The door slams shut behind you. He’s there. Waiting. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, blue eyes full of shadows and sparks.

“You’re late,” he says. His tone is cold. Sharp. Like his stare.

“Did you wait just to complain?”

His teeth flash in a dangerous smile. He’s not in the mood for your sarcasm. Or maybe he’s too much in the mood for it.

“You don’t get it, do you? You always have to do whatever you want, whenever you want.”

You step closer, unbothered. Your energy doesn’t clash with his — it challenges his. Like two storms daring each other to strike first.

“Oh, what’s the problem, Damon?” you say softly. “That I don’t obey you? Or that you can’t stop thinking about me when I don’t?”

Silence.

His jaw clenches. He steps closer. Then again. Now he’s just inches away.

“You’re so…” he starts — but something flickers in his eyes. He stops.

Because in that exact moment, mid-anger, he hears you. Not the voice you have now — the one from a few days ago. Another moment, another setting.

You had been sitting across from him. The light was lower. The world quieter. And your voice had dropped, unexpectedly soft. You’d looked at him with that unreadable expression he hates and craves.

“Damon…” you whispered. Not calling him. Just… saying his name. Like it was a spell only your lips could cast.

And now that voice is haunting him. It’s melting him. Ruining him. Setting fire to things inside him even eternity never reached.

He blinks, back in the present. You’re still standing there. Eyebrows raised. Mouth slightly parted. Challenging.

“You’re so…” he repeats — but he can’t finish.

You lean in, just enough to provoke. Just enough to dare. “What is it, Damon? Can’t say it?”

One more second. Just one more — and his thoughts won’t be clean enough to stay away. His chest rises. His breathing turns volcanic.