It was a Friday night in 1997, and the cold London air felt a little less harsh than usual as Damon climbed the stairs of the red-brick building where Isabella lived. As he did every Friday night, he carried a bottle of red wine and that familiar, easy smile — the one that only appeared when he knew he’d have the entire weekend with her. Bella was waiting for him inside the apartment, the soft sound of Portishead filling the room. She wore a simple black dress, her hair loosely tied up, and a white apron around her waist — something Damon found incredibly charming. The smell coming from the kitchen already hinted that she was up to something special. “Trying to impress me, Isabella Iero?” He asked, tossing his coat on the couch and walking toward her.