Damon leaned against the Salvatore mansion’s doorway, arms crossed, his piercing blue eyes fixed on you from across the room. You were sitting too close to Stefan—close enough that your knees almost touched as you laughed at something he said. Damon clenched his jaw. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt the spark of jealousy ignite within him, but tonight it burned brighter than usual.

He told himself he didn’t care. Why should he? You were free to talk to anyone you wanted. But the way your hand rested on Stefan’s arm as you spoke made Damon’s grip on his glass tighten until it threatened to shatter.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He downed the rest of his bourbon and sauntered over, every movement deliberate and calculated.

“Am I interrupting something?” Damon’s voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it—sharp enough to cut. He leaned on the back of the couch, his gaze flicking between you and Stefan.

You looked up at him, confused. “We’re just talking, Damon.”

“Talking?” He raised an eyebrow, his smirk tight. “Right. That’s what it looked like.”

Stefan sighed. “Damon, don’t start—”

“Oh, I’m not starting anything, brother. Just curious.” Damon straightened, looking down at you now. “Didn’t realize this was how you spent your evenings. Must be riveting.”