It's not love—it's not even like most of the time. But he's Damon, she's Katherine, she can't have Stefan, and he can't have Elena, so it works.

He fucks her in a way that he could never fuck Elena—all anger and misplaced passion and a desire to hurt her in some way. And all the while she's letting out little mocking laughs because she knows what he's doing and she doesn't care.

It's her choice to spend the night but they don't cuddle. Neither is really the cuddling type, at least not with each other, and it's really better this way, he tells himself. He does, however, find himself staring at her back as he falls asleep.

-x-

He raises an eyebrow in the morning when she hands him a glass of blood. "What?" she asks, her tone mocking. He wonders if she'll ever uses a different tone with him. "Am I not allowed to bring my lover breakfast in the morning?"

Damon ignores the term of—well, not endearment, but close enough—and reaches for the glass. "You didn't lace it with vervain or in any way contaminate the blood, did you?" he asks before taking the glass.

"What kind of woman do you take me for?" Katherine asks, although he can see the look she doesn't bother to hide.

He pulls back his hand. Not this time.

"You're still trying to kill me, Kat?" he asks causally as he stretches. It is morning after all, and in all their activity last night, he may have pulled a muscle. Well, not really, but he can pretend.

"Did you expect anything less?" she singsongs as she exits the room, the glass in hand.

"Of course not," he answers, smirking himself. The truth is, he doesn't know what to expect from Katherine, but the game is half the fun. The other half, of course, is the secret plotting of her death—which she'll never suspect while she thinks he's still wrapped around her little finger.

What a pair they make, he muses as he lays in bed. What a pair.