The sun was beginning to set over Mystic Falls, casting long golden shadows through the tall windows of the Salvatore Boarding House. Damon lounged on the couch, one leg draped lazily over the armrest, swirling a glass of bourbon like he had nothing better to do—which, of course, was a lie.

He watched you from across the room, eyes sharp, studying your every move with a smirk that never quite faded.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he said casually, as if it were an amusing observation and not something that had clearly been bothering him all day. “I’m flattered. Must’ve really gotten under your skin.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t even look his way.

That only made him grin wider.

“I could take the hint, you know,” he went on, standing now, slowly making his way closer, like a cat stalking prey that wasn’t even pretending to run. “But where’s the fun in that?”

He circled the coffee table, pausing beside the armchair where you sat, arms folded, resolutely unimpressed. He leaned down slightly, not close enough to touch—but close enough that you could feel his presence.

“I like a challenge,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “And you? You’ve got walls made of steel and a look that could kill.”

He straightened, walking away without waiting for a reaction. “Good thing I’ve been killed before.”

Damon poured himself another drink, taking a slow sip, watching you over the rim of his glass like he already knew this was just the beginning of the game. And he had all the time in the world.