#bar scene

The shower helped.

Mostly.

It made you feel human again, at least. Warm water, clean skin, Jack’s hands careful at your waist when you stepped around him in the small bathroom, his mouth pressing once to your shoulder before he reached for the soap like that was a normal thing now.

Like any of this was normal.

By the time you made it back to your room, your hair was damp at the ends, and your body still felt loose in a way that made getting dressed feel vaguely unfair.

Jack had gone to his room to change.

You tried very hard not to think about that.

You failed almost immediately.

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the bathroom fan and the old pipes clicking somewhere in the wall. You stood in front of your dresser for too long, towel wrapped around you, staring at clothes like you had never been responsible for dressing yourself before.

The bar.

Taylor. Ethan. Claire.

Jack’s hand in yours.

Not hiding.

Your stomach flipped.

You picked the jeans first.

Light wash. High-waisted. Fitted enough to be dangerous without looking like you had tried too hard.

Then the white top.

Then the black leather jacket.

You looked at yourself in the mirror and immediately regretted having eyes.

Because you looked good.

Which was somehow worse.

It made the whole thing feel intentional. It made the decision feel real. Like you were getting dressed to be seen, not just by everyone at the bar, but by him.

Especially by him.

You were still adjusting the hem of your top when Jack knocked once on the open doorframe.

“You decent?” he asked.

You looked at him in the mirror. “Since when do you care?”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Trying out manners.”

“Don’t,” you said. “It’s unsettling.”

He stepped into the doorway then, and every clever thing in your head went blank.

Because Jack Abbot was standing there in jeans, a dark shirt, and a backwards baseball cap.

Backwards.

Like an act of violence.

Like a personal attack.

Like he had woken up that morning and decided you did not deserve peace.

Your hand froze at the hem of your jacket.

Jack noticed immediately.

His eyes moved over your face, then down, taking in the white top, the jeans, the jacket, before coming back to your eyes with a look that made your pulse trip.

“What?” he asked.

You stared at the hat.

Then at him.

Then back at the hat, because apparently you were weak and had no interest in pretending otherwise.

“No,” you said.

Jack’s brow lifted. “No?”

You stepped closer before you could think better of it, your eyes catching on the damp curls poking out from beneath the edge of the cap.

Soft.

Reddish-brown.

Still wet from the shower.

Your hand lifted before you could stop it.

Jack went still when your fingers brushed one curl near his temple.

Your stomach flipped.

“No,” you said again, quieter this time. “Not fair, Abbot.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “My hair is wet.”

You touched the curl again, then the brim of the cap. “Mm-hmm.”

“I’m wearing a hat,” he said.

You sighed. “Sure.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly, amused now. “Sure?”

You looked up at him. “Like you’re not actively trying to seduce me.”

His smile started slowly.

Too slowly.

The kind of smile that meant he had heard every word and intended to keep it.

“I’m standing here,” Jack said.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re standing here in my room with wet curls under a backwards hat.”

His gaze dipped to your mouth. “That’s seduction?”

“Don’t be cute,” you said.

“I wasn’t trying to be cute,” he said.

You clicked your tongue. “Liar.”

Jack’s hand settled at your waist, thumb pressing once through the leather of your jacket. “You think I’m cute?”

You gave him a flat look. “That is not what I said.”

His smile deepened. “It’s what I heard.”

“You have selective hearing,” you said, shaking your head.

“Only when it benefits me,” he said.

You tried to roll your eyes, but your fingers were still touching the damp curl at his temple, and Jack’s attention had gone soft around the edges because of it.

That ruined the eye roll completely.

His voice came lower. “You like the hat.”

You swallowed. “Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately,” Jack repeated.

“Yes,” you said. “It’s inconvenient.”

His thumb moved once at your waist. “For who?”

“For me,” you said. “Obviously.”

His mouth curved again, pleased in that quiet way that made you want to kiss him and shove him at the same time.

Then his gaze moved over you.

Not fast.

Not subtle.

The white top. The jeans. The leather jacket. Your hair, still soft from the shower.

Your skin prickled beneath his attention.

“What?” you asked.

Jack’s eyes came back to yours as his hand moved once at your waist. “You look good.”

Your chest tightened.

No tease.

No joke.

Just that.

You looked down, suddenly too aware of the fitted white top beneath the jacket, the high waist of your jeans, the fact that you had chosen this outfit knowing exactly whose eyes you wanted on you first.

Jack saw that too.

His voice softened. “Hey.”

You looked back up.

His hand slid lower from your waist to your hip, not pulling you closer, just keeping you there.

“You look good,” Jack said again.

Your throat tightened. “So do you.”

His mouth curved. “The hat?”

You touched the brim again. “Don’t push it.”

Jack’s smile got worse. “Noted.”

“It’s not the hat,” you said.

He arched a brow. “No?”

You let your eyes move over him once, just enough to be honest and just enough to make his jaw shift.

Then you looked back at the cap.

“It’s mostly the hat,” you said.

Jack huffed a laugh, soft and surprised, and the sound landed somewhere dangerous in your chest.

For a second, neither of you moved.

You were standing in your room, freshly showered, dressed to go out, close enough to touch, close enough to change your minds. The bar was waiting. Taylor and Ethan were waiting. Claire was probably already somewhere deciding how to make things uncomfortable.

And Jack was here, looking at you like he still could not quite believe you had agreed to be seen with him.

Not separately.

Not accidentally.

Together.

Your fingers slipped from the brim of his hat to the front of his shirt, smoothing a wrinkle that did not need smoothing.

Jack watched the movement.

“You ready?” he asked.

You inhaled once, then nodded. “Yeah.”

His eyes searched yours. “Yeah?”

You gave him a small smile. “I’m ready.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “That sounded almost convincing.”

“It was convincing,” you said.

Jack hummed. “Mm.”

You looked up at him, at the damp curls beneath the backwards hat, at the amused curve of his mouth, at the way he was standing close enough to ruin all your good intentions.

Then your fingers tightened lightly in the front of his shirt.

“I’m ready,” you said. “It’d be a shame not to show you off when you look like this.”

Jack went still.

His mouth parted slightly before he caught it, and for one beautiful second, Jack Abbot looked completely, helplessly pleased.

Then he looked away.

Your eyes widened. “Did you just blush?”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “No.”

You stepped closer. “You did.”

“I didn’t,” he said.

You smiled. “Abbot.”

His eyes came back to yours, narrowed now, but the corner of his mouth had given him away. “Careful.”

You smiled. “No.”

Jack’s hand found yours.

No question this time.

No careful request.

You had already said yes.

His fingers threaded through yours, warm and sure, and your pulse jumped anyway.

His thumb moved once over yours. “Still okay?”

You looked down at your joined hands.

Then back at him.

“Yeah,” you said. “Still okay.”

Jack’s expression softened, but only for a second before the almost-smile came back.

“Good,” he said.

You groaned. “And now you’re saying that on purpose.”

He opened the bedroom door with his free hand. “I’ve said it on purpose every time.”

You stopped walking.

Jack stopped too, glancing back at you.

Your eyes narrowed. “Every time?”

His smile was slow.

Devastating.

“Every time,” Jack said.

You stared at him.

Then pointed toward the hall. “Bar. Now. Before I make poor choices.”

Jack squeezed your hand once.

Then he pulled you gently toward the door.

You followed him out, still holding his hand, still trying not to smile.

The bar was already half-swallowed by med students when you got there.

It happened after finals every year, apparently. Not officially. Not with flyers or sign-ups or anyone responsible enough to reserve space. People just finished exams, changed clothes, and ended up at McCarthy’s because it was close to campus, cheap enough to justify, and willing to tolerate the particular volume of people who had spent too many weeks memorizing pathways and slowly losing their minds.

