Tempted by My Best Friend’s Father

The morning held a silence that didn't belong to peace.

It belonged to the kind of stillness that comes after something has shifted.

Like the hush after a storm—where the air is too clean, the wind too quiet, and you can't help but wonder what's waiting just outside your door.

Serena lay in Damon's bed, sunlight slipping through the curtains and painting her bare shoulder in gold. She was awake, but her eyes were closed, listening to the soft rhythm of his breath beside her. He'd fallen asleep with one arm around her waist, his chest warm against her back, like his body had finally stopped guarding itself… even for just a night.

And yet she felt it.

The pull.

The ache of something still unsaid.

Something he hadn't shared—wouldn't share—no matter how many times her mouth found his, no matter how many scars she kissed.

She rolled over slowly, careful not to wake him, and studied his face.

So much control, even in sleep.

His brow slightly furrowed. Lips parted just enough to exhale. One hand still balled in a loose fist near the pillow.

She brushed her fingers along his temple.

And whispered, "What are you still hiding from me, Damon Cross?"

---

Later, after coffee and silence and a few too-long glances between them, he excused himself to take a call in his office.

Serena stayed behind in the bedroom, the oversized shirt hanging off her shoulder, her bare legs curled under her on the couch.

She didn't mean to look through his things.

She really didn't.

But there it was, half-visible in the open drawer of the side table.

A worn leather journal.

Unmarked.

She hesitated.

Then pulled it out with slow fingers.

She didn't open it right away. Just ran her hand over the cover. The leather was cracked in places, like it had traveled with him for years. The kind of object someone only carries if they can't let it go.

And when she finally opened it, the first page took the breath from her chest.

> Her name was Elira.

The handwriting was Damon's. Sharp. Elegant. Slightly rushed in places like the ink couldn't keep up with the memory.

> She was wild in the way fire is wild. Not meant to be touched, but impossible not to chase. I loved her. I think I did. Or maybe I just wanted to be ruined by someone who didn't flinch when they saw me bleed.

Serena froze.

Every page after that was fragmented. Memories. Dates. Snippets of emotion. Mentions of Paris. Of blood. Of betrayal.

Of Elira.

The woman who had scarred him.

But not just his body.

His heart.

His trust.

His sense of forever.

Serena's breath trembled as she read:

> She kissed me like she meant it. She also stabbed me like she meant it. That's the part I can't forgive. Not her. Myself.

> I should have known better. But knowing better never kept me from falling harder.

> I don't write this to remember her. I write this so I don't forget what it cost me to survive her.

Serena closed the journal softly.

Her heart didn't ache from jealousy.

It ached from understanding.

Because now she saw it clearly:

Damon wasn't afraid of loving her.

He was afraid of losing himself again in someone who might walk away and leave nothing but ghosts in their wake.

---

When he returned, he stopped in the doorway the moment he saw the journal in her lap.

His eyes didn't narrow in anger.

They just… dimmed.

"You read it," he said flatly.

Serena didn't lie. "I did."

He walked in slowly, his steps heavy like each one crossed a fault line.

"I wasn't trying to keep it from you," he said. "I just… wasn't ready to see her in your eyes."

"You won't," she whispered. "You'll only see you."

Damon sat beside her. The air between them was different now—not broken, but fragile.

"She made me question everything," he said, eyes staring ahead. "Not just love. But whether I was worth loving in the first place."

Serena placed the journal gently on the table. Then turned to face him fully.

"You are."

He met her gaze.

And for the first time since she'd known him, Damon Cross looked like a man who wanted to believe that.

But didn't know how.

---

That night, they didn't make love.

They held each other.

And for them, that was harder.

Because it meant letting the silence speak.

Letting the ghosts breathe.

Letting memory exist—without owning them.

As they lay tangled in the quiet dark, Serena pressed her lips to his shoulder and whispered:

"I'm not her, Damon."

His reply was raw. Honest.

"I know. That's what scares me."

She smiled against his skin.

And held him tighter.

Because some hearts don't heal with passion.

They heal with presence.