I step off the city bus and look across the street at The Masquerade. The venue, formerly a turn-of-the-century excelsior mill building, looks like a shack that's going to collapse any minute. I personally think its neon purple sign, peeling black paint, and shaky floors add to its eclectic charm. Who wouldn't want to go to a concert and worry if the ceiling's going to cave on you because the people in the Hell room upstairs are moshing?

Oh, I don't know...Damon Salvatore?

I frown as I scan the parking lot for him and his Camaro. He offered to pick me up at my apartment, but I asked him to meet me here because I was "already going to be on this side of town" to "pick up some things". I think he knew I was lying, but he didn't call me out on it. We've tiptoed around each other all week ever since we made an unspoken agreement to give our friendship another shot. I hate feeling like we can't be upfront with each other, but I definitely think that I need to raise my guard around him for the sake of my poor heart. I shouldn't have felt like a jilted lover when he and Dr. Pierce kissed in front of me (and even I internally refer to as Smoochfest 2012: Clash of the Tongues). My head knows chances are slim to none that Damon and I will ever be in the position to date each other. My heart, on the other hand, needs to accept that fact. I really do think that we can be friends with each other, but if I truly want this to happen, I need to stop thinking of myself as his potential girlfriend.

If that means I have to take a forty minute bus ride across Atlanta to The Masquerade so Damon can't pick me up and trigger me to internalize this night as a faux date, then so be it.

I spot his blue Camaro as I walk down the line of assorted cars. The outline of his unruly hair creates a wild silhouette that makes me smile. I approach the driver's side door and rap my knuckles on the window.

He jumps so high, his head bangs on the car ceiling. I can't help but laugh. I pinch my lips shut when Damon glares at me through his window.

"Give a guy some warning, will you?" he grouses as he rubs the top of his head. I step away from the Camaro and hold up my hands in a gesture of peace.

"I'm here?" I offer, amused at the way Damon massages his head when he steps out of his car. I try to keep my features straight, but the corners of my mouth turn up no matter how contrite I try to look. He rolls his eyes in what I assume is his attempt to look exasperated, but it's mere moments before a smile graces his face as well.

"Life's never boring with you around, is it?" he murmurs, shaking his head. His voice is so low that I can't tell if he's talking to me or to himself. I decide to bypass his comment.

"How's the head?"

He shrugs. "I've had worse bumps." His eyes scan the surrounding area. "Where's this Masquerade place?"

I point to the decrepit building to our right. "There."

His face pales, even in the light of the parking lot lamps. "There?" He slumps against his Camaro. "There's no way that building is a legal concert venue."

"Damon, I've been to a ton of shows here," I say. "Do I look worse for the wear?"

"No, but you're used to doing this music stuff for fun." His chest heaves with deep breaths as he eyes the building with suspicious eyes. A realization jolts me: he is terrified to attend this concert.

I mentally smack myself for my thoughtlessness. Damon's note, flowers, and concert tickets excited me so much that I automatically invited him to the Dr. Dog show with me. I didn't even consider if he wanted to voluntarily spend his Friday night at a concert at a venue that looks like the Grim Reaper's personal cubbyhole. Hell, I probably forced him to remember some of his more unpleasant childhood memories when I told him to keep tonight open and meet me here.

I am such a moron.

"Damon," I say in a soft voice. I reach out and place my hand on his forearm in attempt to calm him. His panic-saturated eyes drop down to the place where our bodies touch, then lift back up to meet mine. "We don't have to go in there. We can get back in your Camaro and drive away from here at any time."

Frustration replaces the fear in his eyes. "You're not missing your concert because I'm a dysfunctional idiot, Elena."

"You're not a dysfunctional idiot, Damon—"

"No? Then why can't I just walk into that building like all of those other people?" he mutters, gesturing at the people in the line. His shoulders sag. "You should have asked someone normal to come with you tonight."

"I've always considered 'normal' a subjective description."

He kicks a rock on the ground. "You know what I mean."

As silence looms between us, I rack my brain for another approach to getting Damon into The Masquerade. An idea pops into my head. I cross my arms and level him with a stare. "Alright, Damon. You say I should have asked someone normal to come with me tonight? Now's your chance to be normal."

