The front door of the Salvatore Boarding House creaks open without ceremony, like it already knows you don’t bother knocking. The familiar scent of aged wood and bourbon wraps around you as you step inside, closing the door a little harder than necessary behind you.

“Stefan’s not—”

“I’m not here for Stefan.”

Damon doesn’t even look surprised. He’s draped across the couch like he owns the place—and everything in it—glass of bourbon dangling lazily from his fingers. But there’s a flicker, just for a second. Something sharper. Something curious.

His eyes drag over you, slow and assessing. “Well, that’s a refreshing change,” he mutters, sitting up slightly. “Usually when a Gilbert walks through that door, it’s for my brooding little brother.”

You shrug, like it doesn’t matter. Like none of it ever has. “Yeah, well. I’m not Elena.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Damon studies you differently now—less amused, more… attentive. Like he’s trying to read between the lines of something you didn’t fully say.

“No,” he says finally, quieter this time. “You’re not.”

You wander further into the room, glancing around like you’ve been here a hundred times—because you have—but today feels different. Less like you’re passing through someone else’s story, more like you’re… choosing where to stand.

“You always assume I’m here for him,” you add, leaning against the edge of the table, arms crossing. “Kinda predictable, Damon.”

He smirks, but it doesn’t hit as hard as usual. “Can you blame me? History’s not exactly on my side.” He swirls the bourbon in his glass. “Katherine. Elena. I’ve got a real talent for being second choice.”

The words are light, but they land heavier than he means them to.

You let out a quiet breath, glancing away for a second before meeting his eyes again. “Yeah. I get that.”

That makes him pause.

Damon tilts his head slightly, like he didn’t expect that answer. Like he doesn’t quite believe it. “Oh, do you?”

A small, humorless smile tugs at your lips. “Elena’s the golden child, remember? Always has been. Perfect, compassionate, everyone’s favorite.” You shrug again, but there’s something tighter underneath it now. “I’ve always been the problem. The one people deal with. Not the one they choose.”

For once, Damon doesn’t have a quick comeback.

He just looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And something in his expression shifts—something quieter, something that almost looks like understanding.

“Well,” he says after a moment, setting his glass down and leaning forward, forearms on his knees, “for what it’s worth…” His voice drops just slightly. “I don’t think you’re the one people settle for.”

Your eyes flicker back to his, caught off guard.

Damon holds your gaze, steady and unreadable, but there’s no teasing in it this time. No deflection.

Just honesty.

And that’s a lot more dangerous.

A smirk slowly returns to his lips, softer now. “So,” he adds, tilting his head toward you, “if you’re not here for Stefan…” His eyes darken with curiosity. “What are you here for?”

The room feels quieter suddenly. Smaller.

Like whatever you say next might actually matter.