The house was quiet, the way it only ever got at night. No phones ringing, no footsteps echoing upstairs, no chaos. Just the low scratch of a record playing in the background, some old, smoky jazz tune you didn’t recognize, but Damon probably knew by heart. You wandered barefoot across the Salvatore living room, the wooden floors cool beneath your skin. The fire in the hearth was low, casting soft amber light over the walls and the half-drunk glass of bourbon sitting on the side table. Damon stood near the record player, his posture relaxed, one hand in his pocket, the other nursing his drink. He looked over his shoulder when he heard you behind him, just a glance. then turned back to the spinning vinyl, letting the music fill the space between you.

Then, casually, without warning or smirk or sarcasm, Damon held out his hand. He didn’t say anything. No biting comment. No snarky remark about how you looked exhausted or like you hadn’t slept in days. Just that, his hand, waiting. You blinked at him. “Are you… asking me to dance?”

He didn’t roll his eyes or scoff. He just lifted one eyebrow, that Damon Salvatore expression that somehow meant obviously, and also don’t make a big deal out of it. After a second, you placed your hand in his. His palm was warm, steady. The contact was gentle. He pulled you in slowly, his other hand resting lightly on your waist. The two of you began to move in slow, unhurried steps, the sound of your bare feet soft against the floor. Damon’s eyes stayed on you for a moment too long. Not in a hungry, predatory way. He spun you once, slow and deliberate, then caught your hand again as if you might float away.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not being romantic.” A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m bored.”

You smiled. Didn’t say a word. And you didn’t let go.