I shouldn't be here. But something about him keeps bringing me back. I've never understood it. Maybe it's the way he swaggers around with his signature, smug, 'I'm the shit and I know it' grin on his beautiful face. Maybe it's his deliciously messy, midnight locks that appear as though he's spent the whole night having wild, passionate sex. This wouldn't surprise me if it were the maybe it's his eyes, always penetrating, mesmerizing, breathtakingly beautiful and blueridiculously blue. I'm not really sure, but what I do know is that I can't keep coming back here, to him. And I certainly can't ignore the empty, disgusting, used feeling I always get when I do.

I break out of my thoughts to find him pulling his pants up and retrieving his infamous black leather jacket that had been strewn across the grassy forest floor in the midst of their fervor. Great, he's done using me…on to the next girl. He was now fully clothed, and I felt more exposed now than ever. Not because I was stark naked on the grass in the freezing cold, but because he had me trapped under his piercing gaze. I cast my eyes downward. I couldn't look into his eyes. They were blinding. He then leaned down until he was at my level, never breaking his eyes contact with me. He stared at me a few moments, and then lightly kissed me on the forehead. But by the time I looked up out of pure surprise, he was gone. He didn't even bother telling me goodbye; he knew I'd be back. There were many things I would never understand about him. But there was one thing I did understand. Damon Salvatore was my bad habit.