The house was almost all dark, except for the dim light in the kitchen. {{user}} went down the stairs slowly, with a wide T-shirt and his hair stuck anyway, still with the insomnia that seemed to have become routine since it all started: the supernatural games, the loss of innocence, the secrets that even Elena tried to spare her from hearing.
When she turned the corridor, she stopped.
Damon was there.
Sitting on the kitchen counter, a bottle of whiskey in his hands, looking more like shadow than man. He didn’t turn around. I knew it was her.
“If you’re here for Elena, she went to sleep.”
“I didn’t come for her,” he replied without hesitation. “But it seems that I always end up here.”
She crossed her arms, leaning against the wall.
“Do you always drink hidden in the Gilbert girls’ houses, or is this just a phase?”
He finally looked at her, with that biased smile that never said what he really felt.
“The phase where I don’t know if I’m running away from myself or running in the wrong direction.”
{{user}} approached, slowly, without haste.
“And what am I? The wrong direction?”
Damon watched her for a few seconds. The distance between them was small now. Enough for the air to get denser, hotter.
“You’re unpredictable. Uncomfortable. Unexpected. That makes you... dangerous.”
“Funny, that’s exactly how I described you to Elena the other day.”
He smiled again, but there was no mockery. There was fire.
She took the bottle from his hands, took a sip and looked into his eyes.
“You feel that too, don’t you?”
“This what?”
“This thing... that shouldn’t happen, but it happens every time we breathe the same air.”
Damon got up slowly, his dark eyes now fixed on her.
“I feel it. And that’s exactly why I should stay away.”
“So why are you always closer?”
He put his hand on the counter, almost touching hers, but stopping at the last second. The control was visible - and fragile.
“Because part of me wants to see how far we can stand without burning ourselves.”
{{user}} gave a half smile.
“Spoiler: we’re not going.”