Disclaimer: Not my characters, obviously. Just playing in their world for a while.

Sooo, this story isn't my typical Christmas fare. I usually have a no-angst-only-fluff rule for holiday fics, but for some reason, I went in a different direction this year. The inspiration for this one-shot (including the title) came from "Colder Weather," by the Zac Brown Band, which is one of my fave songs. Anywho, I hope you like the story, even if it probably won't fill you with warm fuzzies. It still has a decent dose of smut, though, so maybe that'll help. ;)

Wishing you all a very happy, healthy, and peaceful 2018! xoxo

Side note: To anyone following BTFUTMK, I haven't abandoned it; don't worry. My muse deserted me for a while, but I'm working on the next chapter now.

Enjoy! Reviews are love. :)

"Want me to top that off?"

He doesn't hear her at first, not really. He registers that words have been spoken in his vicinity but not to him, at least until the waitress clears her throat and tries again.

"Do you want more coff—"

"Please."

He's gruff but polite, a feat he's not usually capable of at two in the morning. It's her, he's sure. She's the reason why his body is hunched over a steaming mug of joe in a roadside greasy spoon but his mind is a hundred miles away.

With her.

As the waitress—Anne, according to her nametag—fills his cup with more rocket fuel, he pulls his phone from his pocket and thumbs through the few contacts he has until he lands on the one for E. She doesn't answer his calls anymore, and why would she. It's been longer than he'd care to admit. Nine months? Ten? A year?

He wonders if she still wears her hair in those soft curls he loves to run his fingers through or if she's cut it. Maybe she dyed it. Maybe she got in touch with her inner rock star and shaved half her head. He wouldn't know.

He has no business calling her in the middle of the night, or at all, but he does it anyway only because her phone isn't near her while she's sleeping. No reason, she once told him; she's no one's emergency contact.

The familiar ache in his chest prompts him to hit the green button. He refuses to examine the feeling too closely, the one that makes his hands shake and his thoughts constantly turn to a woman he would give the world to if the world were his to give. He wishes he were capable of embracing that feeling, of acting on it the way she deserves, but he came to terms with his emotional deficiencies long ago: he's not cut out for it and never will be.

One ring, two. Four. Six. Then, her voice, low and rough like she recorded it during one of their lazy mornings when it was nothing but skin on skin, her moans filling his ears: Hey, it's Elena. Leave a message, unless this is someone trying to sell me something. If that's you, fuck off.

The last bit is new and catches him off guard. On the surface, it seems directed at telemarketers, but there's also a chance the you refers to him. He's tempted to hang up after the beep, but the words spill out before he can stop them.

"Elena." Just saying her name is a relief. He's talking to her even if she's not listening, but he hopes she will. "It's me. I'm a few hours out, finishing a job. I want . . . I need to see you. I know it's Christmas Eve, but I have to try. Please."

The phone cuts him off, sparing her whatever rambling mess would've left his mouth next. He stares at the screen until it turns black then stuffs his cell back into his pocket. He's not a begging man, or he never used to be, anyway. Everything changed when he bumped into a gorgeous brunette in a bar in Boulder two years ago.

It was the first time he'd seen someone who looked as lost as he felt.

###

She stokes the fire and adds another chunk of wood, soaking up the fresh dose of heat. It's another cold night in a cold month of a cold year that's seeped into her bones, and no matter what she tries, she can't get rid of it. Tugging a blanket off the couch, she wraps it around herself and stares out the window at the darkness beyond. She's used to quiet days with only the television and the cat for company, has been for years, but she can't enjoy the silence now, not when she's waiting for it to be broken by the slam of a car door, or a knock, or . . . his voice.

The message was a surprise, but pleasant or unpleasant, she can't decide. She'd be lying if she said she didn't miss him. He's a shot of pure heroin and she's been addicted from the beginning, but the hits are few and far between. When he does appear, he's never around for more than a day, a true love-'em-and-leave-'em type. He always claims work as an excuse, but he won't tell her what his job is and she's done asking. She's half afraid he's a hired gun; the scrapes on his knuckles don't come from an easy life.

