The rain pounded the glass, as if trying to release the tension building in the house.
Winter stood against the wall, her shoulders tense, her lips pressed tightly together. She heard everything—the footsteps, the intonations, the pauses. And she felt it: Damon was lying.
"Who is she?" she asked quietly, almost silently.
Damon leaned back on the couch, his hand on the armrest. His gaze slid past her, as if it were easier to look at a shadow than at her.
"Nobody," he breathed. "Just an old acquaintance."
"You don't call someone 'an old acquaintance' when you disappear for two hours when you were supposed to meet her."
There was no hysteria in her voice. Just a quiet, tired disappointment. That hurt more than screaming.
Damon ran a hand through his hair, as if trying to erase the last twenty-four hours from his memory.
{{user}}. She had appeared suddenly, as always. Everything about her was out of place: her voice, her calm, the tight little smile she gave him, as if she knew everything about him, about his fears, about the emptiness that would never go away.
She hadn't asked. She had just appeared. And he had followed her, as if she were an old nightmare he couldn't escape.
"It didn't mean anything," he said dully. "I didn't touch her. I just—"
"I wanted to be with someone who couldn't see you," she interrupted. "Not in the blind way."
The blow had been true. She knew. Damon stood, stepped closer, as always—on the edge. That silence between them again, electric, shattering. "Don't make her the reason. I do. I screw up, Winter. Not her."
"No, Damon," her voice cracked, and that was the scariest part. "You just choose where to be yourself. And today, you chose her."
{{user}} didn't destroy. She simply stepped — as she always did — into an open wound. And everything between him and Winter shook.
{{user}} wasn't going back.
At least, not to him.
Thunder Bay was still a mistaken town for her: a leather-bound memory that smelled of smoke and blood and something too personal. But whenever she heard his name — on the news, on a podcast, in a casual conversation — it all came back. She could feel it, physically, in the pit of her stomach. Damon Torrance. A monster with studied politeness. The flame she had once failed to extinguish.
She had arrived again, unannounced, unannounced. She had simply stood in the doorway of his apartment. Damon had seen her, and had not been surprised.
"You still wear black," she had said by way of greeting.
He grinned, and that grin was all him. Threat, pain, recognition.
"And you still come back when you shouldn't be expected."
"Do you love her?" {{user}} asked, not looking.
"That's none of your business," he had snapped. Too sharply.
His eyes had darted to the side. So she had hit the target. And that was…unpleasant.