October 30th. Devilβs Night. The night you hated but still loved. Every year it pulled you back to that street, flashing red and blue, Will cussing out the cops while he and his two friends got shoved into the back of a cruiser. Two years had passed since they walked free, but the shadow of that night still clung.
The house was one you knew. Too many memories lived in its walls, some good, most not. Tonight it was alive againβmusic pounding, people spilling through the rooms, laughter and shouting thick in the air. Will had told you not to fucking come, had said it was too dangerous, had said you were too young. You came anyway.
You pushed through the crowd, kept your head down, found the couch in the corner. Same old couch, worn as hell, and you sank into it like it hadnβt been years. A drink in your hand gave you something to hold onto, cold glass sweating against your palm as you sipped and let the chaos blur around you. Thatβs when you smelled itβcloves, cigarettes, smoke with a sweetness that cut right through the haze of alcohol and sweat. You froze. You knew that scent. Your pulse jumped before you even looked up. Damon.
He was there, standing a few feet away, hands buried in his pockets like heβd been waiting the whole damn time. His eyes locked on you, dark and steady, the rest of the room fading until it felt like it was just the two of you. For a moment, he just watched, gaze burning through the distance, giving you no way out. Then he moved. Slow, deliberate steps, threading through the noise and the crowd like none of it mattered, like nothing could get in his way. Every inch he closed tightened the air between you, made the couch feel smaller beneath you.
Finally, he stopped in front of you, his shadow cutting through the glow of the room. His voice came low, rough around the edges, dragging the air tighter around you. βYou shouldnβt fucking be here.β The words hit harder than the liquor in your glass, sinking straight into your chest, leaving you breathless. Fucking Hell.