— It was ironic; if it didn't hurt so damn bad he would have been amused in some bitter way. But it did. It hurt like hell and this time (his love for Clarke being so infinitely stronger than it had ever been for Elena) he didn't know how long he'd be able to stand it before he went out of his damn mind at the prospect of having lost her forever
Because when would he EVER get to be TRULY happy?
How many times would Damon forget that Clarke didn't remember him and end up with reality stabbing him through the chest like the cruelest stake when she rejected him? Despite the constant feeling of a hat pin piercing his heart— the pain a sharp keening ache— the vampire couldn't give up on her— even when he knew without a doubt what her reaction would be each time they met.
Still. Every damn day he tried in vain— and every night ended up drowning his sorrows at the bottom of a bottle.
Damon couldn't tell exactly what Clarke was working on, just that her back was to him and she was writing on a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. There was no sound of the vampire's approach, just his hand appearing out of the darkness nearby to her right to reach over her shoulder, the silken hip of the nearly black rose he held brushing over the curve of the brunette's cheek like a ghostly kiss from which came the gently playful purr of greeting nearly against her ear on the opposite side. "Mornin' blackbird. Whatcha working on?"