By the time Jack opened the door, the place was warm with noise.

Someone from the year above you was losing loudly at darts. A cluster of fourth-years had taken over the booths near the back. Two second-years were arguing at the bar about whether they had passed renal. Someone had started feeding dollar bills into the jukebox with the manic determination of a person who had not slept properly since October.

And then there was you.

Standing in the doorway with Jack Abbot’s hand wrapped around yours.

For half a second, no one noticed.

Then Taylor looked up from the high-top near the back.

Her straw stopped halfway to her mouth.

Her eyes dropped to your joined hands.

Then her face changed.

Slowly.

Delightedly.

“Oh my God,” Taylor said.

Ethan turned in his chair. “What?”

Taylor slapped his arm without looking away from you. “Oh my God.”

Ethan followed her gaze.

His eyes widened. “Oh my God.”

Jack’s thumb moved once over yours.

You glanced up at him.

His mouth was trying very hard not to move.

Failing.

That helped more than it should have.

From somewhere near the pool table, Robby’s voice cut through the noise.

“No way,” Robby said.

You looked over.

Robby was standing with two people you recognized vaguely from the year above you, beer in one hand, pool cue in the other, his face lit with the exhausted satisfaction of a man who had been waiting for justice.

Taylor made a delighted sound from the high-top. “You knew?”

Robby looked at her. “I have eyes.”

Ethan leaned back in his chair. “I also have eyes, and somehow I feel behind.”

Taylor patted his arm without looking away from you and Jack. “That’s because you use yours incorrectly.”

Then Robby’s eyes dropped to your joined hands.

His expression shifted into theatrical concern.

“Wait,” Robby said. “Does this mean I can’t flirt with her anymore?”

“Yes,” Jack said.

“No,” you said at the exact same time.

The silence lasted half a second.

Then Robby’s entire face lit up.

“Oh, excellent,” Robby said.

Jack turned his head slowly toward you.

His eyes narrowed. “No?”

You shrugged. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

Jack went still.

Actually still.

His mouth parted slightly before he caught it, and then he looked away.

Your eyes widened. “Did you just blush?”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “No.”

You stepped closer, still holding his hand. “You did.”

Robby leaned against the pool cue, delighted beyond reason. “This is the best night of my life.”

Jack looked at him. “It’s about to be your last.”

Robby lifted both hands, still grinning. “Worth it.”

You squeezed Jack’s hand. “See? Cute.”

Jack looked back at you, his eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth had given him away.

“Careful,” Jack said.

You smiled. “No.”

Claire’s eyes flicked from your face to Jack’s hand around yours.

For one second, her smile did not quite make it.

Then she recovered.

“Well,” Claire said lightly. “That answers a few questions.”

Your fingers twitched.

Jack felt it.

This time, you tightened your grip before fear could make the decision for you.

His thumb brushed once over yours.

There.

Still here.

You looked at Claire and smiled.

“Yeah,” you said. “I guess it does.”

Taylor made a small strangled sound into her drink.

Ethan looked between you and Jack like he was trying to decide whether he was allowed to react yet.

Jack exhaled through his nose, then looked down at you.

His hand was still around yours.

Your hand was still around his.

The room was still loud, still crowded, still full of people who knew both of you well enough to understand that this meant something.

And you had not let go.

Jack’s thumb moved once over yours.

“You want a drink?” he asked.

You looked up at him, still fighting a smile. “You buying?”

His mouth curved faintly. “I’m asking.”

You tilted your head. “Vodka cranberry.”

Jack nodded once. “And water.”

Your smile dropped. “That was not part of my order.”

“It is now,” Jack said.

You stared at him. “Bossy.”

His eyes warmed. “Hydrated.”

“Bossy,” you said again.

Jack leaned closer, his mouth near your ear. “Both.”

Your stomach flipped.

You hated him.

You absolutely hated him.

You smiled anyway.

Jack left you at the edge of the high-top with one last squeeze of your hand before heading toward the bar.

You watched him go.

Which was a mistake.

A terrible one.

Because the backwards hat was no less destructive from behind, and now you had the added problem of knowing he was walking away to buy you a drink and water like some kind of annoyingly responsible fantasy.

Taylor leaned across the table immediately. “Okay.”

You looked at her. “No.”

Taylor’s eyes were wide and bright. “Yes.”

Ethan glanced between the two of you. “Am I supposed to leave?”

Taylor did not look away from you. “No.”

You pointed at Ethan. “Yes.”

Ethan sat back. “Conflicting instructions.”

Taylor ignored him completely. “How long?”

Your stomach flipped. “How long what?”

Taylor gave you a look. “Do not insult me after the day I’ve had.”

You glanced toward the bar.

Jack was standing with one elbow near the counter, talking to the bartender. His shoulders were relaxed, but his head turned slightly, like some part of him was still keeping track of you across the room.

That did something awful to your chest.

Taylor followed your gaze.

Her expression softened for half a second.

“Oh,” Taylor said.

You looked back at her quickly. “Don’t.”

Taylor’s voice went gentler. “You’re happy.”

Your mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

That was worse than teasing.

Much worse.

Ethan’s face softened too, like he had not meant to witness something real but was trying to be careful with it now that he had.

You looked down at the table. “Do not make this emotional.”

Taylor straightened immediately. “Fine. Did you sleep with him?”

Ethan choked on nothing. “Taylor.”

Taylor waved a hand at him. “Shut up.”

Your eyes widened. “You cannot just ask that.”

Taylor leaned closer. “I absolutely can.”

Ethan looked deeply uncomfortable. “I don’t need to know this.”

Taylor kept her eyes on you. “No one is talking to you.”

You tried to hold your face still.

You really did.

But your mouth betrayed you.

Just a little.

Taylor saw it instantly.

Her lips parted. “Oh my God.”

Ethan covered his face with one hand. “I hate it here.”

Taylor slapped his arm without looking away from you. “Be quiet. This is everything.”

You pressed your lips together.

Taylor’s voice dropped, urgent and delighted. “How was it?”

Ethan’s hand lowered. “Absolutely not.”

You looked at him. “Cover your ears.”

Ethan stared at you. “I’m twenty-six years old.”

Taylor pointed at him. “Cover your ears.”

Ethan looked between you both, then groaned and covered his ears with both hands. “I am being bullied.”

You leaned toward Taylor.

Taylor leaned in too, practically humming with anticipation.

You did not say it out loud.

You only mouthed the words.

Oh.

My.

God.

Taylor’s entire body reacted.

She made a sound so high and delighted that three people at the next table looked over.

Jack looked over too.

Of course he did.

From the bar, his eyes found you immediately.

Then Taylor.

Then Ethan, who was still sitting there with his hands clamped over his ears.

Jack’s brows drew together.

You straightened too fast.

Taylor slapped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking.

Ethan lowered his hands. “Is it over?”

Jack’s gaze narrowed slightly from across the room.

You smiled at him.

Too innocent.

He did not look convinced.

Taylor leaned closer, voice barely contained. “He knows.”

Ethan looked tired. “I don’t know what’s happening, and I still know too much.”

Jack accepted two glasses from the bartender.

One drink.

One water.

Taylor watched him start back toward the table. “He got you water.”

You sighed. “He said it was part of the order.”

Ethan nodded solemnly. “That tracks.”

Jack returned a second later, setting the vodka cranberry in front of you first, then the water beside it.

You looked at the water.

Then at him.

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Hydrated.”

You picked up the drink instead. “Bossy.”

His hand settled at the small of your back, warm through the leather of your jacket. “Both.”

Taylor made a small sound into her glass.