Confusion clouds his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"You want to be normal?" I release one arm and gesture to the concert venue across the street. "Pull yourself together and walk into that building with me."

His eyes widen. "But I…I mean, I…you want me to…I just…"

I re-cross my arms and eye him. "Look, you're never going to get over your discomfort with music if you continue to avoid it. Tonight's concert is very similar to the Donovan's Band shows that you sit through every weekend; the only differences are that you're in a different location and are seeing a different band. Now, I know I said that we can get back in your Camaro and drive away, but I've been looking forward to this show all week, and I am not going to waste the tickets that you so generously bought me."

"So," I continue, uncrossing my arms, "as soon as I stop talking, I'm going to walk across the street and get in line for the show. I hope you join me." I unzip my clutch, pull out one of the two tickets, and hand it to Damon. Our eyes meet at the same time as our hands. It takes a lot of strength to not give into the electric hum that passes between us and take back everything I just said, but I slip my hand out of his grasp. Without another word, I spin on my heel and walk towards The Masquerade, feeling Damon's glance burn into my back the entire time.

I force myself to stare at anything but the parking lot when I stand at the end of the line. I will not glance at Damon. I really wish that he was standing next to me in line, but I can't force him to do anything that he doesn't want to do. If he really wants to face his fears about music, he needs to be the one to take the next step to experience it.

As the line shuffles forward, my heart hurts with every step that Damon's not with me. I second-guess my tough love approach. I berate myself for not inviting someone else to join me. I wonder if Damon only accepted my invitation because he didn't want to further upset me. These unwanted thoughts snowball on top of each other as I step closer to the door, and I bite my lip to keep my tears at bay.

When I'm two people away from the ticket-taking bouncer, I hear a small chorus of "What the fuck?!"s and "We were here first!"s roar behind me. I look over my shoulder and see Damon walk past the angry-looking line behind me to my side.

I try to offer an apologetic look to the people behind us, but the grin on my face is so wide that my cheeks feel like they'll split. I then remember that I'm trying to temper my feelings for this man, and my smile shrinks to a normal size. "Glad you could make it."

Damon shrugs. "I looked pretty dumb standing in the parking lot by myself." His lips quirk into what looks like a sheepish smile. I return it before the bouncer tears the stubs off our tickets and we walk into The Masquerade.

The place and people are as grungy as they were when I came here with Bonnie six months ago. Low ceilings with exposed wood beams make the space feel condensed. Blood-red lights sparsely dot the walls and create an ominous glow. The place is packed, and raucous chatter fills the room.

I turn back to Damon, whose neck is craned as he looks around the space with wide eyes. I place my hand on his arm to get his attention.

"Stay close to me, okay?"

He nods. The heat of his presence warms me as I lead us to Heaven, the room of the concert. I recognize that Damon might need a quick escape if things get too dicey for him, so I settle us against the back wall of the room. I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over my arm before gesturing to the bar.

"Drink?"

Damon looks at the bottles of alcohol for a moment and shakes his head. "I think I want my head clear for tonight, but I'll get you something."

"Thanks, but I can buy it myself," I say, but he's already taking his wallet out of his pocket. "Damon, you bought the tickets. I can buy my own drink."

He brushes me off with his free hand. "My father raised Stefan and I with the belief that a woman in our company should never buy her own drink."

Get yourself together, Elena. This is not a date. "Are you sure?"

He gives me a narrowed look that shuts me up. "You like beer, right? Any type in particular?"

I eye the row of beers on tap before glancing up at Damon. "Surprise me."

Five minutes later, Damon returns to me with a beer in one hand and water in the other. I take the glass from him and sip the top. Nutmeg and cinnamon flavors dance across my tongue. I look over at Damon. "Terrapin Pumpkinfest?"

He releases a low whistle. "Damn, you're good."

I take a larger sip and hum in appreciation of the pumpkin-y goodness. "When Matt and I started socially drinking in high school, he told me that no way in hell would he and I drink the 'piss-water' beer that everyone else was drinking. He stole two cans of Guinness that someone managed to sneak from their Dad's study and we drank our first beers together."

