Damon was already inside when you walked into the crypt, thumbing through a spellbook with a restlessness he didn’t bother to hide.

“Well,” he drawled, not bothering to turn around, “if it isn’t my favorite ghost. Come back to haunt me?”

You didn’t respond. Just dropped your bag on the stone table with a thud and started unpacking the herbs and old grimoires.

He glanced at you. “No hello? No icy glare? I’m a little hurt.”

“I’m not here for small talk,” you said flatly, flipping through a leather-bound tome. “Let’s just find the damn spell and be done with it.”

That wiped the smirk off his face, just for a second.

He watched you for a moment, quiet, his fingers drumming against the book in front of him. “You really don’t care anymore, huh?”

You looked up at him with a blank stare. “Should I?”

He flinched, just barely. “I made a mistake.”

“You made a choice,” you corrected, not even looking up from the page. “Big difference.”

He stepped toward you, trying to read your face, your posture, anything. “You don’t even want to talk about it?”

“No,” you said, calmly, turning another page. “Because you already said everything when you took her home that night.”

Silence fell hard between you. He stood there, stunned, like he expected something more, an argument, a slap, maybe even tears.

But you just kept reading.

Damon’s voice was low now, uncertain. “You used to love me.”

You shrugged. “I used to love a lot of things.”

He looked like he’d just been punched. And you, well, you barely even looked at him.

“Let’s just get this over with,” you said coolly. “I’ve got better things to do.”