You took a sip of your drink to hide your smile.

Jack’s thumb moved once against your back.

Small.

Private.

Still somehow very public.

Your pulse jumped.

Claire watched from the other side of the table, quiet in a way that felt too deliberate. Her eyes moved from Jack’s hand on your back to the drink he had brought you, then to the water, then back to your face.

You met her gaze.

For once, you did not look away.

Claire’s smile came slowly. “So. This is new.”

Your fingers tightened around your glass.

Jack’s hand stilled at your back, but he did not answer for you.

He waited.

That mattered more than you wanted it to.

You tilted your head. “Is it?”

Taylor’s eyebrows shot up.

Ethan looked down into his drink like it might provide guidance.

Claire’s smile sharpened by a fraction. “It looks new.”

You could feel Jack beside you.

Steady.

Warm.

Not stepping in.

Not stepping away.

Your hand moved before you could overthink it, leaving your glass on the table and finding his where it rested near your hip.

His fingers opened for yours immediately.

You looked at Claire and smiled. “Maybe you weren’t paying attention.”

Taylor bit down on her straw.

Ethan stared into the middle distance.

Jack did not say anything.

He did not need to.

His thumb moved once over your fingers, and you knew he was smiling without having to look.

Claire’s expression held for one more second.

Then she laughed lightly. “Apparently not.”

Your hand stayed in Jack’s.

His hand stayed at your back.

And for the first time all night, the attention did not make you want to run.

It made you want to lean into him.

So you did.

Just a little.

Jack felt it immediately.

His arm shifted behind you, settling more securely at your waist.

No hesitation.

No question.

Just there.

And you let him.

Then Taylor’s hand shot across the table and wrapped around your wrist.

“Come dance with me,” Taylor said.

Your eyes widened. “Taylor.”

Taylor slid off her stool, already pulling you with her. “Finals are over, and I need to move before my bones remember what sitting in a library chair felt like.”

Ethan lifted his glass slightly. “That was the most medical thing you’ve ever said.”

Taylor pointed at him over her shoulder. “Thank you.”

Jack’s arm loosened from your waist, but his hand stayed at your back for one second longer, like he was checking whether you wanted him to intervene.

You looked up at him.

He was already watching you.

Waiting.

Your stomach softened.

“I’ll be fine,” you said.

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I know.”

Taylor tugged your hand again. “Come on. Before you both start looking at each other like that again.”

Jack’s mouth almost moved.

You let Taylor pull you away before you could ask what kind of face you had been making.

The song was loud.

Ridiculous.

Perfect.

Taylor spun toward you, hair flying over her shoulder, eyes bright with the kind of post-finals mania that probably should have worried someone.

“This is insane,” Taylor said over the music.

You laughed. “The dancing?”

Taylor grabbed both your hands. “No. You and Abbot.”

Your gaze betrayed you immediately.

Across the room, Jack had taken your place at the edge of the high-top. Your drink sat beside his hand. Your water was in his other hand because apparently he had accepted his assignment as hydration supervisor with alarming seriousness.

His eyes were on you.

Of course they were.

He leaned back against the table, backwards hat low enough to make the whole thing unfair, one hand wrapped around your water like it mattered.

Taylor followed your gaze.

Her expression softened beneath the teasing.

“You look happy,” Taylor said.

Your throat tightened.

You looked back at her quickly. “Don’t.”

Taylor’s smile warmed. “I’m not doing anything.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re looking at me like that.”

Taylor tilted her head. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about to say something sincere,” you said.

Taylor squeezed your hands once. “Fine. I won’t.”

You smiled. “Thank you.”

Taylor spun you under her arm with absolutely no rhythm. “For at least thirty seconds.”

You laughed so hard you nearly stumbled.

Jack straightened immediately.

You caught the movement over Taylor’s shoulder, and the laugh slipped out of you again, softer this time.

Taylor turned to look, then looked back at you with delight all over her face.

“Oh, that was cute,” Taylor said.

You pointed at her. “Do not call him cute.”

Taylor’s eyes flicked back to Jack, who was now pretending he had not almost crossed the bar because you stumbled half an inch. “He is kind of cute.”

“He would hate that,” you said.

Taylor smiled. “I know.”

The song shifted into something faster, and Taylor cheered, pulling you closer to the little crowd near the jukebox. You let her. For the first time all night, maybe all semester, you let yourself be ridiculous without measuring it first.

You danced.

You laughed.

You forgot, for nearly thirty whole seconds, to worry about who was watching.

Then Taylor spun away from you to shout something at a classmate, and you turned back toward the table.

Jack was gone.

Your stomach dropped before you could reason with it.

Then a hand touched your waist from behind.

Warm.

Familiar.

Steady.

You knew him before you turned.

Jack leaned close enough for his voice to reach your ear over the music. “Drink.”

You looked down.

He was holding out your water.

You turned in his hand, smiling before you could stop yourself. “You came all the way over here for that?”

Jack’s mouth curved. “Hydration is important.”

“You are ridiculous,” you said.

His eyes moved over your face. “You’re warm.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not diagnose me on the dance floor.”

“I’m not diagnosing,” Jack said. “I’m observing.”

You took the water from him. “I hate that word.”

His hand stayed at your waist while you drank.

Not possessive enough to make a show of it.

Not casual enough to be mistaken for anything else.

Just there.

Taylor appeared beside you, breathless and grinning. “Oh good. Supplies.”

Jack glanced at her. “You want water too?”

Taylor blinked.

Then her face softened into something almost dangerous. “That is annoyingly sweet.”

Jack looked uncomfortable immediately. “It’s water.”

You smiled into your glass. “He gets weird when people notice he’s nice.”

Taylor’s eyes widened. “Noted.”

Jack looked at you. “You’re both very loud.”

Taylor nodded. “And yet you walked over here.”

Jack’s hand pressed once at your waist. “For her.”

Taylor closed her mouth, but the smile stayed.

Jack’s gaze dropped to your finger, then lifted to your face. “You ready to come back?”

You looked at Taylor.

Taylor was already backing away with both hands raised.

“Go,” Taylor said. “I need a minute.”

You rolled your eyes, but when Jack offered his hand, you took it.

Of course you took it.

His fingers closed around yours, and he led you back through the crowd, careful without making it obvious. His body moved slightly ahead of yours through the busiest part, shoulder clearing space, hand firm around yours.

By the time you reached the high-top again, your drink was still waiting beside his.

And so was the look on Claire’s face.

Not sharp exactly.

Just watching.

Measuring.

You felt the old instinct flicker.

The urge to pull your hand free before anyone could make the choice feel too big.

Jack’s fingers tightened around yours.

Once.

A question.

You looked up at him.

He did not say anything.

He did not need to.

You held on.

Then you reached for your drink with your free hand and leaned into his side like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Robby lifted his pool cue from near the far table and pointed it toward you.

“You two playing or standing there looking married all night?” Robby called.

Your drink paused halfway to your mouth.

Jack’s hand stilled at your waist.

Taylor made a quiet sound beside you.

Ethan looked down into his glass like he was trying not to witness the fallout.

You turned slowly toward Robby. “Looking what?”

Robby’s grin widened from across the room. “Comfortable. I said comfortable.”

Jack looked at him. “That is not what you said.”

Robby leaned both hands on the top of his cue. “Must be the acoustics.”

You felt Jack’s fingers press once at your hip, subtle enough that no one else would catch it.

You caught it.

Because apparently every part of you was tuned to him now.

Robby nodded toward the pool table. “Come on. We need two more.”

Taylor stepped away from the high-top immediately. “I’m in.”

Ethan lifted one hand. “I am not.”

Taylor looked at him. “No one asked you yet.”

