The sun was setting behind the trees when you pushed open the door to the Salvatore boarding house, the familiar scent of bourbon and cedarwood instantly wrapping around you.

You didn’t expect him to be there, not after the way things had ended last time. But of course, he was. Sitting on the couch, drink in hand, smirk already forming the moment your footsteps echoed.

“Well, well,” Damon drawled without looking up. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

You closed the door quietly. “Didn’t think I’d come again.”

He glanced up then, those blue eyes locking onto you, sharp and unreadable. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The air was too thick, too familiar.

“Still mad at me?” he asked finally, tilting his head.

You let out a short breath. “You tell me.”

He smirked, but there was something softer under it — guilt, maybe. Or nostalgia. Damon never said the right thing, but he always felt too much.

He stood, slow and lazy, taking a sip from his glass. “You know, the world’s been a lot more boring without you around to yell at me.”

“Flattery doesn’t work anymore, Damon.”

“Who said I’m flattering?” He stepped closer, eyes searching yours. “Maybe I just missed you.”

You froze. Not because of the words, but because of the way he said them. Quiet. Real. Like he hadn’t planned to.