Pent-up magic is anxiety on overdrive, anxiety with the knob cranked all the way up to a million. Cortisol and adrenaline flooding a witch's body and brain, barely held in check by a bulging, leaking dam called control.

You don't want to be the kind of witch that lets it all out. Don't want magic to drive you.

He followed her into the bookstore that day, the chime of the store's bell marking his arrival, and she heard him before she saw him, asking the owner if there were any books available on the founding families. He acted like he didn't recognize her, sitting cross-legged on the linoleum in the back of the bookstore with her nose buried in the spine of a novella. And she pretended like she didn't see him plucking books from the shelves, reading titles, like she didn't notice his disgusted face as he skimmed the contemporary fiction, working his way down her aisle, his heady cologne surrounding her, drawing nearer, until his leather boots met her sneakers.

Are you the kind of witch to let it all out?

The blonde vampire looks dead. She might have killed him. His heavy head fallen in her hands, eyes glassy and lifeless. Inebriated with magic, she does not understand the commotion around her, it is like she turned the channel and ended up in the middle of a movie, and is trying to understand what has led to this scene of a shouting wide-eyed vampire, holding back a crying brunette.

Her head spins and the floor and walls breathe, stone and brick expanding and contracting. And she sees herself above herself, floating, feeling fucking great. It is fucking great to not hold back, to push out what has been caught in her throat, and in her heart, and in her thighs and send all of that white-hot energy into the black-cold void.

Last time she felt this good is when she unearthed twenty-seven vampires—no, wait, it was 26, because he told her to, just like he told her to fry his brother's brain.

"If he wakes up crying to meet the sun, then we know that Stefan is back."

Damon's words reach Bonnie warbled, as if she were underwater, obscured by Elena's hysterical screams.

DBDB

She slams the car door, cold leather on the back of her thighs and knees, and her pulse picks up at the thought of being alone with him.

He had told her she wouldn't get an Uber to take her request, the service didn't come out as far as the old Salvatore place and that despite how grateful her best friend was that she saved her boyfriend, Elena wasn't leaving Stefan's side anytime soon.

"I'm your only hope, witch." He pointed out, as she reluctantly followed him to the classic blue Camaro parked out under the boardinghouse portico.

It was Bonnie who Elena lunged for first when Damon finally let her go. Dazed and lightheaded, Bonnie's limbs and shoulders were weightless against Elena, who wrapped her in a tight hug as she mouthed a soppy thank you, and worriedly asked her over and over if she was okay.

Elena was frightened by what she saw.

She was frightened for Bonnie. Of Bonnie. And she blamed Damon.

But Damon had been right. And Stefan wasn't dead. He was sleeping, and would eventually wake up and see Elena. She would be the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes.

Damon had lingered a bit, touched Elena's wet cheek and suggested she should come up and take the edge off with a drink, but she responded that he had done enough already.

With a faint smirk, Damon raised his hands in surrender, and breezed by Bonnie, "Let's leave the lovebirds to it."

Sliding into the driver's side, Damon fills the front seats with the smell of bourbon and cologne. Bonnie's teeth chatter, as she leans on the passenger door, questioning if it would be wrong of her to wake Matt up and ask him to come get her. There is a bit of movement next to her as Damon hands her his leather jacket to drape over her legs. "You know how much I hate turning the heater on."

The Camaro roars on the road, cutting through the Virginia woods, and into the small town of Mystic Falls. Past its historic red brick buildings, and its Hallmark movie set of a Main Street, with its filigreed-iron light posts decked for the upcoming Thanksgiving parade, russet and gold ribbons, and fall wreaths of leaves. And past the soap-art on the windows of Mystic Grill, displaying a thanksgiving feast of a plump turkey and pumpkin pies, and past the crooked closed sign hanging in the little bookstore.

He was Caroline's on-again, off-again. But when he strolled into the bookstore that morning, he and the blonde were officially off. And she was sprawled on the floor of that dusty book-lined aisle, reading the opening passages of a book about a woman awakening, sticky from dried sweat, in her shorts and sports bra, wired and tired, from yet another morning run. Another futile attempt to soothe the frustration inside of her, hoping it would exhaust her from the urge to yell until her lungs gave out and her throat burned.