Ethan lowered his hand. “Preemptive boundary.”

Robby pointed the cue at him. “Fair.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Jack’s mouth curved faintly beside you.

Robby pointed the cue at Jack next. “Abbot. You’re with me.”

Jack glanced at the table. “Am I?”

Robby gave him a flat look. “Yes. I’m not playing against you. I’d like to enjoy my evening.”

Taylor’s eyebrows rose. “That good?”

Jack’s expression stayed neutral. “Not really.”

Robby snorted. “Liar.”

You looked up at Jack immediately.

Jack looked down at you. “What?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Not really?”

His mouth barely moved. “I’ve played before.”

Robby looked at you. “He’s good.”

Jack’s gaze stayed on yours. “He exaggerates.”

Robby pointed at Jack without looking away from you. “He also lies when he thinks modesty will make him less annoying.”

Taylor nodded once. “That tracks.”

Jack glanced at her. “Does it?”

Taylor gave him a bright smile. “Yes.”

Robby moved around the table and started gathering the balls. “Teams are me and Abbot versus you two.”

Taylor slid in beside you. “Perfect.”

You looked at Jack.

Jack’s eyes warmed slightly.

Your stomach flipped.

Terrible.

Absolutely terrible.

Robby caught the look and immediately pointed the cue between you.

“No,” Robby said.

You blinked. “No?”

Robby looked at Jack. “No helping her.”

Jack’s brow lifted. “I didn’t say anything.”

Robby set the triangle on the table. “You were thinking it.”

Jack’s mouth almost moved. “You don’t know that.”

Robby looked at him. “I know you.”

Ethan pulled out a stool near the wall and sat down. “I’m just happy to be uninvolved.”

Robby glanced at him. “You’re keeping score.”

Ethan stared. “I have been involved against my will.”

You stepped toward the pool table, cue in hand, trying not to smile.

Jack stayed near the opposite side, leaning one hip against the table while Robby finished racking. The backwards hat was still low over his brow, damp curls slipping beneath the edge of it, and the whole thing continued to be personally inconvenient.

You looked away first.

Barely.

Jack noticed.

His mouth curved.

Robby noticed too.

“Abbot,” Robby said, his voice already tired.

Jack looked at him. “What?”

Robby pointed the cue at you. “Stop looking at your wife and break.”

You choked.

Taylor’s hand flew to her mouth.

Ethan, seated on a stool near the wall, stared very hard at his drink.

Jack’s head turned slowly toward Robby.

Robby lifted one shoulder, badly hiding a smile. “Roommate. Partner. Whatever we’re calling it.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Jack glanced at you.

You tried very hard to keep your face neutral.

You failed.

His expression softened before he could stop it.

Robby groaned. “We are going to lose.”

Taylor picked up her cue. “I support that.”

Robby looked at her. “You would.”

Jack picked up the cue ball and set it in place. “I haven’t done anything.”

Robby gave him a flat look. “That is objectively untrue.”

Jack ignored him and bent over the table to line up his shot.

Which was unfortunate.

Because you had survived the handholding, the water, the low voice near your ear, and the backwards hat from several dangerous angles already.

But Jack leaning over a pool table in jeans, one hand braced on the felt, looking focused and calm and unfairly competent?

That felt excessive.

Jack broke.

Cleanly.

Hard.

The crack of the cue ball split through the bar noise, and the balls scattered across the felt with sharp little snaps of color. Two stripes dropped into opposite pockets.

Ethan looked up from his drink. “Not really, he said.”

Jack straightened and passed the cue to Robby. “I said I’d played before.”

Robby accepted the cue. “And I said you lie when you think modesty will make you less annoying.”

Taylor leaned toward you. “He’s very annoying.”

You did not look away from Jack. “I noticed.”

Jack’s eyes found yours across the table.

His mouth barely curved.

Your pulse jumped.

Robby pointed his cue toward you. “You’re up.”

You stepped toward the table. “Great.”

Taylor patted your shoulder. “We believe in you.”

Robby leaned against his cue. “I don’t.”

You gave him a look. “Rude.”

Robby lifted one shoulder. “Competitive.”

You leaned over the table and tried to choose a shot.

Immediately, the problem became clear.

You had no shot.

You had no plan.

You had Jack watching from across the table with his stupid backwards hat and his stupid mouth and his stupid eyes, and apparently that was enough to erase every rule of pool you had ever learned.

You adjusted your grip on the cue.

Wrong, apparently.

Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand.

His brows drew together.

Robby saw it immediately.

“No,” Robby said.

Jack looked at him. “What?”

Robby pointed the cue at him. “Do not coach her.”

Jack’s expression stayed calm. “I wasn’t.”

Robby’s eyes narrowed. “You were about to.”

Jack glanced back at your hand. “She’s holding it wrong.”

Robby threw out one hand. “That is coaching.”

You looked over your shoulder at Jack. “I’m holding it wrong?”

Jack’s gaze shifted to yours. “A little.”

Robby stepped between you as much as a pool table allowed. “No. Absolutely not.”

Taylor leaned on her cue, delighted. “I vote we allow it.”

Robby looked at her. “Of course you do. You benefit.”

Ethan raised a hand from his stool. “For the record, I support whatever ends the game fastest.”

Robby ignored him and looked at Jack. “You are on my team.”

Jack’s eyes were still on your hand. “I know.”

Robby pointed at you. “Then stop helping her.”

Jack finally looked at him. “It’s one shot.”

Robby stared. “That is exactly how betrayal starts.”

You looked from Robby to Jack.

Then you lifted one shoulder. “I mean, I do want to win.”

Robby turned toward you. “You are playing against him.”

You smiled. “That sounds like his problem.”

Taylor laughed under her breath.

Jack pushed away from the table.

Robby’s face fell. “Abbot.”

Jack came around the table anyway, slow and unbothered. “You’re being dramatic.”

Robby watched him go. “I am being abandoned.”

Jack stopped beside you, close but not touching yet. “Do you want help?”

There it was again.

Waiting.

Asking.

Making it impossible to pretend any of this was casual.

You nodded once. “Yes.”

Jack’s gaze warmed. “Okay.”

That one word did not deserve to hit the way it did.

It did anyway.

You leaned over the felt again, cue in hand, trying very hard to remember how to breathe.

Jack stepped behind you.

His hand settled lightly over yours on the cue, warm and steady. His other hand came to your waist, guiding you into place without crowding you.

You forgot the entire concept of pool.

Completely.

Robby made a wounded sound from across the table. “I hate this.”

Taylor looked at him. “I love this.”

Jack leaned closer, his voice brushing near your ear. “Line it up.”

You stared at the cue ball. “I’m trying.”

Jack adjusted your fingers. “Loosen your grip.”

You swallowed. “You’re standing very close.”

His hand tightened once over yours. “I know.”

Your stomach flipped.

Robby pointed at Jack. “That sounded unnecessary.”

Jack did not look away from the table. “It was instructional.”

Taylor pressed her lips together.

Jack shifted your hand again, slow and precise, his fingers moving yours like he had all the patience in the world.

You had none.

Not with his chest near your back.

Not with his hand at your waist.

Not with his mouth near your ear and that stupid backwards hat brushing almost against your temple.

“You’re distracting me,” you said.

Jack’s mouth curved close enough that you could hear it. “I haven’t done anything.”

You glanced back at him. “You wore the hat.”

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.

Then he looked back at the table.

“Shoot,” Jack said.

You tried.

You really did.

The cue hit the ball.

The ball rolled forward, kissed another ball at a deeply unimpressive angle, and drifted lazily toward the rail.

Nothing went in.

Nothing even came close.

The table went quiet for half a second.

