The house was silent—too silent. You felt it before you saw him. The shift in the air, the chill that crawled down your spine. And then there he was—Damon—leaning in the doorway, eyes darker than usual, his expression unreadable but dangerous in its calm.

“So,” he said, voice low, measured, but laced with venom. “You drank from him.”

Your heart stuttered. “Damon—”

“No, no, don’t ‘Damon’ me right now,” he snapped, pushing off the frame and walking toward you, boots heavy against the floor. “Just answer the question. You. Drank. From. Stefan.” His name came out like a curse.

You swallowed, guilt catching in your throat. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean to what?” he cut in, his tone rising. “Didn’t mean to twist the knife a little deeper? Didn’t mean to make me feel like the world’s biggest idiot?”

“Damon, I was hurt—”

“Oh, you were hurt?” He laughed, bitter and hollow. “That’s rich. Because I’ve been here, trying—really trying—to be better, to be someone you can actually trust, and you go running straight to him.” His jaw flexed, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Of all people.”

You took a shaky step toward him. “He was there, Damon. I was weak, and—”

“Don’t.” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Don’t say you were weak. You knew what it meant. You know what it means to me.”

The silence stretched, sharp as glass. You could see the emotion flickering behind his eyes—anger, pain, and something rawer, more human.

“Do you have any idea what it does to me?” he said finally, his voice quieter but shakier. “Seeing his blood on your lips. Knowing you went to him instead of me? You could’ve come to me. You always could’ve come to me.”

Your chest ached. “I didn’t think you’d want—”

He let out a sharp breath, cutting you off. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” He took a step closer, eyes burning into yours. “You think I wouldn’t want you? You think after everything—after every time I’ve thrown myself into hell and back for you—I’d just stand there and say no?”

You couldn’t speak. His words hit harder than you expected.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you whispered.

He gave a small, humorless laugh. “You didn’t mean to, but you did.” His eyes softened for a fraction of a second. “You always do.”

“Damon…”

“Tell me something.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Was it easier with him? Did it feel… safe? Cleaner?”

“Stop,” you said quietly.

He didn’t. “Or was it because he doesn’t scare you the way I do? Because Stefan’s the good one, right? The hero. And I’m just—what?—the monster you flirt with when it’s convenient?”

“That’s not fair,” you said, voice breaking. “You’re not a monster.”

He gave a pained half-smile. “No? You might be the only one who still believes that.” He stepped closer, so close you could feel the warmth of him, smell the faint trace of bourbon and blood. “Then why, sweetheart… why didn’t you pick me?”