Tempted by My Best Friend’s Father

The mirror hadn't spoken since.

But it didn't have to.

Serena could still feel her smile—the wrong smile—lingering at the edge of her skin like perfume that refused to fade. It clung to her breath, curled around her ankles like fog, a memory she couldn't shake.

Damon hadn't spoken either—not since she stepped back inside, hours later. He watched her now from across the penthouse library, his gaze unreadable, his hands buried in his pockets like he was trying to hold something in.

Or bury something deeper.

Her.

Him.

Her and him and the space between them Lina had started to haunt.

And still, she couldn't stop wanting him.

That was the most terrifying part.

Even now, wrapped in a long black robe, hair still damp from her shower, Serena's skin itched for his touch. Her body knew no better. It still called for him in the quiet.

He stood near the fireplace. Sleeves rolled up. The veins in his forearms pronounced and bare. A glass of something dark and expensive dangled from his fingers. She could see the firelight painting his jaw in flickers of gold, every line of his face carved like temptation dared into form.

He didn't look at her. Not directly.

Not yet.

But he knew she was watching.

Serena stepped forward slowly.

"Are you afraid of me now?" she asked, softly.

His jaw flexed.

"No," he said after a beat. "I'm afraid for you."

She stopped a few feet away. "Because of her?"

Damon finally turned. His eyes, always so precise, looked almost glassy now.

"Because of me."

Serena didn't flinch.

She walked the last steps until she was in front of him. Close enough to see the way the light touched the faint scar near his temple. Close enough to smell the sharp citrus and cedarwood on his skin.

"Then stop standing there like a man waiting to be punished."

He stared at her.

She untied the belt of her robe, slowly, never breaking eye contact.

Let the fabric slide off her shoulders like a secret she no longer cared to keep.

Underneath—nothing.

Just skin, bare and warm, goosebumps dancing down her arms.

She stood before him, naked and unafraid.

Damon's breath caught.

"I'm not afraid of your ghosts," she said, her voice quiet but steel-edged. "I'm afraid of losing this moment because you keep trying to protect me from something I've already chosen to walk into."

His jaw tensed. His chest rose and fell once—twice—sharply.

She touched his shirt.

Unbuttoned one button.

Then another.

Her fingers trembled, but her voice didn't.

"I don't care if she looked like me. I don't care if she wore your shirts or haunted your mirror."

She pushed the fabric off his shoulders.

"I'm not her."

He caught her wrists.

Held them between them.

"I know," he said, rough and low. "That's what makes this so much worse."

She kissed him.

Hard.

Fierce.

Like she was trying to erase her reflection from his mind.

His grip tightened, then gave way entirely as his arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her into him like a man starved. His mouth devoured hers with a hunger sharpened by restraint, a kiss that tasted like a hundred nights they'd denied themselves, like the grief he'd buried in silence.

Their bodies collided.

Skin to skin.

Heat to heat.

He lifted her—effortless—and carried her to the velvet couch, laying her down like something precious he didn't trust himself to keep. His mouth found the curve of her collarbone, her shoulder, the place behind her ear that made her gasp softly.

Serena arched beneath him.

Her fingers slid into his hair. "I want you to remember me," she whispered.

"I couldn't forget you if I tried."

And when he entered her, it wasn't rushed.

It was reverent.

Slow and devastating.

She felt every inch of him—not just in her body, but in her heart, in the place where fear and longing collided. He moved like he was afraid of breaking her and needed to test how much she could take.

She whispered his name.

He said hers like it was a vow, like he was saying it for the first time.

"Serena…"

And in that moment, it wasn't about the mirror.

Or Lina.

Or the haunting echo of past wounds.

It was about them.

Two people trying to rewrite the story they'd both been cursed to repeat.

---

Hours later, the fire had died down to a soft glow, and Serena lay draped across his chest, fingers lazily tracing the scar on his ribs. Damon had one arm wrapped around her, his thumb stroking slow circles into the small of her back.

"Was she the last person you let in like this?" she asked.

A long silence.

"Yes."

Serena lifted her head, propped on one elbow.

"I'm not here to be your second chance, Damon."

He met her gaze. "What are you, then?"

She smiled faintly.

"Maybe I'm here to be the first time you stop running."

His eyes flickered.

But he didn't argue.

Because something in him already knew—

He'd stopped running the moment he kissed her the first time.

He just hadn't admitted it yet.