Then Ethan nodded from his stool. “That was almost pool.”

Taylor pointed at him. “Be supportive.”

Ethan nodded again. “Supportively almost pool.”

You straightened, still painfully aware of Jack behind you. “I hate all of you.”

Jack’s hand stayed at your waist. “Not all of us.”

You turned your head slowly.

He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

You stared at him. “You’re on thin ice.”

Jack’s brow lifted. “Because of the coaching?”

You reached up and touched one curl that had escaped beneath his cap. “Because of this.”

Jack went still.

Immediately.

Your fingers brushed the curl once, gentle and deliberate.

His expression changed before he could stop it.

Small.

Soft.

Completely unfair.

Taylor went quiet across the table.

Robby went quiet too, which was much more alarming.

Jack’s voice came lower. “You done?”

You let your fingers linger for one second longer. “Not sure yet.”

His jaw shifted.

Your pulse jumped.

Then Robby cleared his throat loudly.

You stepped away before Jack could say anything else.

Not far.

Just enough.

Jack’s fingers brushed yours before he let go.

Small.

Brief.

Enough.

Robby stepped up to the table, muttering under his breath. “I should have picked Ethan.”

Ethan looked up from his stool. “I heard that.”

Robby leaned over the table to study his shot. “Good.”

Taylor crossed her arms beside you. “Rude.”

Ethan pointed toward the table. “Thank you.”

Robby took his shot and missed by less than an inch.

Taylor’s smile turned bright. “Tragic.”

Robby straightened slowly. “The table is warped.”

Jack glanced at the table. “It isn’t.”

Robby pointed his cue at him. “You’re on my team.”

Jack picked up his own cue. “That doesn’t make the table warped.”

Robby looked at you and Taylor. “Do you see what I’m dealing with?”

Taylor nodded gravely. “A man with principles.”

Robby’s expression flattened. “A man with poor priorities.”

Jack ignored him and moved around the table, studying the layout with quiet focus.

You watched him.

That was your first mistake.

Because Jack Abbot concentrating was a problem.

Jack Abbot concentrating while holding a pool cue, in jeans, with his backwards hat still sitting low over his curls, was a much larger problem.

He bent over the table to line up his shot.

Your mouth went dry.

Taylor leaned in beside you, her voice low. “You okay?”

You did not look away from Jack. “No.”

Taylor followed your gaze.

Then she pressed her lips together. “Understandable.”

Jack drew the cue back.

Robby stood near the corner pocket, watching the table with too much seriousness. “Do not miss this.”

Jack kept his eyes on the shot. “That was the plan.”

Robby nodded once. “Good plan.”

You stared at the backwards hat.

A terrible idea arrived fully formed.

You stepped closer.

Taylor noticed immediately.

Her eyes widened.

You lifted one finger to your mouth.

Taylor turned her face away and pressed her lips together, like silence had become physically painful.

Jack still had not looked up.

The cue moved forward.

So did you.

Your hand darted out, quick and sure, and you stole the hat right off his head.

Jack missed.

Completely.

The cue ball rolled sideways, bumped uselessly against the rail, and stopped there like it had lost the will to participate.

For one second, no one moved.

Jack stayed bent over the table.

His curls had sprung free, messy and still a little damp at the ends.

That was almost worse than the hat.

Slowly, Jack straightened.

You put the hat on your own head.

Backwards.

Robby stared at the cue ball. “What just happened?”

Taylor’s voice came too bright. “Sports.”

Ethan looked up from his score napkin. “Is that a foul?”

Robby pointed at you. “That has to be a foul.”

You adjusted the brim of the hat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Jack turned toward you.

His eyes moved over your face.

Then the hat.

Then your mouth.

Then the hat again.

Your stomach flipped.

Jack’s jaw shifted. “Give it back.”

You lifted your brows. “No.”

Robby looked between you and Jack. “Abbot.”

Jack did not look away from you. “What?”

Robby pointed at the table. “We are trying to win.”

Jack’s gaze stayed fixed on you beneath the brim of his own stolen hat. “I’m aware.”

Robby dragged a hand down his face. “I picked the wrong partner.”

Jack stepped closer to you.

Not much.

Just enough.

“You distracted me,” Jack said.

You smiled. “Did I?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You know you did.”

You touched the brim of the hat. “Maybe you should focus better.”

Taylor made a tiny sound behind you.

Jack heard it.

You knew he heard it because the corner of his mouth almost moved.

Almost.

His hand came to your waist, light but certain.

Your pulse jumped.

Jack’s voice dropped. “Careful.”

You looked up at him. “You keep saying that.”

His thumb pressed once through the leather of your jacket. “You keep ignoring me.”

You tilted your head. “Maybe I like the hat.”

Jack’s gaze flicked up to it again.

His expression changed.

Small.

Sharp.

Devastating.

“That’s worse,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. “What is?”

His eyes returned to yours. “You in my hat.”

Taylor turned away completely.

Ethan looked down at his napkin like it could save him.

Robby stared at Jack in open betrayal. “We are losing because of this.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Probably.”

Robby threw one hand out. “He admits it.”

You smiled up at Jack, fingers still on the brim of his hat.

Jack stared at you like the rest of the bar had gone quiet.

Like he had forgotten the game.

Like he had forgotten to care.

Then Robby cleared his throat loudly.

Jack finally blinked.

Robby pointed his cue toward the table. “Can we return to the part where you remember what team you’re on?”

Jack’s hand stayed at your waist.

His eyes stayed on yours.

“I know what team I’m on,” Jack said.

The words were quiet.

Too quiet.

Your smile faded a little.

Not gone.

Just softer.

Taylor stopped pretending not to listen.

Ethan slowly lowered his napkin.

Robby stared at Jack for half a second.

Then he looked at you.

“Oh, that’s disgusting,” Robby said.

Taylor pressed a hand to her chest. “That was romantic.”

Ethan nodded once. “Both.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly.

You reached up and took the hat off your head, then stepped closer and put it back on him yourself.

Your fingers lingered at the brim.

Jack let you.

Of course he did.

You adjusted the cap until it sat right again, then brushed one loose curl near his temple.

His expression softened before he could stop it.

Jack’s voice came quieter. “Better?”

You looked at him, close enough now that the noise of the bar felt far away. “Not even a little.”

His mouth almost curved.

Robby groaned from the other side of the table. “I hate this game.”

Taylor smiled. “I love this game.”

Jack’s hand slipped from your waist only when you stepped back toward Taylor.

Even then, his fingers brushed yours before he let go.

Small.

Brief.

Enough.

And this time, when Claire glanced over from the high-top, you did not pretend not to notice.

You only smiled and picked up your cue.

The pool game dissolved after that.

Not officially.

No one declared it over.

Robby made one more shot, missed, and blamed Jack with the righteous fury of a man betrayed by love. Taylor laughed so hard she nearly dropped her cue. Ethan wrote something else on his napkin and refused to show anyone.

Jack stayed close.

Not constantly touching you.

That would have been easier to dismiss, somehow.

Instead, it was worse.

His hand at your lower back when someone moved behind you. His fingers brushing yours when he passed you your drink. His knee nudging yours beneath the high-top after everyone migrated back toward the table. The quiet, steady way he kept finding you in the room.

Every time, you let him.

Every time, he noticed.

Eventually, the bar got louder.

Someone fed more quarters into the jukebox. A group of second-years cheered over a darts game near the wall. Taylor had been pulled into a conversation with someone from your physiology lab, and Robby was telling Ethan a story with enough hand gestures to make everyone nearby lean away from his beer.

Claire was still there.

Still watching sometimes.

But it did not matter the way it had earlier.

Not as much.

