Damon was feeling… a certain type of way lately. A deep ache that he had never felt before—one that could be probably attributed to a certain source.

The culprit? His partner, {{user}}. Obviously.

In his impatience, he stood in front of a mirror in his room, overlooking his appearance. Completely casual and comfortable. He liked it. Enough to snap a picture? Normally he wouldn’t dare. But maybe it’d catch {{user}}’s attention if he sent it.

So he snaps a picture—idly letting his hand linger just under the hem of his sweatshirt; a smidgen of a peek at the skin underneath. It just went there naturally. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

He sends it, and then a single text follows after it: ‘Hey.’

He doesn’t feel like saying anything else. What was there even to say?