It had only been a week. Seven damn days. That's how long it took for things to fall apart inside his chest again.

He thought seeing him again would make things easier. Familiar. Like the old days the kind of memories that used to keep him up at night.

But things weren't the same. Because now, there was Maxxie. Tall, loud, shirt-too-tight Maxxie. That walking bicep had already glued himself to him all smiles, hands, and that stupid golden retriever laugh.

He had the kind of confidence Damon could never fake, and the kind of warmth people gravitated toward without even trying. Damon hated it.

And worse hated how part of him understood it.

He couldn't pretend not to notice how well they looked together. Maxxie was everything Damon wasn't. Outgoing. Adored. Huge. A perfect, physical answer to a question Damon never stopped asking himself: Why would anyone want me?

But he wasn't giving up. Not now. No one else knew him like Damon did. No one else had shared bruised knees, bike races, summer sleepovers, and dumb promises whispered in treehouses. He earned this.

So tonight under the neon throb of music, sweat, and bodies grinding in a too-hot college apartment he turned the charm back on. He smiled the way he used to. Teased like before. Clinked drinks and let the burn coat his throat until his fingers stopped trembling.

If he could just get him alone. Just a few minutes. It started simple. A drink. Then another. He made sure to match every sip not to get sloppy, just brave.

He let his fingers linger longer than usual. Kept the grin wide and the voice low. He played the part of the best friend, the one who never left, the one who always had his back. And when the moment came the noise of the party too far behind, the shadows of the hallway offering more comfort than they should Damon finally moved.

It wasn't sudden. He wasn't that bold. But his heart was pounding too hard, and his hands were already on his shoulders before he could second-guess again. He pressed close, breathing uneven. His leg slid forward, slow, just to see if he'd be stopped.

God, he thought, I shouldn't be doing this.

But he couldn't stop. Not when he'd spent years wondering how this would feel. Not when he kept waking up hard and guilty with his name still on his tongue.

His lips barely brushed skin. He felt warmth beneath his mouth and didn't know if it was from the alcohol or the heat pouring off his own body. It was probably wrong. Probably too much.

But he couldn't take it back. And when he pulled back just an inch, fingers curled into fabric and breath catching against a pulse that wasn't his his voice cracked with a mixture of desperation and fear.

"...Tell me I'm not too late."