Chapter 13: Old Wounds, New Tension

The restaurant was quiet, the soft hum of conversation blending with the clinking of silverware and the occasional rustle of a turning page from a nearby newspaper.

Damon sat across from Phoebe, watching as she toyed with the stem of her water glass, her gaze fixed on the menu in front of her. She hadn't said much since they arrived, and neither had he.

It wasn't awkward.

Not exactly.

But the silence between them felt heavy. Charged.

He had expected resistance when he asked her to lunch. Expected her to brush him off, maybe even walk away. And yet, after a long hesitation, she had agreed.

Now, here they were.

Sitting across from each other, pretending this was just a simple lunch between two people who hadn't shared a past.

Phoebe's pov

(A Battle She Didn't Want to Fight)

Phoebe hated that she remembered.

Hated that the quiet, expensive setting of the restaurant reminded her of the many nights they had sat just like this—back when they were playing a part, pretending to be something they weren't.

Only back then, it had been easy.

Now?

Now, she couldn't look at him without remembering the kiss. The heat of it. The way she had lost herself for that one brief, reckless moment before shoving it all back down, calling it a mistake, and leaving.

She had spent weeks convincing herself it meant nothing. That she wasn't affected.

But sitting across from him now, she knew she had been lying to herself.

The problem wasn't just Damon.

It was what he represented.

The past. The choices she had made. The person she had been when she trusted him.

The person she had been when she loved him.

She picked up her fork, forcing herself to focus on the food in front of her, ignoring the way her pulse betrayed her every time she so much as glanced up at him.

Damon's pov

(Testing the Waters)

Damon wasn't a man who second-guessed himself.

He made decisions, calculated risks, and saw them through.

But sitting across from Phoebe, he felt something he hadn't in a long time—uncertainty.

He had told himself this was just a conversation. That he only wanted to see her reaction. To gauge if there was anything left beneath the layers of resentment she had wrapped around herself.

But now, watching the way her fingers tensed slightly when he shifted in his seat, the way she deliberately avoided his gaze, he knew the truth.

This wasn't about testing the waters.

This was about seeing if there was still something to fight for.

He leaned back in his chair, letting the silence stretch a little longer before finally speaking.

"You hate this, don't you?" His voice was quiet, measured.

Phoebe didn't look up. "Hate what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely between them. "Sitting here. Pretending this is normal."

She finally met his gaze, and for a second, something flickered in her expression—something he couldn't quite place.

"Nothing about us was ever normal, Damon."

There it was.

A crack in her armor.

He didn't push. Not yet.

Instead, he allowed himself the smallest smile. "That much we can agree on."

Phoebe exhaled, shaking her head as if she couldn't believe she was even here. "Why did you ask me to lunch?"

Damon held her gaze, his fingers tightening around his glass. He could give her a hundred reasons—practical, logical explanations that had nothing to do with the truth.

But instead, he simply said—

"Because I wanted to."

Phoebe blinked, and for the first time since they sat down, she looked… unsettled.

Like she hadn't expected honesty.

Like she didn't know what to do with it.

She hesitated for half a second before looking away again, her fingers tightening around her fork.

Damon didn't push.

Not yet.

But he wasn't done.

Not even close.