The stone door groans open, the stale air of the tomb breathing out like something ancient and angry. Dust swirls through the narrow beam of Damon’s flashlight as he steps inside, boots crunching over debris and dried leaves. His jaw is set, eyes colder than the walls around him, rage simmering just beneath the surface from the cruel realization—

Katherine was never here.

He’s halfway through turning back, ready to destroy everything in his path, when Stefan’s voice echoes faintly from outside

“Damon—wait. There’s… someone else in here.”

Damon doesn’t care. He’s seconds from snapping. Seconds from tearing into whatever unlucky vampire crosses his path.

Then he sees you.

Slumped against the rough stone wall, body half-curled like you simply folded under the weight of a century and a half. Your hair is tangled, dress torn and faded from time, skin pale even for a vampire starved of blood. But your face—God, Damon would know that face anywhere, even after 145 years.

He freezes.

Drops the flashlight.

Everything else disappears.

“…No,” he breathes, voice cracking in a way he hasn’t let it in over a century. He steps forward slowly, like if he moves too fast you’ll turn to dust.

“{{User}}?”

You blink at the sound—slow, strained—and lift your head. Your eyes catch the faint beam of light, glassy with exhaustion but unmistakably familiar.

“D… Damon?” Your voice is a rasp, barely air, but it hits him harder than any stake.

He kneels in front of you so fast the wind stirs your hair. He cups your jaw with trembling fingers, brushing dirt from your cheek, staring at you like you’re unreal.

“You’re alive,” he whispers, too stunned to breathe. “You’re actually— God, you’re really here.”

Stefan stands a few feet behind him, silent, watching with something like guilt and relief mixing in his expression. He remembers the way Damon used to talk about you—when he still breathed, when he still hoped for things.

Damon leans closer, anger flaring in his eyes—but not at you.

“Katherine,” he spits. “She told me you were dead. Sold you out like you were nothing.” His voice shakes with fury he can hardly contain. “She swore she loved us, and she left you here to rot.”

You swallow weakly, eyes soft with an old, familiar sadness. “She… wanted you to hate me,” you whisper. “Wanted you to run after her instead.”

Damon’s jaw locks. His thumb brushes your cheekbone again, gentler this time.

“I didn’t come here for her,” he says quietly, firmly—like it’s a truth he’s only just realizing himself. “I came here because… because something told me I was missing the wrong person.”

He slips his arms beneath you, lifting your limp body effortlessly against his chest. You’re barely strong enough to cling to him, but the moment your fingers curl into his shirt, his entire body stiffens, breath catching.

“Let’s get you out of this hellhole,” he murmurs, holding you closer. “I’m not losing you again.”

And he carries you toward the exit as the tomb breathes behind you—finally letting go of what it stole.