You're biting your nails again. You don't even notice. But he does.

You're sitting in silence, on the low couch. Damon refuses to change. Your fingers go to your mouth almost by reflex. You're not thinking just feeling. Feeling too much. Anxiety. Insecurity. Fear. All those things he somehow manages to see without you saying a word.

"Hey..." he says in a low, calm voice, dragging out the last syllable like it hurts him to interrupt you.

You look up. Damon is no longer the boy who was once a mass idol. There are wrinkles around his eyes and a sweet sadness in his gaze. But he also has something else: patience.

"You know you don't have to do that to yourself," he murmurs, taking your hand with incredible gentleness, as if afraid it might break.