Not when Jack’s hand found yours beneath the table and stayed there.

You looked down at your joined hands.

His thumb moved once over yours.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You looked up at him. “Still asking?”

His mouth barely curved. “Yeah.”

Your chest tightened.

The noise pressed in around you, warm and crowded and bright, and suddenly you wanted air.

Not because you were panicking.

Not because you wanted to run.

Because you wanted one quiet minute with him where no one else could look at the shape of this before you understood it yourself.

You leaned closer so he could hear you. “Can we go outside for a second?”

Jack’s expression changed immediately.

Careful.

Attentive.

“Yeah,” Jack said, already standing. “Come on.”

His hand stayed around yours as he led you through the crowd.

He moved slightly ahead of you in the busiest part, shoulder angling through the crush of bodies, his grip steady but not tight. You followed him past the high-top, past the jukebox, past Robby, who noticed and opened his mouth.

Taylor caught Robby’s sleeve before he could speak.

Robby looked at her.

Taylor shook her head once.

For once in his life, Robby listened.

Jack pushed the door open, and the night air hit you all at once.

Cool.

Sharp.

Quiet compared to the bar behind you.

The music dulled as the door swung shut, leaving only the muffled beat through the wall and the distant sound of traffic down the street.

You took a breath.

Then another.

Jack stepped beside you on the sidewalk, close enough that his arm brushed yours.

He did not ask right away.

He gave you a second first.

That almost made it worse.

You looked out at the street, at the blur of passing headlights, at the amber glow spilling across the pavement from the bar windows.

Jack’s hand found yours at your side, his fingers sliding between yours like they belonged there.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You looked at him. “Still asking?”

“Probably for the rest of my life,” Jack said.

Then he went still.

Like he had heard himself a second too late.

Your breath caught.

The street noise softened around you. Music pulsed faintly through the bar door behind him, muffled and distant, but all you could hear was the quiet after his words.

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.

Careful.

Too careful now.

Like he was waiting to find out whether he had said too much.

Your fingers tightened around his.

Then you stepped closer, rose onto your toes, and kissed him.

Jack did not move for half a second.

Then his hand came to your waist, his breath leaving him against your mouth as he kissed you back.

Softly.

Carefully.

Like the answer had gotten to him before the meaning did.

When you pulled back, his eyes opened slowly.

You were still close enough that your mouth brushed his when you spoke.

“Okay,” you said.

Jack’s thumb moved once at your waist. “Okay?”

You nodded, your fingers still curled in his shirt. “For the rest of your life.”

His expression changed.

Just a little.

Enough to make your chest hurt.

Then his hand slid along your back beneath the jacket, warm and steady.

“You sure?” Jack asked.

You smiled faintly. “Still asking?”

His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. “Yeah.”

You touched the curl near his temple, the one still refusing to behave beneath the backwards hat.

“I’m sure,” you said.

Jack looked at you like that answer mattered.

Like he was going to keep it somewhere.

Then he kissed you again.

Stefan disappeared upstairs a while ago, books in hand, leaving you alone with the quiet hum of the house. You’re flipping through a worn paperback you’ve read before, more habit than focus, when you hear footsteps coming down the hall.

You don’t look up at first.

Damon stops when he sees you.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He just leans against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes slow and knowing in that way of his. The kind that’s been lingering for years now. Too long. Long enough that the flirting stopped feeling like a joke and started feeling like a promise nobody was brave enough to name.

“Well,” he says eventually, voice lazy. “If I knew this was what hanging around my house got me, I’d have kicked my brother out ages ago.”

You glance up, arch a brow. “You’ve been flirting with me for a century, Damon. Don’t act surprised now.”

He grins, sharp and familiar, and pushes off the wall. Each step toward you feels deliberate, measured, like he’s testing something. He perches on the arm of the couch instead of sitting properly, close enough that you can smell the bourbon on him, faint and warm.

“You look comfortable,” he says.

“I am.”

“Dangerous thing, being comfortable around me.”

You close the book and set it aside, turning your body toward him just slightly. “You’ve never complained before.”

Something flickers in his eyes at that. Not hunger exactly. Consideration. Like he’s standing on the edge of a decision he’s been circling for a long time.

The silence stretches. It’s not awkward. It’s heavy.

You’re used to Damon touching you casually—brushing past, leaning in too close, murmuring things meant only for you. Tonight, he doesn’t touch you at all. His hands stay still, his posture tense in a way that feels new.

“You busy tomorrow night?” he asks, too casual.

You blink. “Depends.”

He tilts his head. “On what?”

“On whether this is another one of your almosts.”

That earns a quiet laugh. Not sharp. Not mocking. Real.

“No almosts,” he says. “I’m asking.”

Your heart stutters, traitorous and fast. You search his face for the punchline and don’t find it.

“Asking… what, exactly?” you say.

His gaze drops briefly, takes you in without shame, without apology. Sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder. Bare throat. Relaxed, unguarded you.

“Asking you out,” he says. “Dinner. A drink. Something that actually counts.”

The words land soft and heavy all at once.

You hadn’t thought he would. Not really. Want, sure. Tease, absolutely. But this—this is different. This is Damon choosing, not circling.

You let the moment stretch, just enough to make him wait.

Then you smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’d like that.”

For a split second, his mask cracks. Just enough to see the satisfaction underneath.

“Good,” he says, standing. “Tomorrow. Eight. And for the record—”

He leans down, close to your ear, voice low.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time.”

He straightens and walks away like he hasn’t just flipped your world sideways, leaving you alone on the couch with a racing pulse and a smile you don’t bother hiding.

Bonnie’s room smells like vanilla and incense, something warm and familiar that settles your nerves the second you step inside. Music plays low from her phone, an old R&B song humming through the air, steady and unhurried.

You’re sitting on the edge of her bed, one shoe on, the other forgotten on the floor.

Bonnie watches you through the mirror while she twists her hair up, eyes sharp in that way of hers. Not judging. Reading.

“So,” she says, drawing the word out. “Damon.”

You sigh, leaning back on your hands. “I knew this was coming.”

“Oh, absolutely,” she replies, smiling. “I just didn’t think he’d finally grow the nerve.”

You laugh quietly, but your fingers fidget with the hem of your top. You didn’t think he would either. That’s the part you haven’t said out loud yet. The part that still feels unreal.

Bonnie turns toward you fully now, arms crossed. “How long has he been flirting with you?”

You don’t even hesitate. “Longer than he’ll ever admit.”

“Mmhmm.” She steps closer, tilting your chin up gently, inspecting your face. “And how long have you been letting him?”

That earns her a look. “Bonnie.”

She grins. “I’m just saying. You don’t blush like that for someone you’re indifferent to.”

You catch your reflection in the mirror. Bare skin, lips slightly parted, eyes brighter than usual. You look like someone on the edge of something. That realization sends a small shiver through you.

Bonnie reaches for your makeup bag. “Sit still. If Damon Salvatore finally asked you out, I’m not letting you show up looking like you tripped into it.”

“I was in jeans and sweatshirt when he asked,” you remind her.

Her smile softens. “Exactly. And he still asked.”

That lands deeper than it should.

She keeps things simple. A little highlight. Mascara. Lip gloss that smells faintly like cherries. Nothing heavy. Nothing forced. Just you, sharpened a touch.

“You nervous?” she asks quietly.

You nod. “A little.”

“That’s a good sign,” she says. “Means it matters.”

She steps back when she’s done, hands on your shoulders, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “Listen to me. Damon’s reckless with a lot of things. Feelings aren’t one of them. If he crossed that line with you, it’s because he meant it.”

You swallow, heart thudding.

“Plus,” she adds lightly, grabbing your jacket and tossing it to you, “he’s been insufferable all day. That alone tells me everything.”