His eyebrow raises. "Your first beer was a Guinness?"

"Yep. Ruined me for life," I whisper as the lights dim and the members of Dr. Dog walk onto the stage. As the dense room hollers for the group, Damon visibly stiffens. I swipe his glass of water from his hand before it drops to the ground. His jaw clenches as his eyes lock on the band. I can only imagine what memories are filtering through his mind right now.

"Damon," I say loudly, trying to get his attention. I call his name several times before he finally tears his glance away from Dr. Dog. "Focus on me, Damon. Look at me, not at the band." I stand with my back against the wall and position him an arm's length in front of me so his back faces the stage. He can't see the musicians unless he turns around.

Damon stares at me with such desperation in his eyes, I feel like I'm the life preserver to his man overboard. "Elena, I don't know if—"

"Don't even go there, Damon Salvatore," I warn. As the band's distinctive psychedelic rock sound begins to sound, I'm reminded of the Woodstock documentary Damon and I watched together. An idea slowly forms in my head.

"Close your eyes." His head tilts to the side but he does as I ask. The lyrics to 'Shadow People' fill the air.

The rain is falling, it's after dark

The streets are swimming with the sharks

It's the right night for the wrong company
And there ain't nothing 'round here to look at
Move along, move along

"Dr. Dog is influenced by a particular decade of music," I say, taking a sip of my beer. "Can you tell me what it is?"

Damon's eyes fly open. "You know I don't know anything about music."

"Close your eyes!" I yelp, biting back a smile when Damon's eyelids squish shut again. "You know more about music then you realize, Damon. Think about the documentary we watched when you brought me food from Donovan's."

"Woodstock?"

I nod, more for my benefit than his. "Do you remember any of the musicians that played at Woodstock?"

His forehead wrinkles. "Jimi Hendrix, right? The guy who played 'The Star Spangled Banner'?"

"Who else?"

"Uh…that Joplin chick…the band that has the Ben and Jerry's flavor named after the lead…Santana?"

I laugh. "Amongst others, yes. Do you remember any of their songs?"

He cracks one eye open and gives me a stern look. "'The Star Spangled Banner'?"

"Okaaay, did anything about their music stand out to you?"

The lines in Damon's brow grow deeper. "That Joplin chick's voice sounded like she had gravel in her throat when she sang, but Jimi's voice was fuller."

"That's exactly what I thought when I first heard them!" I exclaim, receiving glares from the people around me. I mouth 'Sorry' to them before looking back at Damon. "Did you know that Jimi Hendrix didn't like the sound of his own voice?" I ask in a lowered voice. "According to the guitarist of the Rolling Stones, Ronnie Wood, Jimi thought that he couldn't sing well. He liked his guitar-playing a lot more than he liked his vocals."

"Huh."

"Greatest electric guitarist of his time and he felt insecure about his own singing," I muse, momentarily lost in thought. When I come to, I see Damon observing me. "What?"

"It's nothing." A smile plays on his lips. "You do realize that you could probably be a professor of music history as easily as you could be one of creative writing, yes?"

I shrug, though the notion makes itself comfortable in my head. "I've never really given it much thought. I've always considered music nothing more than a hobby. It didn't belong in my academics, you know?"

"Aren't you always telling me how music and history are intertwined subjects?" he teases. Laugh wrinkles form around his eyes as the rest of his face brightens. It's astounding how the stress that characterized his earlier façade is starting to vanish.

If I think Damon's handsome now, God knows how ungodly attractive he'd be if he looked this happy all the time.

I laugh at his jest. "Oh, now you listen to me! I should've known it would only be to toss my words back in my face!"

"You should really try to not make so much sense, Elena."

"I'll get right on that, Damon." He chuckles as I roll my eyes, and for the first time tonight, everything is perfect.

Damon and I continue to face each other during Dr. Dog's next couple of songs, quietly chatting our way through 'Hang On', 'That Old Black Hole', and 'Do the Trick'. When the band plays the opening notes of 'The Beach', I squeal. Damon cocks his eyebrow at me.

