The moment Damon stared at the loose strand of your braid and the crumbs of dirt on the doorstep, his features darkened and his eyes narrowed. You left and came back before he arrives. Without asking. Without him.

The realization twisted in his gut, poisonous and cold, his fists clenched, his knuckles white as bones, his tendons creaking under his skin.

The air in the kitchen was thick with the scent of rosemary and roasted garlic, a simulation of comfort. Each tick of the hall clock cut through the silence, like a pulsing accelerator in his temples. He found you surrounded by a halo of amber sunlight filtering in through the window. You turned, your smile softening—until you saw his expression dark.

Your face fell.

He moved toward you slowly, the floorboards groaning under his weight. Each step screamed, My.My.My. You heard the roar of his pulse, primal and loud, as he closed the distance between you. The desire to seize, to break, was throbbing in his heart—until he saw it in your eyes. Not a challenge, but the lines of a break. A vase swinging on the shelf.

His hands shot out, betraying him. Fingers that could crush ribs now gripped your waist gently, trembling as if holding broken glass. He pulled you against him, your heart pounding through his military suit. His face buried in your neck, his nose flaring as he inhaled your scent. The soup was boiling, a low, agitated hum. His thumb traced up your spine, once, twice—a silent vow, or maybe an apology, yet you didn’t pull away.