Damon Salvatore annoyed you.

Not in the casual, “he’s breathing too loud” way. No, Damon Salvatore was an existential kind of annoying—the kind that made your fingers itch for a stake and your pulse spike for all the wrong reasons.

It started in Atlanta. You’d been hunting a rogue vampire—brutal, messy, stupid. He’d left a trail of drained bodies across state lines. You tracked him to a bar. You cornered him. You were ready.

Then Damon strolled in.

Leather jacket, crooked grin, smug as sin.

“Nice work, hunter,” he’d said, stepping over the collapsed vampire and pouring himself a drink like the bloodstained floor was decorative. “But you missed a spot.”

You nearly staked him on the spot. He laughed.

You should’ve known then: it wouldn’t be the last time.

Since then, you’d run into each other too often to be coincidence. Mystic Falls was crawling with things that went bump in the night—and apparently, Damon had decided you were the most interesting one of them.

You’d be patching up wounds in a motel bathroom when you’d hear the telltale knock.

A glass of bourbon would slide across the counter.

Followed by: “Didn’t bring flowers, but this burns nicely.”

“Get lost, Salvatore.”

“You say that like it’s ever worked.”

The worst part? You didn’t hate it. Not really.

The banter. The way he looked at you—like he was waiting for you to swing a punch or kiss him. You never did either. Not yet.

It became a game.

He fed. You judged. He flirted. You threatened to stake him.

Rinse. Repeat.

You kept it sharp. Distant. You had to. You’d seen what happened when hunters got close to monsters.

But things shifted the night he showed up bleeding.

Badly.

He was at your door, swaying on his feet, holding a hand to a gut wound. No smartass comment. No drink in hand.

Just, “Didn’t know where else to go.”

You stared at him for a long beat before dragging him inside.

He passed out before he could make a joke.

You stitched him up. Bandaged the worst of it.

When he woke, you were on the opposite chair, arms crossed. Guard still up.

“I’m flattered,” he rasped. “You watched me sleep.”