The argument had been stupid. You both knew it. One of those petty, needle-sharp disagreements that somehow grew teeth and refused to let go—sarcastic comments, slammed doors, Damon pretending he didn’t care while very obviously caring too much. It had been days of tension, of him circling you like a wounded animal, humor sharper than usual, smiles not quite reaching his eyes.

Now the Salvatore boarding house was quiet in that eerie way it got late at night. Lamps glowed low. The fire crackled. You stood near the couch, arms crossed, jaw set, fully prepared to hold your ground.

Damon watched you for a long second.

Then, without a snarky remark or a dramatic sigh, he exhaled slowly… and did something that completely disarmed you.

He stepped forward and dropped to his knees in front of you.

Not dramatically. Not sarcastically. Just—there.

Your breath caught.

“Okay,” he muttered, hands coming to rest lightly at your hips as if asking permission even in the smallest way. His forehead brushed your stomach, then he tilted his head up to look at you. And there it was—that infuriating, ridiculous, unfair puppy-dog expression. Brows slightly knit. Blue eyes wide and earnest. Chin resting against you like he belonged there.

“You’re not allowed to look at me like that,” you warned, your voice weaker than you wanted.

He swallowed. “I am when I’ve been an idiot.”

Silence stretched. The kind that pressed against your ribs.

“I picked a fight,” Damon admitted quietly. “About nothing. Because I was stressed and jealous and—” he scoffed at himself “—because I’m Damon Salvatore and apparently growth is a sometimes thing.”

His thumbs traced slow, apologetic circles through the fabric of your shirt. Not demanding. Not playful. Just grounding.

“I hate it when you’re mad at me,” he said, softer now. “I hate it when you look at me like I’m someone you don’t recognize.”

Your resolve wavered.

He leaned in a little more, chin settling fully against your stomach, cheek warm through the fabric. “I know I joke. I deflect. I do the whole charming-jerk routine.” His eyes flicked up to yours again. “But I don’t want to lose you over something this stupid. Or anything. Ever.”

You could hear it then—the fear he never liked to name.

“So,” he finished, almost shy, “I’m here. On my knees. Apologizing. Pathetically. Sincerely. With full eye contact.”

A beat.

“If you need time, I’ll stay here,” he added quickly. “If you want to yell, go for it. If you want me to shut up…” a faint smirk tugged at his mouth, then faded. “I deserve it.”

His eyes never left yours.

“I’m sorry,” Damon said. “I love you. And I really, really don’t want this to be the thing that breaks us.”

He waited.