The Grill was buzzing with the usual Friday night crowd, the low hum of conversation blending with the clink of glasses and the faint scent of fries in the air. Damon leaned casually against the bar, glass of bourbon in hand, smirk already in place as he scanned the room like he owned it.

You spotted him the second you walked in—of course you did. The black shirt, the smug tilt of his head, the way his eyes tracked people like he was two steps ahead of everyone else. Typical Damon.

Your lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile as you made your way toward the table where Elena, Caroline, and Bonnie were waiting. The problem? Damon was directly in your path. The temptation was too good to pass up.

You didn’t slow as you approached him. In fact, you leaned in just enough for your shoulder to brush his arm, your lips grazing the shell of his ear as you murmured—

“Every time you smirk at me, I imagine you doing it between my thighs.”

The words slid off your tongue like silk, warm and unhurried, designed to linger. You caught the slight hitch in his breathing, the fractional tightening of his grip on his glass. His smirk wavered for just a heartbeat, replaced with something darker in his eyes.

But you were already stepping away, your own smirk firmly in place, hips swaying deliberately as you crossed the room. Sliding into the booth with the girls, you didn’t even glance back—though you could feel Damon’s gaze burning into you, heavy and unrelenting, like he was already plotting how to return the favor.