You laugh, tension easing as you stand. You slip on your jacket, smoothing it down, taking one last look at yourself.

Bonnie gives you a quick hug. Tight. Grounding.

“Go,” she says. “Have fun. And if he breaks your heart—”

“He won’t,” you say, surprising even yourself.

Bonnie smiles like she knew you’d say that. “Text me when he picks you up.”

You hear his car before you see it.

That low purr of the engine rolls up the driveway like a warning. Bonnie’s already grinning, arms folded as she watches you take a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Told you,” she murmurs.

The knock comes a second later. Unhurried. Confident.

You open the door.

Damon stops dead.

It’s subtle, the way it hits him. His gaze sweeps you once, slow and unapologetic, starting at your heels and taking its time on the way up. The dress hugs you just enough to make a point. Your jacket’s open. Skin visible. You didn’t overdo it—and somehow that makes it worse.

His jaw tightens. He bites his lower lip without thinking.

“Well,” he says quietly. “That feels unfair.”

You smile, leaning casually against the doorframe. “You clean up all right yourself.”

He does. Black jacket, dark shirt open at the throat, that familiar lazy confidence sharpened into something deliberate. Tonight, he looks like he knows exactly what he wants.

His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes.

“I’m trying very hard to remember we’re going out,” he says. “And not just… staying right here.”

Bonnie clears her throat loudly from behind you. “I’m still in the room.”

Damon doesn’t look away from you. “Tragic.”

You laugh, warmth blooming low in your stomach, and step outside. Damon offers his arm—not because you need it, but because he wants the excuse. His fingers brush your wrist as you take it, lingering just a second too long.

“Seatbelt,” he murmurs once you’re in the car, leaning across you.

His hand pauses near your waist, knuckles grazing your side. His voice drops.

“Safety first.”

You tilt your head. “Of course.”

He smirks like he knows exactly what that does to him and straightens with visible restraint.

The drive is quiet in the good way. Music low. Damon’s knee brushing yours at every stoplight. His eyes keep drifting to you, like he’s checking that you’re real.

“You nervous?” he asks.

“A little.”

“Good,” he says. “Means you care.”

“So do you.”

He exhales a soft laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

The bar is dim and intimate, all dark wood and amber light. The kind of place that encourages leaning close. Damon chose it on purpose.

He orders without asking—bourbon for him, something smooth and dangerous for you. When the glasses arrive, he slides yours across the table with his fingertips.

“Trust me,” he says.

You take a sip. It’s perfect. Warm. Slow.

Damon watches your mouth while you drink. Doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t apologize.

“That look,” he says. “You do it every time you like something.”

You raise a brow. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“I’ve been paying attention for years.”

The words sit between you, heavy and honest.

He leans in, forearms resting on the table, voice low enough that it feels like it’s meant just for you.

“You know,” he says, “there’s something incredibly distracting about seeing you like this. Knowing I finally get to do something about it.”

“Do what, exactly?”

His smile turns slow. Dangerous.

“That,” he says, eyes flicking to your lips again. “Depends how the night goes.”

Your pulse jumps. You lean closer too, closing the space just enough to feel the heat of him.

“I’m having a very good night so far,” you say.

He lifts his glass in a small toast. “So am I.”

The clink is soft. Intimate.

And when he smiles at you over the rim of his glass, it’s different from his usual smirk. Less playful. More certain.

Like this—whatever this is—has already begun.

The second drink hits differently.

The bar’s louder now, a little more alive, bodies shifting closer together as the night settles in. Damon’s already halfway out of his chair before the bartender finishes pouring.

“Pool?” he asks, thumb hooked around his glass. “I feel like winning something.”

You follow him toward the table, eyeing the cue rack. “And what exactly do you think you’re winning?”

He leans in close, voice brushing your ear. “Depends how generous you’re feeling.”

The game starts playful. You make a decent shot, surprising him, and his grin widens like he enjoys being proven wrong. He circles you when it’s your turn, close enough that his presence presses in from all sides.

“Careful,” he murmurs, positioning your hands on the cue. “You rush it like that, you’ll miss.”

His hands settle over yours. Warm. Steady. His chest brushes your back, deliberate this time. He doesn’t pretend it’s about the shot.

You sink the ball anyway.

Damon exhales a quiet laugh. “Show-off.”

When it’s his turn, you sit on the edge of the table, legs crossed, watching him line up the shot. He glances back at you, eyes dark, and misses on purpose.

“You did that,” you say.

“I absolutely did,” he replies, setting the cue aside and stepping into your space.

Back at the bar, the third drink arrives unspoken. Damon’s knee presses between yours now, casual enough to pass, intimate enough to mean something else entirely. His hand finds your knee beneath the bar, thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles like he’s testing your reaction.

You don’t pull away.

His gaze drops to where he’s touching you. He bites his lip again, harder this time.

“You’re dangerous,” he says quietly.

“You been saying that all night”

“Yeah,” he replies. “And you keep proving me right.”

The kiss happens without announcement.

One second you’re laughing softly at something he said, the next his hand is at your jaw, thumb tilting your chin up. The kiss is unhurried, deep, like he’s been waiting long enough to savor it. The bar fades. The noise dulls. There’s just his mouth, his grip, the heat spreading through you.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“We should go,” he says, voice rough.

You nod. “Now.”

The door barely closes before he’s kissing you again, the kind of kiss that steals your balance. His hands slide to your waist, firm, grounding, like he’s reminding himself you’re real. You kiss him back harder, fingers curling into his jacket, pulling him closer.

Someone laughs somewhere behind you.

Reality intrudes.

Damon pulls back just enough to swear under his breath, then grips your hand and opens the back door.

“Back,” he mutters again, urgency sharp now.

The space is tight, knees knocking, bodies pressed close by default. The second the door shuts, he’s on you—mouth hot, hands roaming, thumb slipping under the hem of your dress to rest against bare skin.

You gasp softly, and he freezes.

His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath uneven.

“God,” he says. “This is a terrible idea.”

You smile against his cheek. “You’re still here.”

“Barely holding it together,” he replies, lips brushing your jaw. “And we are very much in public.”

A car pulls in a few spaces down. Headlights sweep briefly across the back window.

That decides it.

He pulls away with visible effort, hands still resting on your hips like he needs the contact.

“If we stay back here,” he says quietly, “I’m going to forget where we are.”

You tilt your head, eyes dark. “Drive.”

He swallows.

“Get in the front.”

The engine starts. The car moves.

You don’t put your seatbelt on right away.

Damon notices immediately.

“You’re enjoying this,” he says, eyes flicking between the road and you.

You turn toward him, one knee angled in his direction, fingers trailing lightly along his forearm.

“Enjoying what?”

“The fact that I’m trying very hard to be a gentleman.”

Your fingers drift higher. Not enough to cross a line. Enough to promise one.

He exhales through his nose. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You lean in, voice low. “You like it.”

His jaw tightens. “I like knowing where this ends.”

“And where’s that?”

He glances at you again, gaze heavy. “Inside. With a locked door.”

That sends a slow heat curling through you.

You settle back in your seat—finally buckling in—smiling like you’ve already won.

The rest of the drive is quiet in the most dangerous way. Stolen looks. Lingering touches at stoplights. The kind of silence that’s full instead of empty.

By the time he pulls up to your house, the tension between you feels unbearable.