Her Grams reassured her these emotions were normal, told her it happened to all witches once or twice, suggesting various teas and meditations, even though Bonnie could hear her concern in her more than frequent phone calls.

He had knelt down beside her, in that little bookstore, in his raw-denim jeans and designer shirt, and told her he had seen her running, more than a couple of times. Had watched her sprinting through the woods before the sun rose, especially on those nights he forgot to end. And then he bent awkwardly to read the title of the book she held in her hand, smiling playfully.

"Do you want me to tell you how it ends?"

DBDB

Damon Salvatore.

Her grandmother didn't hear Bonnie speak his name until she needed her help in cleaning up her mess.

Emily Bennett, her great, great, great aunt, was anathema to her coven. Bonnie didn't know of the renowned tomb spell because the elders didn't speak on Emily, they thought the less Bonnie knew the better. But they should have instructed her on what her relative had done, they should have told her about him, the same way they made sure she could recite their familial spells and prayers, the same way they guided her on how to use their grimoire and observe their sabbats and rituals.

She risks a side-eyed glance over at his handsome face, all angles and edges in the dark.

He pulls into her drive and dims the headlights.

He's the first to speak. All of his flippant demeanor is gone, the nonchalance missing in his question, "Where have you been, Bonnie?"

She pulls up the hoodie over her head and mutters, "Thanks for the ride," because it is best to get out as soon as she can. But as quickly as she cracks the door, he swiftly reaches over her and slams it shut, and the familiar hook of alarm comes back to her, the fear of never quite knowing what he will do next.

"I need your help."

Her mouth falls open and closed and then open again as she contemplates telling him that the last time she helped him she nearly got kicked out of her coven, had to ostracize herself from her friends, but she simply tells him, "No."

He tosses his keys on the dashboard, like he's settling in, like he's planning on taking a while with her outside her house, "You think I don't understand the animosity between witches and vampires? He declares, "I know all too well about the hatred between the two." He continues, "Your coven might have threatened to excommunicate you, but Sheila was not going to let that be a real option."

She's not a fan of his knowledge of witches. Or her. "You have my Grams, that's the deal," She reminds him.

"You and I both know your grandmother won't have anything to do with me and Stefan once she hears Klaus's name," He informs, his irritation apparent at having to explain to her why he wants what he wants. "Klaus is going to come looking for Stefan, maybe not today, or tomorrow but soon. He's obsessed with having a ripper in his arsenal, and in his looking for Stefan he will discover Elena."

The sky is turning creamsicle orange and Bonnie glances at her phone, wondering how long will he keep her.

"I'll consider it, Damon."

He touches her. His touch is gentle, almost hesitant, and she can't help but flinch, the sensation new, after so long. But her reaction doesn't deter him, just like it never did before. He pushes back her hoodie, as if needing to see more of her, wanting her to look at him.

"You could have killed Stefan," He teases lightly, "That was a whole lotta magic back there, "He remarks, and Bonnie can hear the pride and amusement in his voice.

Excess doesn't frighten him. He revels in it. And in violence.

"Goodnight, Damon," She says, her intense mossy-green eyes finally meeting his intense blue. She attempts to leave him again, and his hand deftly moves underneath the leather jacket to grip the fleshy inside of her thigh. And he squeezes. Lightly at first. And then hard. Making it clear she cannot leave until he tells her she can. Her body instantly responds to him, growing warm and taut under his touch. She wriggles a bit, rolls her hips, wanting and not wanting, for him to crawl his fingers up her thigh, to the middle of her. She bites the corner of her mouth. His name comes out of her mouth, like a whisper, a moan, when she tells him he needs to let her go. And he ignores her, dips his head in the crook of her neck, inhaling her. His smile ghosting over the tender skin, fangs and lips skimming over her veins, as he reminds her she can let it all out on him. Like she used to do.

She gets the door open. Manages to escape, flinging his leather jacket carelessly onto the empty seat beside her.

When she passes by the front of the car, she sees him, his head down by the dash, looking at her and the corners of her mouth tug into a small smile.

"Monday. 9 o'clock sharp." He informs her out of the rolled down window.

She leaves him hanging, but he watches her leave him and climb the sprawling stairs of her porch and turn the key to her front door before he starts the engine.