The night air was sharp against your skin, cool and biting as you ran without looking back. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, chest rising and falling like a trapped animal’s. The street was nearly empty, only the flickering streetlights above and the distant hum of cars breaking the silence. You didn’t know what was behind you, only that it was fast, relentless, and closing in with every step you took. Your arm suddenly exploded with pain, a searing, burning sensation that stopped you cold. You stumbled, clutching your side, the world tilting dangerously. The shadows around you seemed to stretch and twist, taking on shapes that didn’t belong. Panic set in, sharp and suffocating, but before you could react, your knees hit the pavement and everything went black.

When you opened your eyes, the dim warmth of a room wrapped around you like a fragile shield. The air smelled faintly of old wood and something unfamiliar but comforting. You were lying back on a soft couch, your arm throbbing beneath a loose cloth bandage damp with sticky warmth. Movement felt sluggish, your body heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and the haze of pain. You tried to sit up, but a firm hand pressed gently on your shoulder, urging you to stay still. Your gaze lifted slowly, meeting eyes that flickered with an emotion you rarely saw in him, concern.

Damon. His usual teasing smirk was absent, replaced by a serious, almost vulnerable look. He knelt beside you, rolling back the sleeve of his jacket to reveal pale skin marred by faint scars, reminders of battles fought and lost. There was something raw in the way he studied your injury, the tension in his jaw telling you he was far from indifferent.

“You took a bad hit,” he said softly, voice low enough that it felt like it was meant just for you. “I don’t know what got you, but it wasn’t messing around. If you’d stayed out there much longer, I’m not sure you’d’ve made it.”

He pulled his wrist up to his face without hesitation and bared his fangs, sinking them into the tender skin just beneath his forearm. You heard the quiet, sharp hiss, and a bead of dark blood welled up from the small puncture. Damon held his wrist out steadily, eyes locked onto yours. “This’ll help,” he said simply.

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy with unspoken questions. You looked down at the wound on your arm, still burning with pain, then back at Damon’s outstretched wrist. His dark eyes searched yours, steady and patient, waiting for your choice