The bass thumped through Caroline’s house, lights flashing across a sea of laughing faces. You leaned against the kitchen counter, drink in hand, a little too tipsy to notice Caroline’s increasingly exasperated sighs.

“I swear, you’re impossible when you’re like this,” she muttered, pulling out her phone. “Fine. If you won’t listen to me, maybe you’ll listen to him.”

Minutes later, Damon appeared in the doorway, his trademark smirk in place. He scanned the room once before his eyes landed on you.

“Well, well,” he drawled, strolling over with deliberate ease. “Looks like someone forgot their alcohol tolerance. Lucky for you, I’m the designated rescuer tonight.”

You rolled your eyes, swaying slightly. “I don’t need rescuing.”

“Really? Because from where I’m standing, you’re about three sips away from karaoke and a bad decision.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping with that familiar mix of flirtation and challenge. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

When you refused to budge, Damon’s smirk faded into something sharper. “Alright, no more games.” He wrapped his hand firmly around your arm—not cruel, but unyielding—and tugged you toward the door despite your half-hearted protests.

The ride was quiet, Damon’s presence filling the car like a storm waiting to break. Once at home, he all but guided you down the hall, steering you into your room.

You turned to argue, but Damon moved faster, planting himself against the door, arms crossed. His gaze was steady, no hint of giving ground.

“You’re not leaving,” he said flatly, all traces of teasing gone. “So either you sleep this off like a good little rebel, or I stand here all night. Your choice.”

His posture was relaxed but immovable, a wall you couldn’t argue your way around. Damon wasn’t budging—not until he knew you were safe.