Still, the cops haven't shown up to demand the whereabouts of a mysterious man she knows only as Damon, so their arrangement continues, infrequent but necessary. For both of them. She should hate him and his flighty nature but she can't. When they're together, she forgets what a wreck she is, and she suspects he does the same. They're each other's solace, if only for a few blessed hours.

She checks the clock: 9:32 pm. Maybe he won't make it. A storm is raging outside, the wind whipping her little cabin, filling her driveway with snowdrifts. Unless he stopped to put chains on his tires, she'll be going to bed alone.

There—the crunch of a vehicle pushing through the dense snow, followed by a door closing then boots stomping in her entryway. A knock.

She sits frozen on the couch, afraid he'll disappear the second she moves. It's possible she fell asleep and this is just a cruel dream her mind conjured up.

"Elena!" he calls, his voice nearly lost in the howl of the wind.

Racing to the door, she throws it open and braces for a blast of frigid air. Damon's waiting on the step, flecks of white caught in his hair. Those pale eyes lock on hers, and although she's only seen them a half dozen times, they seem to have cataloged the contents of her soul.

"Elena," he repeats, quieter now, but she hears the questions, the ones he left unspoken: Am I still welcome? Do you still want me?

Her answer is clear as she steps back to let him in.

Yes.

###

Her hair is the same—longer, actually, with curls spilling over her shoulders and down her back—and it's the first thing he reaches for. She hasn't spoken, and he expects her to push his hand away or maybe slap him, but she stands still while he sifts his fingers through her locks.

"I missed you," he whispers, studying her while he waits for a reaction. Her arms are crossed protectively over her chest, but her rigid posture relaxes ever so slightly when he brushes his thumb across her cheek.

She nods then closes her eyes as if she's struggling not to lean into his touch. "I didn't think I'd see you again. It's been ages."

"I know." He wants to apologize, but there's no point. There aren't any rules for what they have. No promises or expectations. "If you don't want me here, I can—"

"Stay."

The word hangs between them, familiar and heavy, weighing on the part of him that's still decent—the part that knows she deserves better. He's heard it before, usually in the morning when she rolls him onto his back and works her hips against his, taking the pleasure he's all too willing to provide. His typical response is to kiss her, then they fuck until she's sleepy and sated, he kisses her one last time, and disappears before she wakes.

He hates the outcome of those mornings, and the next one will arrive soon enough, but tonight . . .

Tonight he can give her what she wants. What they both want.

As the tension grows, the sliver of skin above the neck of her sweater turns a rosy pink. Her cheeks follow suit, and her eyes darken to a deep, molten brown that has him fantasizing about dropping to his knees and worshipping her with his mouth until she comes undone. Oh, he'll do that and more, but not while wearing a parka and Tims.

Shucking off the coat and ditching the boots, he backs her toward the living room, closer to the blaze in the hearth. Once they're standing in front of the fire, he stops, his heart banging against his ribcage. He listens to her uneven breathing, watches as she lifts a trembling hand and lays it on his chest. As it slides over his pecs and down to his abdomen, what little patience he has vanishes. It's been too long since her breasts filled his palms, his lips sucked bruises into the tender skin of her neck, and her nails raked his back.

He aims to remedy that. Right. This. Fucking. Minute.

###

Elena can tell the moment Damon's control snaps. The firelight glitters in his eyes like it belongs there, like it was born there, and it burns hotter the longer he looks at her. He grips the hem of her sweater and whisks it over her head then stares at the lacy bra she chose—for him, of course. He thumbs her nipple through the thin fabric, and she arches into him, embarrassed at the needy mewl that leaves her throat.

The sound spurs him on, and he flicks the clasp on her bra, freeing her breasts. He nuzzles them while he works on her jeans, popping the button and dragging them down her legs without bothering to undo the zipper. Crouching before her, he hooks his fingers into her matching thong and tugs, adding it to the pile of discarded clothing. Feeling exposed and oddly shy—it's not like they've never done this—she drops her arms, covering her breasts and sex from his view.

His smile is soft as he gently pries her hands loose and presses a kiss to her navel then her mound, just above the neatly trimmed curls. "You're stunning," he murmurs. "Exactly as I remember."

"I'm not—"

"You are," he interrupts, preventing her from brushing off the compliment.

