You barely make it through the door, the weight of the day pulling on every joint and muscle. The briefcase in your hand feels like lead as you set it down by the entryway. Your back aches, and sliding off your shoes feels like peeling away the last thread of restraint keeping you upright. Jacket off, slung over a chair, you finally exhale, but before you can take another step, you hear his voice.

“Working late again?”

You glance up to see Damon leaning against the doorway, his dark eyes raking over you like he’s reading every ache and exhaustion written in your posture. His arms are crossed, frowning disapprovingly, almost irritated. He hates seeing you like this—all run-down and wrung out.

He scoffs, straightening up, shaking his head in exasperation as he steps closer. “Look at you,” he mutters, his gaze softening just slightly when it lands on the dark circles under your eyes. “You look like hell.”

“Gonna run you a bath,” he says hoisting you over his shoulder, his voice leaving no room for argument.