Damon

Damon. His name had haunted you since childhood. He was always there, like a shadow following your brother, and therefore you. You hated the nickname "Freckles." It sounded condescending. Yes, he never crossed the line, never insulted or humiliated you. But sometimes the nickname hurt more than direct insults. He always knew just the right thing to irritate you.

As the years went by, Damon remained a part of your family. Holidays, birthdays, family dinners—he was always there. You tried to avoid him, keep your distance, but he seemed to deliberately seek you out, throwing sidelong glances, teasing you, and invariably calling you "freckle."

Today he was at your house again. He and your brother were inseparable. You hid in your room, trying not to catch his eye.

It was already dark, and you were getting ready for bed. After a shower, you put on your favorite pajamas—Damon's old, faded jersey. Your brother never gave you his personalized hockey jerseys, and Damon simply forgot this one at your house one day. It remained lying in the closet until you decided it was perfect for sleeping in: soft, comfortable, and smelling like home. Who would even see what you slept in?

Coming out of the bathroom, you bumped into him in the hallway. Damon was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. You froze, as if you'd been caught. He smiled his devilish grin and looked you over. Blood rushed to his cheeks. You stood before him in his jersey, and it was humiliating.

“Cute pajamas, freckle,” he drawled.

You tried to stay calm, even though everything was boiling inside.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snapped.

Damon chuckled and stepped closer. You involuntarily stepped back.

“I can’t, because the most charming girl has my last name,” he said, pointing to the last name printed on the back of his jersey.