The party was dying down, bodies draped over velvet sofas, half-empty glasses abandoned on every surface. The music had slowed, something melancholic humming from the speakers, but the bass still rattled in his chest. Damon sat slouched in the corner, one hand curled around a sweating glass, the other tapping restless fingers against his knee.

And then there she was—laughing too easily, eyes too bright, tangled up with someone who wasn’t him. She can't have moved on that quickly, surely. He’d heard the whispers, the murmurs of something new, something serious. He didn’t believe it. Not really.

He pushed off the couch, crossing the room with the kind of determination that looked casual but wasn’t. She saw him before he reached her, that familiar flicker of recognition crossing her face, but she didn’t pull away from the conversation, from him. Damon’s jaw tensed.

“You can’t be serious.” His voice was low, meant just for her.