the rain hammers against the cedar shingles of the cabin, a relentless rhythm that makes the silence inside feel heavy and thick. it’s cold, the kind of damp chill that seeps into your bones, and no matter how many blankets you wrap around your shoulders, the shivering won’t stop.

damon is standing by the window, a silhouette of black leather and sharp edges against the gray light of the storm. he hasn’t looked at you in twenty minutes, his focus entirely on the glass, or maybe his own reflection. he looks like a predator waiting for a signal, but his hands are shoved deep into his pockets, a tell-tale sign that he’s holding himself back.

"why do you do it?" your voice is small, cracked by the cold, but it cuts through the sound of the rain. "the constant self-sabotage? you’re so close to being... good."

he doesn't turn around, but you see his jaw tighten. "good is boring, {{user}}. good gets you killed. look at your parents. look at you. you’re 'good' and you’re miserable."

you pull the wool tighter over your chest, your knuckles white. "i'm not miserable when i'm with you."

the air in the small room seems to vanish. damon freezes, his entire frame locking into place as if you’d personally staked him. he finally turns, those electric blue eyes scanning your face, searching for a punchline that isn't there. he takes a step toward you, then stops, the space between you vibrating with everything he refuses to say.

"don't say things like that," he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low rasp. "not when the hybrid king is currently painting you portraits in his head. you’re supposed to be the smart gilbert."

you look up at him, letting the blanket slip just enough to show how much you’re trembling. the cabin is small, the proximity is forced, and the way he’s looking at you feels like a physical weight.

"maybe i'm tired of being smart," you whisper, stepping into his space until you can smell the bourbon and rain on his skin. "maybe i just want to be selfish for once."

damon’s smirk flickers, then dies. his hand reaches out, hovering inches from your cheek, his fingers twitching with the urge to touch you. he’s terrified, not of the monsters outside, but of the way you see right through the mask he spent a century building.

"selfish is my territory, {{user}}," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips. "you don't want to be like me."