You stepped into the Salvatore Boarding House, the scent of aged wood and old bourbon clinging to the air like a secret. You weren’t here for trouble—just looking for Stefan, your friend, your anchor. But fate, as always in Mystic Falls, had a way of rerouting plans.

It wasn’t Stefan who greeted you.

Across the room, Damon Salvatore stood with his back half-turned, dressed in his usual mix of casual charm and quiet danger. He was in the middle of pouring himself a generous glass of bourbon, the rich amber liquid catching the light as it swirled into the glass. His movements were slow, deliberate. Unbothered.

He didn’t look up when he spoke, but his voice drifted through the room, smooth and edged with amusement. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he drawled, finally glancing your way with those piercing blue eyes—eyes that could unnerve or enchant with equal measure.

You could tell—he already knew you weren’t just here for a friendly chat.