Damon grimaced as he let the memory play back in his head. It had only been an hour ago, and it had only been a ten-minute conversation, but the second he'd left Alaric Saltzman's classroom, the realization of what he had said had hit him full-force, and ever since then he'd been over analyzing his every move, his every word, his every intention, letting the words burn themselves into his mind.

"You don't have to see her if you don't want to."

The words had left his mouth before he'd even had time to consider the impact they might have on the room.

He recalled that when Stefan had been held captive by Pearl's renegade mob of misfit tomb vamps, he'd been just as protective of Elena, if not more so.

"You are not going in there. I can't protect you, Elena."

And he had noted how the teacher's eyes had shifted towards him, full of questions.

Despite their recent camaraderie, to Alaric, he was nothing but the soulless monster who had seduced his wife into a life of vampirism; to Alaric, he was a creature that cared about nothing and no one but himself and his petty desires. Alaric's eyes has said, Why do you care? Why do you care if you can't protect Elena? What is she to you?

But Damon had had an excuse in that instance. Bodily harm to Elena meant explaining a body- and with a council of wanna-be vampire hunters on the prowl, equipped with their very own John "I-can't-die-because-I-have-a-ring" Gilbert, it made sense (from a selfish perspective) that Damon would want to keep the body count low. Damon Salvatore could not be inconvenienced with a pesky stake to the chest if he was found out.

But this- this instance- this slip of his own goddamned tongue- could not be so easily manipulated to fit his own agenda. He had revealed that he actually cared for- God help him- her feelings. And maybe he'd insinuated he felt such concern before- if her still being alive counted as such- but he'd never outright said it.

"You don't have to see her if you don't want to."

God, how could he be so stupid? What was wrong with him? Stefan had noticed. Stefan knew something was up, of that much, Damon was sure. The only person in that room who hadn't perceived his genuine concern as odd was Elena herself, and he didn't know if that was for the better or worse.

She wasn't a stupid girl- far from it. So did that mean that she considered those words normal for him? Had she grown that comfortable around him? Once again, he knew not whether that was good or bad. On the one hand, what was left of his un-beating heart seemed to expand at the thought of Elena Gilbert being comfortable around him- but on the other, he wondered, had he really gone so soft as for her to see that she could be that comfortable? Had he really let her in enough times for her to trust him?

And then there was the question that bothered Damon the most- more than the fact that he'd let his "self-serving psychopath" façade slip- the fact that, if questioned as to why he cared, he didn't even have an answer. He had no idea why he gave a damn if Elena Gilbert lived or died, let alone why he cared if she didn't want to rendezvous with her estranged mommy. He honestly had no answer- not even a cheeky, sarcastic placeholder that he could offer up to Stefan in place of the truth, if pressed- as to why, in the past 145 years, Elena Gilbert was the first thing that had mattered to him besides himself, and Katherine. He just knew that she did matter.

He just knew that Elena hurt, or Elena afraid, or Elena sad- hell, even just Elena made uncomfortable- filled him with an overwhelming urge to make it better. To put his arms around her shoulders and pet her hair and pick her up and take her away to somewhere she didn't have to feel pain, just like when he'd swooped her off the pavement when she'd wrecked her car.

More memories flooded Damon's mind: brushing the strands of hair from her tear-soaked face; whispering that everything would be okay; watching her sleep as he drove down the interstate towards Georgia. Oh, how priceless her reaction had been when she found out we weren't in Mystic Falls anymore, he reminisced.

Damon shook his head, as if the movement could erase his feelings, and poured himself another glass of bourbon as he stared into the fire in the sunken living room of the boarding house.

Damon Salvatore didn't know what the hell was wrong with him, or what would happen if someone else found out before he did. He had no idea how he'd gone from the dark knight to the white hat in sixty seconds flat, or what he was going to do about it. But he suspected that the answers he needed would be clear to him once he figured out how he truly felt about Elena Gilbert…because whatever he was feeling now, had to stop. It couldn't grow into something he couldn't control, something these humans called…love.

But then again, he also suspected...that it already had.