Another hotel. Florida, right on the ocean, with a balcony that overlooks the beach. Midnight, salty air spilling through the open window, and Damon Salvatore lays awake, trying not to breathe too unevenly. He doesn't want to wake Elena.
Elena, whose hair is spread across his neck, whose warm cheek is pressed against the bare skin of his chest. Elena. Elena Gilbert. Sleeping on him like this is some cheesy romance novel. Good God, who would have thought?
Absently, Damon strokes her hair, the smooth skin of her shoulder, runs his fingertips along the edge of her jaw. His touch is feather light and delicate, soft as the brush of eyelashes against a cheek. Elena doesn't stir. One leg thrown over his, both of her arms wrapped around his neck, she covers him like a blanket. Her heartbeat flutters over every exposed inch of his skin.
His eyes fall closed, lazy, and he tilts his head further back onto the pillows. This is it, he thinks, rubbing the flat of his palm down Elena's back. This is what it means to be human.
To hold this beautiful, sleeping girl close, to feel their hearts beat together, hear every breath, every sigh, feel every slight shifting of her body over his. This is perfect. And he's just starting to realize that he's been missing out all these years. Just starting to get it. Being human doesn't mean weakness.
No. It means more. A lot more. Love and lust and the passionate fire burning deep in the pit of his stomach, making him feel all melty and warm inside, like the core of him has been turned into molten marshmallow. Sweaty palms, racing heart, tingling fingertips, stomach full of what must be ten-foot wingspan butterflies. This is scary, exhilarating, fantastic, like being dropped from a great height with no guarantee of safety.
He loves being in love with Elena. Adores her, adores the high he gets from holding her too close for vampire comfort, is enamored with the idea of waking up in the morning with her spooned against his chest. His hands roam up Elena's back, her arms, palm coming to a rest at the nape of her neck, fingers twining carefully into the baby-soft hair there. He sighs. Breathes deep. Lets the smell of Elena's skin coax his eyes shut. It occurs to him vaguely that he's never had someone like this - someone he trusts enough to be this vulnerable with. Not even Katherine. Never Katherine.
Sighing deep, Damon shifts gently, so that Elena's cheek falls against his collarbone, perfect, matched up like they were built for each other. He sighs again. This is ridiculous. Crazy. Who would have thought that he'd be here, holding the woman of his dreams? Certainly Damon never thought of it. Until Elena, he'd never had a 'woman of his dreams'.
Damon smiles, holding her closer.
"I love you," he whispers in her hair. There is something freeing about this, of telling her while she is asleep, oblivious. "I love you." The words come easier the second time, fall off his lips with an ease that makes him breathless. "I love you. I love you. I -"
A feral growl sounds from the corner of the room, hot and dark and angry, and Damon's muscles spring into action as though they had been waiting for this since the second he and Elena left Fell's church. He moves Elena off of him quickly, silently, and she hardly even stirs in her sleep as he deposits her on the bed. Vampire speed, he pounces in front of the bed, assuming a catlike, protective crouch. If anything dares to threaten Elena, he will tear the offender limb from limb, muscle from bone, grind every last bit into something too small to ever be identified -
"Who's there?" His voice is entirely Damon, sharp and cutting like a piece of broken glass in the gutter. Harsh and strong and powerful, he releases the words on a growl that comes from deep in his chest.
The answer is low, almost a whisper, but he would recognize the voice anywhere.
"I would kindly appreciate it if you would get away from my girl."