvious to anyone who isn’t blind. you…” he paused, “are reckless, unfocused, and foolish. exhausting to observe.”
you snapped, leaning in so that your face mirrored his, the heat of him pressing into you. “and you think that makes you better than me?” you hissed. “you think being cruel, cutting people down, making them feel small makes you… god, what? superior?”
you hate damian wayne. you hate him for always having to be right, for turning every conversation into a battlefield where you were guaranteed to lose or be humiliated. you hate him for never letting anyone have a moment of ease, for sniffing out weakness and crushing it. you hate how he always knows how to ruin your mood before you even realized it had lifted. you hate how calm he could remain when he said the cruelest things. you hate how pretty he is. hate the way his dark eyes seemed to hold everything he wanted to say and yet could withhold, and hate how he made it impossible not to notice. hate how his hair looked when it was spiked up, hate how his hands moved with an economy that somehow looked elegant even when they were moving to insult you.
and yes, your brain, stupid and betraying you, even noticed how soft his lips looked, and you hated that too, because the thought should not exist, because it was infuriating in every possible way. “you suck,” you spat, face inches from his. the tension jittered between you, the fight you’d been having for years now boiling into every word, every breath, every glare. “you’re arrogant, cruel, self-important, and—ugh—a brat.”
his gaze flicked downward for the briefest second, almost like he caught the thought in midair, then snapped back to you. “you’re exhausting. and insistent. and mind-numbing.”
“you’re unbelievable,” you hissed. “i hate everything about you.”
“i hate you.” he didn’t back away, and you realized with a stab of frustration that neither of you would. for a heartbeat, you both simply glared at each other, chests nearly touching, breaths mingling, the fight stretching. then, impossibly, he exhaled sharply and muttered, “let’s just stop talking.”
“fine!”
“fine!” he snapped immediately, defensively, but the intensity between you didn’t dissipate, it shifted.
and then, in the small, impossibly tight closet, the heat and the fight and the tension became something else. lips collided, first in shock and defiance, then with an inevitable, consuming hunger, sharp and burning, mixing the anger and frustration with a strange, thrilling release. your hands pressed against his chest instinctively while he leaned into you, one hand brushing your waist, the other catching your forearm as if to tether you in place. the kiss dragged long, messy, heated with everything unspoken, everything bitter, everything that had built up over years of rivalry, insults, and one-upping.
your brain tried to keep up, tried to make sense of it—tried to file it under absurd, impossible, this should not be happening—but it was fuzzy, fogged with adrenaline and heat and the sharp anger that had never truly left. it was all sensation, all friction, all the fight you’d carried condensed into a single, messy, consuming press of lips and teeth and tongue.
even as you kissed, your competitive instinct kicked in. he moved like he wanted to dominate, to take control, and you refused to submit. your tongue pressed back against his, testing, pushing, claiming your own ground. hands curled in his shirt, gripping, pulling him closer, while your other hand pressed against his chest, trying to steer, to guide, to prove you weren’t just following. you would not lose—even here, even now.
you felt the thrill and the irritation spike. he was infuriating. so careful, so deliberate, every movement practiced, like he could calculate the perfect kiss in the dark. you hated that it made you want to try harder, push back, meet him, best him even in the middle of this impossible intimacy.
you pulled back just enough to see his reaction. the thought flickered, brief and dangerous, to tug at his hair, to assert some kind of control in the only way you could think of in this moment, but you didn’t, no doubt he would complain, stiffen, ruin the moment with words about you ruining his hair that cut through the tension and recalibrated everything back to him being infuriating and perfect and untouchable. so instead you let your hands stay flat against his chest, feeling the heat and the tautness under your fingers, the way his muscles flexed with every shift, and you leaned in again, tracing the edge of his jaw with your lips.
your mind raced. this was ridiculous. you had been locked in battle with him academically for years, and yet here you were, locked in a closet, trying to best him in a completely different arena. if you couldn’t win in class, you decided, then maybe you could win here. maybe you could make him feel something he hadn’t calculated, hadn’t prepared for, hadn’t practiced. maybe this was the place you could outmaneuver him. you let your lips trail down the side of his neck, teasing, light, careful. every press, every brush, was a question: did this make him tense? did it register? could you see any crack in that infallible armor he always wore?
he stiffened under your hands, a breath caught in his throat. “what are you—” he started, but you pressed a finger lightly against his lips, stopping him, and let your lips wander lower, brushing over the line of his collarbone. he froze again, and your chest fluttered with the thrill of it, that impossible, forbidden satisfaction of being the one who made him lose his rhythm, even slightly.
the door creaked, and your stomach flipped. seven minutes—or however long it had been—hit like a timer. you pulled back just in time to not get caught, heart hammering so hard it might have been audible over the party sounds outside. damian’s eyes flicked to the opening doorway like a predator caught in the sunlight, and in a blur, he shoved past you and bolted. you barely had time to blink before he was gone from the closet entirely. when he stepped into the harsh overhead lights of the party, you froze mid-breath. his face was impossibly red, ears hot, jaw tight, and for a split second, he looked less like the untouchable, infuriating academic rival and more like… well, like a human being, flustered and furious all at once.
of course—it was damian wayne. nothing about this had been simple, or logical, or anything you could control.
from across the room, someone clapped slowly. “wow, dramatic much?” they called. you groaned, slumping against the wall. yes. very dramatic. entirely mortifying. damian was probably outside somewhere, trying not to combust from embarrassment, because of course he couldn’t just leave things normal. nothing with him ever was.
who started it? does it even matter? probably not. you could already feel the impossibility of trying to face him in class tomorrow.
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