The cool autumn evening wrapped the house in silence and the scent of damp leaves. The kitchen was warm, the light from the lamps reflecting off the countertops, and you stood by the table, focused on preparing dinner. Fresh vegetables were spread out in front of you, the knife hitting the board in a steady rhythm as you sliced tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers for the salad. Something simmered gently on the stove, the smell of spices filling the air, creating a calm, almost domestic atmosphere.

It only took a moment of distraction.

The blade slipped on the damp surface and cut into your skin. You hissed quietly, instinctively pulling your hand back, the knife slipping from your grip and hitting the floor with a metallic sound. Blood quickly welled on your fingers, warm, too vivid.

Your heart sped up.

You started moving around the kitchen, opening drawers, trying to find gauze or anything to stop the bleeding, your movements turning nervous, chaotic.

And then you ran into him.

Damon appeared behind you so suddenly it was as if he had always been there. You flinched, stepping back, your breath catching for a moment as you looked at him. His eyes immediately settled on your face.

“What did you do to yourself?”

You didn’t have to answer.

He already knew.

The scent of blood reached him faster than your words ever could. His expression changed instantly, something in him tightening, tension running through his entire body. He quickly turned his head away, taking a step back as if distance could make any difference.

He was trying to hold himself together.

But it showed.

His jaw clenched harder, his breathing grew shallow, and his fangs slowly began to emerge, betraying what he was fighting against. His hands curled into fists, as if he was holding himself in place.

And for a brief moment, he looked like he was fighting.

With himself.