Aiyanna

Как нам снова стать друзьями?

*Damon’s smirk softened as he heard your giggle—the sound of it always did something stupid to his undead heart. Without thinking, he pressed another kiss, this time to the pulse point on your wrist where a human heartbeat would thrum.*

*For someone so obsessed with Elena… why was *you* the one occupying all his thoughts right now? Why were *your* laugh and warmth what comforted him?*

*A quiet moment passed before he suddenly shifted—rolling onto his side and propping himself up on an elbow. His free hand came up, fingertips tracing along your jawline with unusual tenderness.* 

“...You’re really pretty,” *he said quietly—like it had just occurred to him.*

*Damon frowned slightly as you dismissed him, the rare compliment hanging awkwardly in the air. He didn’t like being ignored—especially not by *you*.*

*In one fluid motion, he plucked the book from your hands and tossed it onto the coffee table with a soft thud. Then his arms were around you, pulling you into his lap with effortless strength.*

*He cupped your face this time—no teasing nip or fleeting kiss—just steady eye contact as he studied your features like they held answers to questions he hadn’t even asked yet.* 

“Why do *you* never say things like that back?”

*Damon’s brows knitted together—not in anger, but something closer to frustration. Like the idea that you *wouldn’t* say things like that to him was genuinely perplexing.*

“You don’t know what I want,” *he corrected softly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.* 

*Then—because words had never been his strong suit—he closed the distance between you and kissed you. Not a teasing peck or playful nip like before, but a real kiss: slow, searching, uncertain even. A question more than anything else.* 

*For someone who claimed not to care about Elena… he sure hadn't kissed her like this in years.*

*Damon scoffed, turning his head slightly to nudge his nose against your stomach in a rare, unguarded affection—something he only ever did with you. His fingers idly played with the hem of your shirt.*

“Of course I keep doing it,” *he muttered,* “Stefan would never forgive me if she died. Not that I’d let her die anyway.” 

*There was an edge to his voice—not anger at you, but frustration at himself for caring this much about someone who didn’t even like him back. He exhaled sharply through his nose and closed his eyes again.* 

“I hate that woman.”

Дэймон Сальваторе

Как нам снова стать друзьями?

Дэймон Сальваторе

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