"Squealing, Elena? Really?"

"Hey, this is the first song I ever heard by them!" I defend. "It's so gritty and raw and the music makes me wanna do naughty things even though the lyrics are really depressing..."

"Naughty things?" Damon repeats, grinning devilishly at me as I clap my hands to my mouth, realizing what I've just blurted. Damn you, second beer! I open my mouth to correct myself, but Damon cuts me off. "I think I'd better pay special attention to this song."

My face flares with mortification as he turns around and faces the stage for the first time tonight, smirking the entire time. The bassist growls into the microphone.

The memories we've buried have now taken seed
When spring time comes they'll turn into weeds
And they'll creep through your window to smother your dreams
You know fate has a funny way of comin' around

Halfway through the song, Damon dips his head to mine. "You know, if I wanted to...how did you phrase it...do naughty things with music playing in the background, I'm not sure that this song would make it on my playlist." His breath tickles the shell of my ear and makes me shiver.

Not a date, Elena. Not a date, not a date, not a date.

"Well, you can make your own Naughty Things playlist," I murmur, wondering if my voice sounds as shaky to him as it does to me. Holy wet panties, it is hot in here or is it me?

The vibrations from Damon's chuckle into my ear do nothing to help my below-the-belt situation. "Do you have a Naughty Things playlist, Elena?"

"That's classified information."

"Tell me what's on it."

I scoff and step away from Damon to quell the way that my heart is about to beat out of my chest. "Nope."

He pouts. "Not even one song?"

I cross my arms and attempt to glare at him. "Not even."

He scans my face before smirking at me. "I'll find out one way or another. You know that, right?"

"No one but me knows what's on that playlist, if it even exists—"

"—oh, it exists—"

"—and if you're considering some crazy alternative plan that involves you breaking into my apartment just to look at my iTunes playlists, you should really reevaluate your life," I finish with a smirk. Damon taps his finger on his chin.

"You haven't even told Caroline?"

I laugh. "You really think I'd tell the biggest blabbermouth of my friends anything I wouldn't want to be public knowledge? I told you, if such a playlist exists, I'm the only one who knows its contents."

"For now," Damon adds in an ominous voice.

"For always." He winks at me before turning back to the stage as Dr. Dog launches into 'The Breeze'.

We stand and listen to the rest of the show without incident. I point out some of my favorite instrumental choices and Damon makes fun of an unusual lyric or two, and before I know it, Dr. Dog is returning to the stage for an encore performance.

"This would sound much cooler on a banjo," the lead guitarist says before he begins picking the intro to a very familiar song. I gasp. My hands shoot out to grab something to steady me.

"Elena, what's wrong?" When I glance away from the stage, I see Damon looking at me with a concerned expression.

"They're covering my favorite Avett Brothers song," I whisper, practically speechless from giddy shock.

"Who are—"

"—I'll tell you later, just listen," I say as the guitarist begins to sing.

Well, you send my life a'whirling
Darling when you're twirling
On the floor
Who cares about tomorrow?
What more is tomorrow
Than another day?
When you swept me away
Yeah, you swept me away

I mouth every word, melting into the music of one of my all-time favorite songs. Every time I hear 'Swept Away', I think it sounds like the musical embodiment of pure love. Dr. Dog is performing the sentimental version of the song, but my heart's racing as if I were listening to an upbeat tune.

Well, life is ever changing
But I will always find a constant
And comfort in your love
With your heart my soul is bound
And as we dance I know
That heaven will be found

I feel something soft curl around my hand. When I look down, I see Damon's fingers curve around mine.

I grabbed Damon's hand to steady myself when Dr. Dog began to play 'Swept Away'.

Damon didn't let go of my hand.

Damon Salvatore is holding my hand.

My eyes dart up to meet his, and when they do, the expression on his face is so tender that it makes my blood crackle like a Fourth of July sparkler. Damon's looking at me like I'm the most precious thing in his world. His expression is equal parts thrilling and terrifying. Am I reading it correctly? Does my expression reflect the feelings of apprehension and excitement that duel within me every time this man and I are in the same room together?

