You weren’t going to go to the party. But he was there.

Of course he was.

Damon always found his way into rooms like that—lit in gold and drowning in music, surrounded by people who knew his name but never really knew him. He smiled at everyone but never meant it. Not unless it was for you.

You swore you were over this.

Over him.

But when his eyes found you across the room—low, lazy, like he already knew how the night would end—you knew you were lying.

Now it’s hours later. The party’s faded into a memory of pulsing bass and spilled champagne. The hallway outside his penthouse is silent. Velvet shadows. Your heels echo against marble as he unlocks the door, slow like he’s giving you time to change your mind.

You don’t.

The door clicks shut behind you.

“I thought you said you weren’t coming,” he murmurs, voice low, amused. He’s already pouring something dark into two glasses, the city lights painting him in soft blue.

“I changed my mind,” you say, shrugging off your coat. “Or maybe I just wanted to see if you’d be waiting.”

Damon turns, drink in hand. His shirt undone—because of course it is—hair tousled, cigarette between his fingers. His eyes sweep over you, slow. Intentional.

“I don’t have to try,” he says.

You hate how true that is.

The glass is cold when he presses it into your palm. His fingers brush yours too long. The air between you sharpens.

“You look good,” he says. “Even better than last time.”

“Don’t pretend you remember last time,” you reply.

He leans in—close enough that you can smell the smoke on his skin and whatever expensive trouble he’s wearing.

“I remember everything about you,” he says.