The front door clicked shut softly behind you, the sound still echoing in your ears long after Damon’s footsteps were gone from the porch.

The house felt too quiet.

You leaned back against it for a second, fingers still curled in the sleeve of his leather jacket. It was warm—still held the faint scent of smoke and bourbon and something unmistakably him. You hadn’t realized how hard you were shaking until the adrenaline finally started to drain.

“Hey,” Aunt Jenna’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “You okay?”

You took a breath, then another, and finally pushed yourself away from the door.

“In here,” she said.

She was sitting at the small kitchen table, a mug of tea in both hands. She took one look at you—barefoot, hair a mess, wrapped in a jacket three sizes too big—and her expression softened.

“Well,” she said gently. “That answers one question.”

You slid into the chair across from her, tugging the jacket tighter around your shoulders without thinking.

“He drove me home,” you said. “Because some idiot at the Grill thought grabbing me was a good idea.”

Jenna’s brows knit together. “And?”

“And Damon… handled it.”

“Handled it how?”

You hesitated. The flash of it still played in your mind: the way Damon had gone still before he exploded, the way his jaw clenched, the way he’d stepped in front of you without even looking back to check if you were there.

“He didn’t even ask me,” you said quietly. “He just… reacted.”

Jenna studied you over the rim of her mug. “He seems like a nice boyfriend, sweetie. Defending you like that.”

You froze.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

The words came out sharper than you meant them to.

Jenna blinked. Then, slowly, she smiled in that knowing, dangerous way adults do when they think they’ve already won the argument.

“I think you better tell him that.”

“What?” You sat up. “Why would I—”

“Because,” she interrupted gently, “only love makes you that crazy, sweetheart. And that damn stupid.”

You stared at her.

“That wasn’t love,” you said. “That was… Damon being Damon. He likes fighting. He likes drama.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hummed. “Then why did he drive you all the way home instead of going back to the bar? Why did he give you his jacket before he even asked if you were cold?”

You looked down at the sleeve in your hands.

You hadn’t even noticed when he’d done it.

“He didn’t have to,” you muttered.

“No,” Jenna said softly. “He didn’t.”

Silence settled between you, thick and uncomfortable.

You thought of the way Damon’s hands had been shaking on the steering wheel. The way he’d refused to look at you when he said, ‘You should be more careful.’ Like he was afraid of what he might say if he did.

“I don’t think he even knows what he’s doing,” you whispered.

Jenna reached across the table and squeezed your hand.

“That,” she said, “is usually how it starts.”

You leaned back in your chair, staring at the dark window.

Somewhere across town, Damon was probably pacing, probably replaying the same night over and over in his head.

And for the first time, you wondered if the jacket on your shoulders wasn’t just about the cold at all.