I remain frozen, scared that he'll startle if I move away from him. He stays similarly still, moving for nothing than to give my hand a gentle squeeze. Our eyes stay fixed on each other for the remainder of the song, breaking contact only when the music fades to a close. Our hands slip out of each other's grasp. My heart aches at the loss of his touch.

We don't speak to each other for the rest of Dr. Dog's encore, nor do we talk as we file out of The Masquerade and walk towards the parking lot. I occasionally chance a glance up at Damon as we walk, but every time we make eye contact I look away. I feel him staring at my profile, but if I turn to look at him his head jerks forward.

I slow my pace as we approach the bus stop and break the quiet that looms between us. "Thank you for the tickets, Damon. Tonight was fun."

"Yeah, it was alright," he agrees. His neutral expression droops to a frown as he observes the bus sign to my left. "Why are you stopping here?"

"This is the bus I need to take to get back to the apartment."

"No way. Come on, I'll drive you home."

Damon goes to walk towards his car, but I stand my ground. "I appreciate your offer, but I really think that I should take the bus tonight."

"Elena," he sighs, running his fingers through his dark hair, "it's only a ten minute drive from this place to your apartment."

"I don't mind."

"And I've got at least three seats you can choose from in my Camaro. You'll be lucky if you even get a seat on the bus since there are so many people taking it."

My heart hurts at the pleading tone of his voice, but I have to stand my ground. "Damon, do you still trust me?"

He stops. "Yes."

"Then please trust me when I say that I truly think that me getting on this bus is the best way for us to end our evening together," I slowly say. Hurt flashes in his eyes, and I rush to appease him. "I've ridden this bus plenty of times before. I'll be safe, and I'll see you at our meeting on Monday, okay?"

"I still don't like this."

"I know, but I really appreciate the way you trust me to make this decision."

He harrumphs. "Can I see your phone?"

"My phone?" I rummage around my pocket and pull out the device. He takes it from my hand and pushes several buttons. As he hands it back to me, I hear his phone buzz. He removes it from his pocket and looks at the screen with a satisfied expression.

"Can you at least text me when you're safely in your apartment?"

I fight to keep my mouth from falling open at his gesture. "We have each other's phone numbers?"

He looks at a spot on the ground. "Yeah, well, I figured that with it being less than a week until Thanksgiving, we should have another way of staying in touch with each other. You know, to talk about your novel and such."

"That's a good idea."

Silence settles between us once more. Damon clears his throat. "So, yeah, text me when you get home, okay?"

I nod. "Okay."

We stand awkwardly at the bus stop for several minutes. Damon eventually bobs his head at me, turns around, and briskly walks in the direction of his car. I watch his retreating figure until I hear the bus arrive several seconds later.

The bus drops me off around the corner from my apartment forty minutes later. I go through the gate, walk up the stairs, and let myself into my place. The lights are dim because Matt's still at the bar. I don't bother to turn them on as I grab my phone from my jacket pocket and hang it up. I pad to my room and flop on my bed. The twin thuds of my shoes hitting the ground sound as I look at my phone screen. I go to Contacts and scroll down until I find Damon's name.

Elena: Back at the apartment. Thanks for the great night. I hope you enjoyed the show.

I've barely undressed and redressed into my pajamas when my phone beeps with a new text.

Damon: Even music is enjoyable when you're around. Glad you made it back safely. Sleep well, Elena.

My heart pounds. Don't overreact. Tonight was not a date.

My self-reproaches don't stop me from changing my ringtone to 'Swept Away' before I go to sleep.

Season's greetings, readers! I've been bogged down by various distractions, so apologies for not posting this update sooner. I hope that everyone is doing well!

As I mentioned in my AN last chapter, next semester I'm completing a Capstone Project on fanfiction – what it is, why people read and write it, etc. Would any of you be willing to be interviewed or answer a questionnaire (or several) about your experiences with fanfiction to help me out? If so, please leave me a review or send me a message with a way for me to get in touch with you (PM, email, etc.). I'd be more than happy to explain more about the project if you're on the fence and want more information. Thanks to everyone who's already volunteered to assist me!