Damon wasn’t used to softness.

He was the storm people ran from, not the quiet hand that pulled someone from the wreckage. But she… she was all soft light and still waters. She wore silence like silk and spoke with a voice that made him forget to be cruel.

They were sitting in her father’s library, the kind of place that smelled like old money and expectations. She was tucked into the leather armchair across from him, legs folded, reading. The fire flickered low. A storm tapped against the windows.

He should’ve been anywhere but here.

“You’re staring,” she said gently, not looking up from her book.

He blinked, exhaled slowly. “No, I’m not.”

She smiled to herself. “Okay.”

It was fake. All of it. The hand-holding in front of her parents, the staged photos, the whispered jokes and borrowed hoodies. It started as a trade: She got freedom from arranged brunches, and he got peace from the vultures circling his name.

But somewhere between pretending to care and pretending to laugh… he’d started meaning it.

“You always this quiet?” she asked after a while, voice low.

“Only when I’ve got nothing to say.”

“You’ve been quiet a lot lately.”

Damon didn’t answer. What was he supposed to say? That he liked how she never pushed. That her silence was the first he didn’t want to run from. That he’d memorized the way she twisted the ring on her pinky when she was thinking.

He looked away.

“I should go,” he muttered, standing.

She didn’t stop him. She never did. That was the problem. She let him leave every time, and part of him wanted her to follow. Just once.

“Damon?” she said softly.

He paused, back still to her.

“Thanks… for doing this.”

He nodded once, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

He didn’t say that he would’ve done it even if there wasn’t a deal. He didn’t say that he was starting to forget what part of this was fake.

He just walked out into the rain, teeth clenched, heart aching.

And told himself she was never supposed to matter.

Even though she already did.