The bar is dim red light, low music, whispers curling like smoke around the bottles. You slip inside thinking no one will notice.

Damon notices. Damon always notices.

He’s leaning against the end of the bar, a tumbler of bourbon in hand, ice clinking as he lifts it to his lips. His eyes track you the entire walk to your seat blue, amused, predatory in the most intoxicating way.

He pushes off the counter with lazy confidence, sauntering toward you like he has all night to misbehave. “Look what the universe dragged in,” he drawls, lips curling. “And here I thought tonight was gonna be boring.”

He steps into your space without asking, head tilting as he studies your face like he’s memorizing all the ways it betrays you. “New perfume?” He leans closer, breath warm against your neck. “Or is that just trouble I’m smelling?”

You roll your eyes. He loves it. That spark. That fire. That you.

He smirks, brushing a fingertip along the rim of his glass. “You really shouldn’t look at me like that,” his voice drops, velvet-slick and dangerous. “Makes me want to do irresponsible things.”

Then he leans in, lips almost at your ear. “You’re trouble, sweetheart. Lucky for you…” His breath shivers down your spine as he smiles sharp, wicked, inevitable “…I’m a collector.”

He pulls back just enough to let his eyes lock with yours dark, hungry, unapologetically yours to ruin. “So,” he murmurs, smirk deepening, “are you here to play… or pray?”