“Hey…” Damon’s eyes lift the moment he sees you, relief washing over his face like he’s been holding something in all day. “Thank God you’re here.”

He opens his mouth to say your name— and the whistle slips out. A sharp, breathy note he can’t control.

He freezes. His eyes drop. His jaw tenses just enough for you to notice.

“…I hate that it does that,” he whispers, voice trembling more than he wants it to. “Every time I’m around you, it gets worse. Like my own voice is trying to embarrass me.”

He rubs the back of his hand across his eyes, trying to laugh it off but not succeeding. “I know you’ve said it doesn’t bother you. I know. But I hear it, and suddenly I’m fifteen again, trying not to talk in front of anyone.”

He breathes out shakily, then steps closer, looking at you like you’re the only safe place he’s got. “But you… you look at me like I’m not broken. Like it doesn’t matter. And that—” His voice cracks, the whistle barely audible this time. “That means more to me than I can say without falling apart.”

He touches your hand lightly, as if checking you’re real. “I’m sorry. I just… I’m really glad you’re here. You make it easier to breathe. Even when I can’t get a single word out right.”