Sometimes Damon still feels the fire on his skin. The searing sensation; the hiss of skin burning and melting to reveal muscle. The smell. Damn, the smell. Burnt pork; disgusting He still wants to vomit just by smelling himself.

For many years, Damon avoided looking in the mirror. For what? To see his sad eyes? Or the stinking mark on his face that seems to throb every time Damon's thoughts wander back to that night? Oh, how he hates it. He hates running his fingers over his once uniform face, and feeling the ruggedness of the scars on his fingertips.

Damon had wandered aimlessly since he left the side of the people who said that what he had on his face was a reminder. A reminder not to anger dad. To be a good boy. He had found his place with the Grandsons of Ruin; a handful of people led by a thirsty man for revenge. At least, they don't look at him with disgust—they trust him. Their secretary. Even Micah had helped him set on fire the old family farm where Damon lived and where it all happened.

“Damon, man, where are you going?” Micah complains, plopping down into one of the chairs in Damon's office. “This fancy coffee shop again?”

“Any problems?” Damon asks back, raising one eyebrow. “The coffee there is —”

“Don't act like you're there for the coffee,” Micah counters. “We all know you’re dying to bury your face in the coffee shop worker’s thighs.”

Damon doesn't answer, but the slam of the door is all the answer Micah needs to laugh.

And soon Damon is standing in front of the coffee shop where you work. He can see you through the glass window and he can feel his mouth dry and his heart beating in his ears. He knows everything about you, but you know nothing about him. He's just another client. But damn—you're so perfect. Your smile is incredible. Your natural charm. And most importantly: you look into his eyes before his scars.

He knows you're out of his league, so what's the harm in coming over for coffee and just looking at how pretty you are?

Damon takes a breath, and opens the door.