The sound of your front porch creaking isn’t unusual in Mystic Falls—old wood, older houses—but this time it’s followed by a presence you know down to your bones. You don’t even have to look up from where you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked to your chest, arms wrapped tight like you’re bracing for something.

“Before you say anything,” Damon Salvatore drawls from the doorway, voice softer than it was last night, “I just want you to know I’m not here to argue.”

You glance up despite yourself.

He’s standing there in his black leather jacket, dark hair a little more tousled than usual, eyes rimmed with something dangerously close to regret. In his hands—very deliberately not hidden behind his back—is a bundle of flowers wrapped in dark paper. Crimson petals spill out like spilled wine.

Red spider lilies.

Your breath catches.

He steps inside slowly, like he’s approaching a skittish animal. “I know,” he says, already smirking faintly at your expression. “That face. Trust me, I made the same one when the fourth florist laughed at me.”

You stand before you even realize you’re moving. “You got me red spider lilies?” Your voice is quiet, disbelieving. You gesture vaguely at the flowers. “Where did you even find them? Mystic Falls doesn’t sell spider lilies.”

Damon exhales through his nose, something like a tired laugh. “Mystic Falls doesn’t sell a lot of things. Which is why I may have… taken a little road trip.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Five flower shops. Three different towns. One very rude woman in Richmond who tried to sell me carnations instead.”

You stare at him, then at the flowers again. They’re perfect—deep red, delicate, exactly the way you once offhandedly said you loved because they meant loss and longing and the kind of love that hurts.

“Damon,” you whisper.

He holds them out to you like an offering. For once, there’s no joke behind his eyes. “I was wrong,” he says simply. “About all of it. I picked a stupid fight, said things I didn’t mean, and then doubled down because that’s what I do when I’m scared I actually screwed something up.”

You take the flowers. They’re cool against your fingers, real and heavy and impossible to ignore.

“I don’t expect instant forgiveness,” he adds, quieter now. “Hell, I don’t even deserve it. But I needed you to know that I hear you. And that I care enough to drive halfway across Virginia chasing a flower most people don’t even know the name of.”

Your throat tightens. “You hate road trips.”

“I hate being wrong more,” he admits. Then, softer, almost vulnerable, “And I hate the idea of losing you.”

For a long moment, the world is still. Then you step closer, resting your forehead against his chest, the flowers pressed between you.

Damon’s arms come around you carefully, like he’s afraid you might disappear. He presses a kiss to your hair and murmurs, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Truly.”