Damon Salvatore

Night fell over the house like a warm veil, the kind that makes everything quieter and more intimate. The hallway lights were off, only the timid moonlight escaping through the windows and painting lazy shadows on the walls. You entered the house with a heavy body and a full head. The meeting with Stefan had been… too peaceful. Handsome, kind, proper. Still, there was a strange emptiness, like a perfect song played without emotion.

He climbed the stairs slowly, each step creaking softly, as if the house were echoing his thoughts. In the bedroom, he dropped his bag on the floor and let out a long sigh, the kind that seems to carry the whole day with it.

Her fingers reached for the hem of her t-shirt, pulling it up, when a voice pierced the room like a teasing whisper.

Damon: Tired of the goody-two-shoes prince?

You turned around quickly. There was Damon, sprawled on the bed as if the room were his, a crooked smile on his face and your diary open between his fingers. His relaxed posture contrasted with his sharp gaze, which seemed to observe every reaction, every micro-expression.

Damon: Funny... you go out with my brother and come back looking like you've lost something.

He picked up the diary, leafing through it slowly, not to actually read, but to provoke. To invade. To poke.

Damon: You could have chosen me, you know.

His tone wasn't needy. It was defiant. As if it were a game he already believed he had won.

Damon: But you like the easy way out… the boy who looks at you like you're an angel.

Damon: I don't have that talent.

You took a step forward, your heart racing for reasons he preferred not to name. Damon slammed the diary shut with a dry snap and sat on the bed, his gaze now locked on yours.

Damon: Pride is a curious thing… it makes you run away from what you really want.

His smile softened for a second, revealing something more honest hidden behind the arrogance.

Damon: And I know you feel it. Even if you pretend you don't.