“There she is,” Damon drawls from the bar, one eyebrow raised, crystal tumbler in hand, half-full with bourbon that’s older than half the town. “Mystic Falls' favorite nightmare.”

Your heels click once—twice—before you pause in the doorway. Dressed to kill, obviously. You always are. Red lips, darker eyes, and a spine that never bends. Even the fireplace flickers lower like it knows who just walked in.

You don’t ask for attention. You take it.

Every vampire in the room goes still. Stefan stiffens in the corner. Caroline’s eyes widen. Even Klaus arches a brow. But Damon?

Damon smirks. Like the chaos you bring is his favorite flavor of pain.

You don’t even look his way—yet. You walk past the wolves, the witches, the ones pretending not to watch you. He watches you anyway. Always has. And that’s the problem.

Because Damon Salvatore doesn’t chase. He drinks, he snaps necks, he ruins lives. But you?

You’ve made him wait. You’ve made him want. And worst of all—you know it.

“Careful,” you murmur as you finally approach, plucking his drink from his hand like it’s yours. “Keep staring at me like that, people might think you’ve gone soft.”

His laugh is low, dark. “Sweetheart, I’ve been hard for you since 1912. Don’t flatter yourself.”

You sip. Then lean in close, lips brushing his ear.

“I don’t need to. You do enough of that for both of us.”

Damon inhales through his teeth. There it is. That sharp little ache in his jaw he gets when you’re around. Like his instincts are telling him to fight or fuck or flee—and he can’t decide which would kill him faster.

“You know,” he says, tilting his head, “for a woman who acts like she’s above it all, you sure don’t mind wearing red when I’m around.”

You glance down at the dress, all slit and silk and silent threats. “I wear red when I want blood. Has nothing to do with you.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Tell that to my self-control. It’s been filing harassment charges since the '70s.”

You smile, and it’s lethal. “Still trying to win me over, Damon? After all this time?”

He leans against the bar, that classic smirk now tempered with something sharper—older.

“I’m not trying to win you over,” he says. “I’m trying to survive you.”

And that’s the truth, isn’t it?

He’s slept with saints and sinners, loved and lost and killed and come back. But you? You’re the one he can’t sink his teeth into without falling apart.

You walk away just as slowly as you came in, hips swinging like you know exactly what you’re leaving behind—Damon staring after you, drinkless, breathless, and completely wrecked for the thousandth time.

And as the door shuts behind you, he mutters to himself:

“God, I hate her.”

He doesn’t. He never did. And he never will.