Damon woke up with a pounding headache, the taste of blood in his mouth, and absolutely no memory of the night before.

He groaned, pushing himself upright, only to realize he wasn’t alone. You stood near the window, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expression.

“Morning, sunshine,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. “Care to explain why I feel like I got hit by a truck?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you studied him—too carefully, like you were waiting for something.

Damon narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“You really don’t remember?”

He frowned. “Depends. Did I do something fun or something I’ll regret?”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “That depends on who you ask.”

The uneasy feeling in Damon’s chest only grew. He had woken up in strange situations before, but this was different. Something had happened last night—something important. And you weren’t telling him why.

“What did I do?” he asked, this time more serious.

You hesitated. “It’s not what you did, Damon. It’s what you said.”

And suddenly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to remember.