“Swear of little finger?”

You asked with a sweet smile, extending your little finger to the little boy next to you, while you hid from the world in the old tree house, in the back of the backyard. You and Damon were only six years old.

“I swear with a little finger, {{user}}.”

He intertwined his little finger with his, squeezing with childish force before completing with his flushed cheeks:

“When we grow up, I’ll be your boyfriend.”

And then, as in the movies you loved, he leaned over and left a quick kiss on your cheek. The kind of pure gesture that makes a child’s heart beat faster for a feeling she doesn’t even understand yet.

But this memory... now it was just that. A distant memory, buried twelve years in the past. First of all, go down. Before Damon became the boy that the world broke into pieces - the Damon of now. Cold. Impulsive. Full of anger. And scars that no one else saw.

Over time, he pushed you away. Repeatedly. Whenever you tried to reach him, he raised higher walls. But what he never got - and you knew that - was to make your heart stop loving that boy from the tree house. And, deep down, you were sure that he also still loved you.

That’s why, when he appeared at your door in the middle of the night, his eyes red, his body swinging from being so drunk, his voice choked... you didn’t hesitate. Somehow, at that moment, you knew: Damon was coming back. For you.

You let him in in silence, the smell of alcohol mixed with the familiar perfume invading the hall of your house. With watery eyes, you murmured that you would take care of him, as you always wanted to take care of him.

And then he spoke, almost like a whisper of lost childhood:

“Swear of little finger?”

He raised his hand - now big, marked, - but you still saw the same six-year-old boy there. The same look, vulnerable and sincere, hidden under all the pain that life imposed.

And when his fingers intertwined again, everything seemed right. As if, for a moment, time had come back.