He collects the blanket she'd been using and lays it on the floor, close to the fire. Scooping her up, he places her in the center of it, standing over her while he strips. She enjoys the show, brief as it is, her gaze riveted to the sleek flex of his muscles and the troubling assortment of scars marring his skin. She wants to kiss each one, soothe the remnants of his past wounds. There are more than there used to be, she thinks.

He seems to sense where her mind's at because he straddles her and leans in close, cupping her face. "You're thinking too much," he says, his nose bumping hers. The warm press of his mouth follows, and she melts into the kiss, clutching at his arm and the feathery hair at his nape. He's right; time is precious, and she's not about to waste it.

When his tongue traces the seam of her lips, she eagerly opens to him. The delicate, silver ring dangling from the chain around his neck grazes her chest, and she shivers from the combination of the cold metal and her own desire. His cock nudges her belly, waiting for her. She grips his hard length, stroking him from base to leaky tip. Guiding him lower, she rubs the head across her slick folds, letting him feel how ready she is.

"God, Elena," he hisses. "You're so fucking wet."

She nips his bottom lip and curls a leg around his hip, slowly grinding against him. Her fingers play over her clit, stroking the sensitive nub. It's selfish, trying to sneak in an orgasm before they've even begun, but it feels too damn good to stop. She knows she's being shamelessly needy; a nearly nonexistent sex life will do that to a person.

"Starting without me, huh?" Damon chides. "Can't let you have all the fun." He pushes her hand away from her sex and slips two fingers inside her, pumping them into her at a leisurely pace. His thumb settles on her clit, driving her to the brink of release while she claws at the blanket, his back, anything she can reach.

"I'm . . . I'm . . ." she manages between ragged breaths. She wasn't prepared for the sheer bliss of his touch, his weight pressing her into the floor, his kisses scorching a path from her jaw to her collarbone. It's too much and yet not enough. She wants more.

"That's it, baby. Let go. Let me see you come for me."

A harsh cry splits the air as she gives in to his coaxing, clamping down on his fingers and writhing beneath him as her orgasm rips through her. When the last shudder passes, he spreads her thighs wide and teases her slit with the tip of his cock until she rocks her hips, inviting him to bury himself inside her.

"Are you . . ." he starts to ask, but she already knows what the question will be.

"Don't worry. I'm still on the pill."

He nods and surges forward with a satisfied grunt, working himself deeper with shallow thrusts until she adjusts to his girth. Once he's filling her completely, he pauses to gaze down at her, smiling at what he sees. Her hair must be a mess because he smooths it and tucks a few strands behind her ear. It's a sweet gesture, but she forces herself to look away, breaking the intimate connection.

Having sex—she doesn't dare refer to this as making love—beside the fire on Christmas Eve while a winter storm rages outside would be romantic under normal circumstances, the kind of thing a couple does. They're not a couple and never will be, but she can pretend just for tonight, imagining a world where the man caressing her so tenderly is more than a temporary lover.

"Elena?"

Damon's voice and talented mouth draw her back to the present as he latches onto her nipple and tugs lightly with his teeth. He erases the brief sting with a swipe of tongue then suckles her, glancing at her with a concerned expression until she sighs a contented "I'm good."

"Just 'good'?" he asks, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "We can do better than that."

He hikes her legs higher until they're hugging his waist, then he rolls his hips and settles into a rhythm of hard, deep thrusts. She meets each one, eagerly fucking him back. Her hands delve into his hair, gripping the black locks and pulling his hungry mouth to hers. As they devour one another, alternately fighting for and surrendering control of the kiss, the stirrings of a second orgasm make her tighten around his cock. Her inner muscles flutter, and she squeezes him again, proud of the loud groan that passes his lips.

His concentration slips, his movements turning frantic. They're both chasing their release now, and it's impossible to tell who'll get there first. Elena digs her heels into his back, her nails scoring his biceps. With every thrust, his pelvic bone connects with her clit, sending jolts of bliss to the very tips of her toes. His eyes meet hers, and he drags in a shuddery breath then shouts her name, his shaft jerking inside her. As his seed bathes her womb, she tumbles over the edge with him, her cry of ecstasy joining his.

"Damon!"

They stay tangled together long after the tremors fade, and in her post-sex haze, she hears him mumble something that sounds vaguely like "Love you."

