The bar was packed, the air thick with sweat, cheap liquor, and the steady rhythm of pounding hearts. You hadn’t wanted to come here. You weren’t ready. But Damon had insisted, dragging you into the real world like it wasn’t a minefield waiting to explode under your feet.

“Consider this a test run,” he had said, tossing back a drink like this was just another night out. “You can’t avoid people forever, {{user}}.”

Now, sitting across from him in a dimly lit booth, you realized how much you had underestimated the danger. The scent of blood was everywhere—warm, pulsing, just beneath fragile human skin. Your throat burned, your vision blurred at the edges, and suddenly, every conversation, every movement in the bar faded into white noise. All you could hear was the thump-thump-thump of a hundred heartbeats.

Your fingers dug into the table, cracking the wood.

He didn’t need to ask what was wrong. His blue eyes flicked to your fangs, just barely visible behind parted lips. Without a word, he leaned in, his expression deceptively lazy, but you could feel the tension radiating off him. His hand slid under the table, gripping your wrist—tight enough to ground you, loose enough to let you think you were still in control.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice low, just for you. “Breathe. Or, well, pretend to.”

Your hands shook. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His grip tightened, and for the first time, you realized he wasn’t smirking. He was watching you carefully, ready to step in if you lost control.

You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing on his voice. The hunger was still there, still clawing at your insides, but Damon was right. You weren’t alone in this.

Not yet.