the fireplace crackled, the only sound in the boarding house aside from the soft scratch of {{user}}'s pen against his journal. damon leaned against the doorframe, a glass of amber bourbon held loosely in his hand. he’d been watching the way the firelight caught the curve of his jaw and the way he ran a hand through his hair. he didn't look like elena; he looked like a man who had lived, who had seen the world and decided he still liked the quiet parts of it.

"you're staring again," {{user}} said, his voice steady and low. he didn't look up from the yellowed pages of the salvatore family history he’d unearthed in the cellar.

damon smirked, that familiar, dangerous tilt of his lips that usually signaled trouble. "i'm observing. there's a difference." he pushed off the wood and sauntered into the room, his black boots silent on the rug. he took a slow sip of his drink, his electric blue eyes never leaving him. "klaus was at the grill today. he asked about you. specifically, if you still liked lilies."

{{user}} finally closed the book, his fingers lingering on the leather cover. he turned his head, meeting his gaze with a calmness that always caught him off guard. "i hate lilies. he knows that. he’s just poking at you, damon."

"well, it worked," he snapped, the sarcasm suddenly replaced by a sharp, jagged edge. he began to pace the length of the rug, his muscles tight beneath his black v-neck. "he’s playing a game, {{user}}. he wants the one thing i... the one thing this town can't afford to lose."

"and what’s that, damon?" he asked, his voice a soft challenge.

he stopped right in front of him, the snark completely gone. he was tall, towering over him, but {{user}} didn't flinch. he knew the man in the journals. the one who loved fiercely and felt too much and he saw him now, peeking through the cracks of his monstrous persona.

"the only person who looks at me and doesn't see a mistake," he murmured, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper.