The weight of the day pressed heavy on Damon's chest, a tangle of questions and half-formed fears swirling in his mind like a storm that refused to break.
Valerie's cryptic words from earlier echoed relentlessly: There's a lot you need to know. She'd promised answers come morning, but the wait felt like an eternity, each second stretching into a restless void.
He lay on the unfamiliar bed in the guest room Celine had led him to, staring at the ceiling.
The house was quiet now, but the silence only amplified the chaos in his head.
Dinner had been brief, almost mechanical. The group—Damon, Jayla, Valerie, Celine, sat around a table, passing plates of roasted chicken and mashed potatoes in a haze of exhaustion. Conversation was sparse, everyone too drained or too guarded to say much.
Damon had barely tasted the food, his thoughts looping back to the strange events that had landed them here, in this house.
Celine had shown them to their rooms afterward, her voice offering assurances that felt hollow against the weight of unanswered questions.
Damon's room was small but tidy, with a single bed, a lamp on a small table, and a wardrobe.
He'd showered quickly, the hot water doing little to wash away the tension knotting his shoulders. Now, dressed in a borrowed T-shirt and sweatpants, he tossed and turned, the sheets tangling around his legs as his mind raced. What had Valarie meant? Why were they here? And what was Jayla thinking, after everything they'd seen today?
Jayla. Her name alone sent a flicker of something through him—guilt, maybe, for not noticing how shaken she'd been at dinner.
She'd sat across from him, her fork pushing food around her plate, her eyes distant. He should've checked on her, he thought now, cursing himself for retreating to his room without a word.
A soft knock at the door snapped him out of his spiral. He froze, heart thudding, the sound so faint he almost thought he'd imagined it. Another knock, just as gentle, confirmed it.
He swung his legs off the bed and crossed the room in three strides, his bare feet cold against the hardwood floor. When he opened the door, Jayla stood there, and for a moment, time seemed to stutter.
She was beautiful. He'd always known that, in the way you know someone's features add up to something striking without really seeing them. But now, standing in the soft glow of the hallway light, she was impossible to ignore.
Her brunette hair, still damp from her shower, fell in loose waves over her shoulders, catching the light in a way that made it look almost alive. Her eyes, a deep blue he'd never noticed before, held a mix of exhaustion and something else—fear, maybe, or resolve.
She wore a simple nightgown, pale gray and slightly sheer, that clung to her in ways their school uniforms never had. Those uniforms, baggy and shapeless by design, had hidden so much—her full breasts, the curve of her hips, the way her body moved with a quiet confidence she didn't seem to realize she had.
Damon's breath caught, and he felt a flush of heat creep up his neck as his eyes lingered a moment too long.
"Jayla," he said, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. He cleared his throat, stepping back quickly. "Come in."
She hesitated, her fingers twisting the hem of her nightgown, then stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind her, and the room felt smaller, the air heavier. Damon gestured toward the bed, the only place to sit besides the floor, then thought better of it and stayed standing, leaning against the wall to give her space.
"Can't sleep?" he asked, his voice softer now, searching her face for clues to what had brought her here.
She nodded, crossing her arms as if to shield herself from the weight of her own thoughts. "Yeah. You?"
"Same." He ran a hand through his hair, still damp from his own shower, and tried to focus on her words, not the way her nightgown shifted as she moved.
"My head's a mess. Everything Mom said… it's like trying to put together a puzzle with half the pieces missing."
Jayla let out a small, humorless laugh.
The room fell quiet, but it wasn't uncomfortable, not exactly. It was the kind of silence that comes when two people are carrying the same weight, even if they don't know how to share it yet.
Damon's eyes flicked to her again, unbidden, and he cursed himself for noticing the way her hips curved, the soft swell of her figure under the thin fabric. Their school's —oversized meant to desexualize, to keep everyone's focus on books and not bodies—had done their job too well. He'd never seen Jayla like this, and it hit him like a punch he hadn't braced for.
He forced his gaze to the floor, his jaw tightening. "You okay?" he asked, the question feeling inadequate but necessary
She shrugged, her shoulders curling inward. "I don't know. I just… I needed to not be alone right now."
"I get it." He pushed off the wall, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, keeping a careful distance. "Sit, if you want. We can… I don't know, talk. Or not talk. Whatever you need."
Jayla hesitated again, then sank onto the bed, a foot or two away from him. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers still fidgeting with the hem of her nightgown.
"Thanks," she murmured, breaking the silence.
Damon glanced at her. "For what?"
"For protecting me," she said, her voice soft. "Back there… at the house, in the car… you didn't have to, but you did."
He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. "I'm immortal, Jayla. It's not like I was risking much."
She gave a small, unsure smile at that. "Still… you could've left me there. You didn't."
Damon didn't answer right away. He rubbed his palm along the edge of the bedsheet. It was still weird, all of it. Unbelievable. And yet, painfully real.
Jayla leaned forward a bit. "Can I ask you something?"
He nodded slowly. "Yeah, sure."
She hesitated, then asked, "Is it really true? That… you're immortal?"
Damon exhaled through his nose. "I mean… it sounds insane, right? Like something out of a fantasy book. But yeah. I think it's true."
Jayla's eyes widened a little. "How do you know for sure?"
Damon paused, then suddenly stood up. "Wait here."
"Wait—why? Where are you going?" she asked, confused.
"I just wanna show you something."
Before she could ask again, he was already out the door. Jayla sat there, tense and unsure. She wrapped her arms around her legs.
A minute later, Damon returned, holding a knife in his hand.
Jayla's face twisted instantly. "Damon! What the hell—why do you have a knife?!"
He shut the door behind him and walked over. "Relax, I'm not gonna hurt anyone. Just… watch."
"Wait, no—Damon, don't—" she tried to stop him, but before she could get up, he had already pressed the blade to his left arm.
Jayla's heart jumped. "No, Damon, stop—"
The knife cut through the skin with a quiet shhk, and blood welled up immediately. Jayla winced hard, turning her face away. "Oh my god, Damon—what the hell is wrong with you?!"
But then… silence.
No groaning. No cries of pain.
Slowly, Jayla turned back to look—and froze.
Right before her eyes, the wound was closing. Not slowly… but not instantly either. Like something out of a movie, the skin began knitting itself together, muscle and flesh realigning. In less than ten seconds, it was just… gone. A faint smear of blood was left, but the deep gash had completely vanished.
Jayla blinked. Her mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.
"I've done that twice now," Damon said, still staring at his arm like he couldn't believe it either. "It always heals. Fast."
Jayla sat completely still. Her breathing picked up, her heart pounding.
"Holy shit," she whispered.
"I know," Damon muttered.
He looked up at her, their eyes locking.