It's only her tired mind playing tricks on her, she's sure.

###

He shouldn't wake her this early, but he can't help it. He needs to touch her. The tip of his finger glides over the thick fringe of her lashes then lower to the elegant slope of her nose. He ends at her lips, soft and pink and waiting to be kissed. As his mouth hovers above hers, she moans and shifts restlessly, her lids struggling to open. Once they do, she blinks at him in confusion then her gaze darts to the clock beside the rumpled bed, a look of panic on her beautiful face.

"It's only five. You're leaving?" she asks, curling in on herself and tugging the blankets up to her neck. He recognizes the protective gesture; she's rebuilding her walls, preparing for his inevitable departure.

"No," he assures her, hating the sadness brewing in her eyes. "The storm worsened overnight. There must be at least four feet out there." Every time he gets out of bed to tend the fire, he checks the weather. What started as a decent blast of snow is now a full-blown blizzard. "I couldn't leave if I wanted to."

His answer seems to shock her, and she loosens her grip on the blankets, propping herself up on an elbow. "It's Christmas."

"It is. Merry Christmas, darlin'." Catching her fingers in his, he pulls her close, claiming the kiss he was denied earlier. Her lips are motionless against his, telling him she doesn't quite believe he's staying. Determined to prove it to her, he pins her warm, pliant body beneath his and peppers kisses over her cheeks and the line of her jaw. When he reaches her mouth, he licks his way inside, pleased she's letting him. Her tongue curls around his, and relief washes through him as her hands roam across his back. At least she hasn't shut him out. Yet.

The need for air forces them apart after several heated minutes, and he uses the brief break to his advantage. There's something he has to do, and it's better if it happens now instead of moments before he walks out the door with no idea of when he might return.

"I want you to have this." Reaching behind his neck, he unclasps the chain he's worn for more than a decade. "The ring belonged to my mother," he explains, holding the necklace up so Elena can see it.

She studies the thin silver band as if she's afraid it'll burn her. "Why would you give me this?"

"You don't have to wear it if you don't want to, but . . . it's a piece of me you'll always have, even when I'm not here."

Her eyes widen. "It feels like you're saying goodbye. Permanently."

He smiles, hoping it'll ease her worries. "I'm not." Not if I can help it. With the chain still dangling from his fingers, he gestures toward her neck. "May I?"

"Oh. Yeah." She scoops her hair to the side, allowing him to fasten the chain around her throat.

"There." The ring rests over her heart, which seems fitting. "It suits you."

"Damon." She brushes a wisp of hair away from his forehead, her thumb skimming his cheek. "You'll have to leave eventually, and there's nothing I can do to stop you, but it kills me to watch you go. When you take off, a part of me goes with you—a part I can't get back—and honestly, I don't know how much I have left to give." Elena fiddles with the necklace, sliding the ring over her finger. "If you can't stay, let me go with you. All of me."

The desperation in her voice is nearly his undoing, but she can't share his life. He'd end up disappointing her, or worse. Maybe in another time and place, things would be different.

He shakes his head, wiping at a tear before it stains her cheek. "I wish I could make you happy, give you what you deserve." I wish I were a better man, he adds silently. He thinks of last night and the words that snuck out before he could stop them. They were a lie; he's not capable of love, not really. If he were, he wouldn't keep doing this to her. He'd be strong enough to let her go.

But he's not.

"Just be here with me, now," he murmurs, hoping she'll agree to what he can give her, inadequate and fleeting as it is.

When she nods, he swoops in for a kiss, sealing his mouth to hers. His hand drifts between her thighs, cupping her sex. He shouldn't be surprised to find how slick she is, how responsive.

"Christ, Elena," he growls, nibbling her lip until it's red and swollen. Rolling her onto her belly, he lifts her hips. Pleasure shoots straight to his cock as she spreads her legs, waiting for him to take her. Without wasting another second, he presses in deep, groaning as he's enveloped in her silky heat.

For a few more stolen hours, he'll forget about the harsh reality lying beyond these walls. All that matters is this cabin, this bed, this woman—the only constant in his fucked-up world. He'll cling to his memories of her, of this day, until they meet again.

When she's not in his arms, they're all he has left to hold on to.