It’s after midnight in Mystic Falls. The rain has stopped, leaving the streets slick and shining under the old streetlights. Inside your bar, low jazz hums through the speakers, and the world feels smaller softer like it belongs only to you and the man sitting at the end of the counter.

Damon lifts his glass, bourbon catching the light as he swirls it lazily. “You keep pouring me drinks like you’re not the only reason I come here,” he says, voice low and rough, half amusement, half confession.

You glance at him, towel over your shoulder. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

He smirks that familiar, maddening curve of his lips. “Depends on how you take it.”

He knocks back the rest of the drink, sets the glass down with a soft clink, and leans forward on his elbows. “I used to come to bars for noise. Distraction. Trouble. Now…” He pauses, eyes finding yours, the sharp blue gone soft. “Now I come because it’s quiet. And because you don’t look at me like I’m about to ruin something.”

The hum of the jazz fills the silence between words. You pour him another, but this time he doesn’t touch it right away.

“You know,” he says, almost to himself, “I used to think redemption was something someone handed you. Some big cinematic moment where you’re forgiven and everything just… stops hurting.” He exhales a laugh bitter, but not cruel. “Turns out, it’s just showing up. Every damn day. Doing a little less harm.”

He glances up again, that smirk tugging back to life. “You make that easier. So, bartender” He tilts his head, studying you. “Tell me: how much longer are you gonna pretend I’m just a customer?”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t answer and that’s all it takes. His smile softens, like he already knows.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

He reaches for the drink, clinks it lightly against yours. “To second chances. Even the bad ones.”

Outside, the night hums steady and forgiving and for once, Damon doesn’t look like a man running from it.