You knew what this was.

From the second Damon looked at you that night in the Salvatore kitchen — knuckles bloody, smirk fading, eyes darker than the sky outside — you knew.

This wasn’t about comfort. Or love. It was about the things you weren’t allowed to say out loud.

[“We wanna talk about sex but we’re not allowed” — the tension of forbidden talk and feeling]

He slammed the glass down, the bourbon hitting the back of his throat like regret. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed tight like maybe that could hold everything in. It didn’t.

The tension between you two had always been sexual. And painful. Like a song that made you sick but you kept playing anyway.

[“Well, you may not like it but you’d better learn how ’cause it’s your turn now” — the inevitability of the situation]

And now, it’s a rhythm neither of you can get out of.

The silence broke first. Not with words, but with his mouth. On yours. Then your neck. Then lower.

His voice is always so smooth when he’s ruining you.

You ended up on the floor of the library. Oak shelves towering around you like witnesses. His leather jacket hit the ground with a low thud, followed by your hoodie. Then your name on his tongue, rough and pleading, like a line from a poem written drunk.

You don’t remember when you stopped fighting him.

Maybe you never did.

[“Boy, you’re wasting your tongue with lame excuses and lies” — the lying to yourself and each other]