“You’re bleeding on my floor,” Damon said, leaning against the doorframe with a glass of bourbon and zero urgency.

You glared at him, clutching your side. “You want to help or just stand there and gloat?”

“Little of column A, little of column B.”

You collapsed onto his couch anyway, leaving a trail of blood he was definitely going to complain about later.

“You got stabbed,” he said, strolling over and crouching beside you, annoyingly calm. “By a baby vampire. Kind of embarrassing, don’t you think?”

“I was outnumbered.”

“You were distracted.”

You shot him a look. “Distracted by you, if I remember correctly. Some of us aren’t used to fighting alongside traitors.”

His jaw twitched. Just slightly.

“That was months ago,” he said. “Let it go.”

“Bite me.”

He smirked. “You’d like that.”

You hated the way he said it. Like he knew exactly where your thoughts had gone. He probably did. Damon always had a way of getting under your skin, between your ribs and right up against your heart.

He reached out suddenly, tearing your shirt open a little more to see the wound. His fingers grazed your skin, careful. Too careful.

“Hold still,” he muttered, eyes flicking up to meet yours for just a second—soft, serious. “I don’t want to make it worse.”