"Kael! Wait!"
He was gone.
Amara sighed, torn between exasperation and fear. She turned slowly — and froze.
Right in front of her face, suspended in the dim moonlight, was a thick web.
And in the centre — a spider the size of her palm.
Her scream ripped through the silence.
Her flashlight slipped from her hand and rolled away, beam flickering across cracked tiles.
She stumbled backward, heart hammering. "No, no, no…"
Then footsteps.
"Amara!"
The voice cut through her panic — familiar, steady, grounding.
Damian appeared at the end of the hall, flashlight in hand. His usually calm face was etched with worry.
He must have come running when he saw Kael alone.
When their eyes met, her fear broke like glass.
He crossed the distance in seconds. "It's just a spider," he said softly, stepping between her and the web.
"'Just a spider'—?" she repeated weakly.
Without hesitation, he reached up, brushed the web aside, and flicked the spider to the floor, crushing it with his shoe.
Then he turned to her. "See? Gone."
She blinked, trembling. "I-I hate spiders."
"I know," he said gently.
She frowned. "How—?"
"Because you screamed the same way last semester when one landed on your book in the library."
Her mouth fell open. "You remembered that?"
"I remember a lot of things," he said quietly.
The air between them changed then — soft, charged.
In the faint moonlight, she noticed how the light caught the edge of his jaw, the steadiness of his eyes. He held out a hand to her.
"Come on. Let's finish this."
She hesitated. "You're not scared?"
"I am," he said simply. "But I'd rather be scared with you than leave you alone."
Her heart stumbled.
He said it so casually, but the warmth in his voice lingered.
By the time they reached the top floor, her fear had faded, replaced by the steady thrum of his presence beside her. They found the plastic skull easily, laughed a little at the absurdity of it all, and made their way out — hand in hand.
Outside, the others stared as they emerged.
The president blinked. "You two… actually did it?"
Damian shrugged. "It wasn't that bad."
Kael, still pale, looked away, muttering something about Amara "freezing up." But the president's knowing look said he didn't believe him.
That night, Amara lay awake long after the laughter faded, her mind replaying the moment Damian's hand had closed over hers in the dark — steady, warm, certain.
Back to Present
Amara blinked, coming back to herself.
Damian was still holding her — his arms steady, his warmth surrounding her like a quiet reminder that some things didn't change.
For a heartbeat, it felt like that night again — fear replaced by comfort, chaos melting into something tender and unspoken.
Then realization struck.
She stiffened slightly, her hands awkwardly pressed against his chest. "D-Damian…"
He glanced down, brow lifting. "Hmm?"
"You're… still hugging me."
He didn't move at first. His hand lingered for a moment longer at her back before he stepped away, clearing his throat. "Right. Sorry."
Her face burned. She turned away quickly, brushing non-existent dust off the table. "It's… okay. I was just startled."
He smiled faintly, amused. "You scream like it's the end of the world, but you clean up like you're preparing for one."
She frowned, though the corners of her lips twitched. "It's not funny."
"It's a little funny," he said, leaning casually against the counter. "You, armed with a duster, ready to fight a spider three inches wide."
She shot him a glare. "You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"
"Not a chance."
Silence settled again, comfortable this time. The golden light of the setting sun spilled across the room, catching in her hair, in the faint smile tugging at her lips.
Damian studied her quietly — the way her bangs fell across her glasses, the faint crease between her brows when she was flustered. There was something achingly familiar about the moment, yet entirely new.
He stepped closer.
"You've changed," he said softly.
She looked up. "Changed?"
"You used to hide behind everyone else," he murmured. "Now you stand on your own. You still get scared… but you face it anyway."
Her throat tightened. She looked down, fiddling with her hands. "I had to."
"I know," he said. "And I'm proud of you."
Those words hit deeper than she expected. She blinked rapidly, her chest warm and aching all at once.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He smiled — slow, genuine. "For what?"
"For remembering," she said softly. "For always being there when I'm scared."
For a moment, neither spoke. The world outside quieted, the sun dipping lower, painting the room in gold and shadow.
Then, without meaning to, Amara said, "Do you remember the Halloween night? When we—"
"Faced the spider together?" he finished, chuckling. "How could I forget? You nearly made me deaf with that scream."
She gasped, scandalized. "It wasn't that loud!"
"It echoed through the entire building."
"It did not!"
He laughed — that low, warm sound that always made her heart stutter.
And suddenly, she was laughing too.
It felt good. Freeing. Like letting go of something heavy she didn't realize she was carrying.
When their laughter faded, a quiet settled — soft, lingering, and full of unspoken things.
Damian's gaze held hers, steady, unreadable.
"Amara," he said quietly.
She swallowed. "Yes?"
He reached out — slowly, as if giving her time to pull away — and brushed a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered near her cheek, a ghost of a touch.
For a heartbeat, everything stilled. The fading light framed them, the world holding its breath.
Her heart raced, but she didn't step back.
Damian's voice was low, barely above a whisper. "You're braver than you think."
She smiled faintly, though her pulse fluttered wildly. "Only when you're around."
His eyes softened. "Then I'll make sure I always am."
Something unspoken shimmered between them — fragile, delicate, and real.
He didn't kiss her. He didn't need to.
The warmth in his gaze, the soft curve of her smile — it was enough.
Outside, the wind stirred the autumn leaves against her window, the sound soft and rhythmic, like the whisper of an old memory.
And for the first time in a long while, Amara felt at peace — not because the fear was gone, but because she wasn't alone in facing it.
That night, after Damian left, Amara stood by the window, the city lights twinkling below. She touched her cheek, still warm from where his fingers had brushed against her skin.
Then she smiled — small, wistful, but full of something she hadn't felt in years.
Hope.