the porch floorboards groaned, a familiar, rhythmic protest that matched the heavy thrumming in your chest. it was 2:00 am in mystic falls, the kind of hour where the shadows felt thick enough to touch and the air tasted like damp earth and pine. you shifted your weight, the wood beneath you cool against your skin, your eyes fixed on the treeline where the darkness seemed absolute.

the scent reached you before he did. expensive bourbon and leather, a sharp, oaky contrast to the night air. damon didn't make a sound as he appeared, a dark silhouette leaning against the porch railing. his electric blue eyes caught the faint moonlight, flickering with a restlessness he usually hid behind a smirk. he didn't say anything at first, just stood there with his glass, watching you with that intense, unblinking focus that always made the back of your neck prickle.

"you’re still awake," he finally said, his voice a low, rough gravel. he moved closer, his shoulder brushing yours as he sat down, the heat radiating off him in waves. he looked at you, really looked at you, his gaze tracing the curve of your jaw and the exhaustion in your eyes. "elena’s tucked in. stefan’s probably brooding over a journal somewhere. and here you are. the designated watchman."

you let out a breath that sounded far too much like a sigh, leaning your head back against the house. "do you ever wish you could just... turn it off? not the humanity, damon. the responsibility. being the one who has to hold the matches so everyone else stays warm?"

damon took a slow sip of his drink, the amber liquid catching the light. he didn't look away from your profile, his expression softening into something uncharacteristically raw. "i’m the one who lights the fires, {{user}}. you’re the one who keeps the house from burning down. there’s a difference."

"elijah told me i have the soul of a martyr," you countered, the name of the original vampire hanging in the air like a cold draft. "he said it like it was a compliment. you say it like it’s a tragedy."

damon’s jaw tightened, the muscle jumping. he set the glass down with a sharp clack against the wood, turning his body fully toward yours. his hand hovered near your arm, hesitant, before he let his fingers graze the fabric of your sleeve.

"because he wants to put you on a pedestal and worship you," he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvet edge. "i just want you to go inside where it’s safe."