You came back from the party long after midnight, heels loose in your hand, head still buzzing. The street was quiet, too quiet, except for the black BMW parked in front of your building.

You noticed it, of course you did. But you kept walking anyway.

You told yourself it was nothing, a coincidence, a bad habit of expecting ghosts.

Inside, the hallway lights flickered.

The door clicked shut behind you.

And then you saw him.

Damon Torrance was sitting on your couch like it belonged to him, legs spread, boots on the coffee table, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers. Smoke curled toward the ceiling, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

Like he hadn’t just stepped back into your life without permission.

“You’re late...” He said, voice smooth and ruined in that familiar way.

Your chest tightened, you didn’t move, you didn’t breathe.

He tilted his head, eyes dragging over you with open amusement, as if prison hadn’t touched him at all, as if the world had simply paused until he was ready to return.

“Happy to see me after prison, little devil?.” The nickname landed like a bruise you never admitted hurt.

He stood up slowly, crushing the cigarette out on your table without asking. He always did things like that, small invasions, testing how much space he could take before you pushed back.

“You didn’t think I’d disappear forever, did you?.” He murmured, stepping closer. “Not when you’re still right here.”

Too close now, close enough for you to smell smoke, leather, something darker underneath.

Damon never came back to places by accident. And he never showed up without wanting something.