Damon cuts the engine, and the silence snaps tight between you. For a second, neither of you moves. The air feels thick, crowded with everything you haven’t said yet. He turns in his seat, slow, deliberate, elbow settling against the console like he’s got all the time in the world—even though his eyes give him away. They drag over you. Linger. “You know,” he says, voice low and amused, “there was a version of this night where I drove away like a gentleman.” You smile, already leaning closer. “And?” “And I didn’t like it.” Your fingers slide into the open edge of his jacket, gripping fabric, grounding yourself in the reality of him. “Good. Because I didn’t go on a date with Damon Salvatore for restraint.” That does it. His breath hitches, just barely, and his hand comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip like he’s been wanting to do it all night. When he kisses you, it’s slower than before—deeper. Less frantic. The kind of kiss that says I’m done pretending this is a question. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “I like you,” he says, simple and sure. You don’t hesitate. “I like you too.” A smile curves his mouth, warm and dangerous all at once. “Then let’s stop dancing around it.” He opens his door, comes around to yours, and offers his hand—not teasing this time, not playful. Certain. Expectant. You take it. Inside the house, the door clicks shut behind you, and the night finally exhales. Damon’s hands settle at your waist, familiar already, like this has always been where it was headed. He looks at you once more, eyes dark with promise. “Just so we’re clear,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, “I plan on remembering every second of this.” You smile, fingers tightening in his shirt. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

Then his lips were on your neck, a trail of fire that made your head fall back against the door with a soft thud. He wasn’t just kissing you; he was mapping you, learning the scent of your skin, the rhythm of your pulse. You could feel the faint, delicious scrape of his fangs as he nipped at the sensitive skin just below your ear, a clear, present threat that made you shiver with anticipation.

“You smell… divine,” he growled, the words vibrating against your throat. “Like night-blooming jasmine and… temptation.”

Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. You wanted to feel him, all of him. “Damon,” you breathed, his name a plea on your lips. “Stop teasing.”

He chuckled, a low, dark sound. “Oh, sweetheart, I haven’t even started.” But he obliged you, lifting his head to capture your mouth again. This time, his hands were roaming, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, one hand splaying wide over the swell of your ass and pulling you hard against him. You could feel his arousal, thick and insistent, through the layers of your clothes, and it sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly.

With a surge of your own vampiric strength, you spun him, pushing him back against the door. The surprise in his eyes quickly melted into a look of dark, hungry approval. “Feisty,” he purred. “I knew it.”

“Don’t get comfortable,” you warned, your hands fumbling with the hem of his shirt. You needed it off. Now. You ripped it over his head, the fabric tearing slightly in your haste, and tossed it aside. Your eyes drank in the sight of him. Pale, sculpted chest, the hard planes of his abdomen, the dark trail of hair that disappeared into the waistband of his jeans. He was a masterpiece of lethal beauty.

Your hands roamed over his skin, tracing the lines of muscle, feeling the coolness of it. You leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his chest, your tongue flicking over a flat nipple. He hissed, his hands tangling in your hair again, guiding you. You bit down gently, and his grip tightened, a groan rumbling in his chest.

“Your turn,” he rasped, and in a blur of motion, you were the one against the door again. He made quick work of your dress, his fingers skillfully finding the zipper and sliding it down. The silk pooled at your feet, leaving you in just a scrap of lace. His eyes, so dark they were almost black, raked over you, and the raw, undisguised lust in them was the most intoxicating thing you’d ever seen.

“Perfect,” he breathed, before sinking to his knees in front of you.

The sight of Damon Salvatore on his knees for you was a power rush like no other. He looked up at you from under his lashes, his hands gripping your hips. He hooked his fingers in the sides of your panties and slowly, torturously, slid them down your legs, his gaze never leaving yours. He pressed a kiss to your hip bone, then the other, his breath warm against your skin.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, his voice a smoky caress.

“I’m anticipating,” you corrected, your voice barely steady.

He smiled, that slow, dangerous smile, and then he leaned in. The first touch of his tongue against your core was electric. It wasn't a tentative exploration; it was a deliberate, confident stroke. He licked you from your entrance to your clit, a long, slow drag that had your knees buckling. His hands held you up, his grip firm and unyielding as he began to devour you.

He was relentless. He alternated between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and pointed, precise flicks against your swollen clit. He knew exactly how to build the pressure, how to stoke the fire until you were writhing against him, your fingers clutching at his hair. He slid one finger inside you, then another, curling them to find that spot that made you see stars. The dual sensation of his mouth and his fingers was overwhelming, a pleasure so intense it was almost pain.

“Damon, please,” you gasped, your hips rocking against his face, chasing the release that was just out of reach.

He hummed against you, the vibration sending you hurtling closer to the edge. “Come for me,” he commanded, his voice muffled by your flesh. “Let me taste you.”

That was all it took. The coil of pleasure in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you in a blinding wave. You cried out his name, your body convulsing as he worked you through it, his tongue lapping up every drop of your release. He didn’t stop until you were limp and panting, your body boneless against the door.

He rose slowly to his feet, his lips glistening with your essence. He kissed you then, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, a primal, intimate flavor that made your head spin. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you through the dark house to your bedroom. He laid you down on the bed gently, a stark contrast to the raw hunger he’d just displayed.

He stood at the edge of the bed, his gaze sweeping over you. He quickly shed his jeans and boxers, and your breath caught. He was magnificent, long and thick and proudly erect. He crawled onto the bed, covering your body with his, his weight a delicious pressure. He settled between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging against your still-sensitive entrance.

“Last chance to change your mind,” he whispered, though his eyes said he knew you wouldn’t.

“Shut up and fuck me, Damon,” you demanded, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He grinned, and with one powerful thrust, he was buried inside you. You both groaned at the sensation, the perfect, exquisite stretch of him filling you completely. He stilled for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead resting against yours.

“You feel… incredible,” he breathed. “So tight. So perfect.”

Then he began to move. His pace was slow at first, a deep, rhythmic rocking that stoked the embers of your arousal back into a raging fire. He watched you as he moved, his eyes dark and intense, cataloging every gasp, every shudder, every arch of your back. He was savoring this, savoring you.

“Faster,” you urged, your hips rising to meet his.

He obliged, his movements becoming harder, faster. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your moans and his ragged breaths. He angled his hips, hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, and you felt yourself climbing again, hurtling toward another peak.

One of his hands slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, insistent circles. The dual stimulation was your undoing. Your second orgasm ripped through you, even more powerful than the first. Your inner walls clenched around him, and he groaned, his rhythm faltering.

“Fuck, yes,” he growled, his thrusts becoming erratic. He buried his face in your neck, his fangs scraping against your skin. The threat was back, more potent than ever. “I want to bite you,” he rasped. “I want to mark you as mine.”

“Do it,” you gasped, your body still trembling from the force of your release. “Bite me.”

With a guttural cry, he sank his fangs into the soft

The sharp, piercing pain was instantaneously eclipsed by a wave of euphoric pleasure so intense it was almost unbearable. He drank from you, his hips pumping into you one last, hard time as he found his own release, his hot seed spilling deep inside you.

He collapsed against you, his body heavy and sated. For a long time, you just lay there, tangled together, the only sound your mingled breathing. He gently lapped at the bite mark on your neck, his tongue soothing the twin wounds until they closed. He rolled to the side, pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest.

You could hear the steady, slow beat of his heart under your ear. It was calming, grounding. You traced idle patterns on his skin, feeling a sense of rightness, of coming home, that you’d never felt before.

He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Well,” he said, his voice a low, contented rumble. “That was not gentlemanly.”

You smiled against his chest. “It was perfect.”

He was quiet for a moment, and you could feel him thinking. “I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured. “I like you. A lot.”

You lifted your head to look at him. His eyes were soft in the dim light, the predatory hardness gone, replaced by something warm and genuine. “I like you too, Damon.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “Good. Then you’re free tomorrow night. I’m taking you out again.”