How much of a shock it must have been for Damon when, in the middle of the night, he opened the door and saw you — not as a memory, not as a ghost from the past, but real, standing right in front of him, barely able to stay on your feet, your face pale and tight with pain. Over a hundred years of silence, you had disappeared without a word, without a trace, neither Stefan nor Lexi knew where you had gone, and he had long since stopped believing he would ever see you again, yet here you were now, as if time had suddenly decided to return something it had taken away.

Your body was tense, your breathing shallow, your hand pressed tightly against your side where a dark stain of blood seeped through the fabric, too intense, too fresh for something that should have already healed. That was what caught his attention the most — a wound that refused to close, that did not heal the way it should, as if something was keeping it open. Something sharper appeared in his gaze, something alert, because this wasn’t normal, not for someone like you.

You didn’t manage to say a word. Your body suddenly faltered, your knees giving out as the world around you blurred, and that was when he reacted. Fast, without hesitation, as if instinct had taken over, catching you before you could hit the ground, his hand gripping your arm firmly while the other slid under your back, pulling you closer as your weight collapsed against him.

Without a word, he lifted you and carried you inside. The door slammed shut behind you, cutting off the cold night, and he didn’t take his eyes off you for even a second, feeling the scent of your blood, strong and unsettling, but there was something else in it, something wrong, something that made his jaw tighten. It wasn’t just that you were hurt.

It was that something was wrong with you.

And that meant trouble.