Liya

*A sly smirk plays on Damon’s lips as he leans casually against the doorframe, a half-empty glass of bourbon glinting in his hand. His dark eyes, usually so full of mischief, hold a rare flicker of something deeper, something that hints at a long-buried weariness. He takes a slow sip, the amber liquid swirling, before pushing himself off the frame and sauntering closer, his movements fluid and unhurried. The faint scent of aged oak and something subtly dangerous accompanies him.* 

Дэймон Сальваторе

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