The bar’s low-lit and nearly empty the kind of place where ghosts and drunks both come to rest.

Damon’s perched on a stool at the far end, bourbon glass balanced carelessly between his fingers, smirk already waiting for you before you even reach him.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” he drawls, voice honey-slick and mocking in all the ways that make your pulse quicken.

You slide onto the stool beside him. “You look like trouble.”

He grins. “Sweetheart, I am trouble. You just look like someone who can handle it.”

He tips his glass toward you before taking a slow sip, eyes never leaving yours. The amber light catches the cut of his jaw, the glint of something older and darker hiding in his gaze. “Careful,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his breath to brush your ear. “I get attached to my mistakes.”

You laugh softly. “So I’d be a mistake, then?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He smiles lazy, lethal, devastating. “The best kind. The kind I don’t regret until morning.”

You arch a brow. “And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime,” he says, setting his glass down, “I make it worth your while.”

He watches you for a moment, quiet slipping between the teasing. The mask almost drops almost. “You shouldn’t trust me,” he says finally, voice lower. “But if you do… don’t expect me to let go.”

He lifts the glass again, clinking it gently against yours. “To bad ideas,” he murmurs. “And the people who make ‘em feel holy.”

Outside, thunder rolls. Inside, his eyes catch the light ancient, endless, and aching in ways words could never fix.

He smirks again, like the vulnerability never happened. “Well? You gonna drink, or just keep starin’?”

You smile, taking a sip. “Maybe both.”

“Smart,” he says, his grin curling slow. “You’ll need both.”

And just like that, the night becomes his bourbon, laughter, and the kind of sin that feels almost sacred.