Damon Salvatore tolerated the quiet in the afternoons, not because he liked it, but because Mystic Falls seemed to behave when he did. He was stretched out across his bed, leather jacket abandoned over a chair, boots still on like he might get up and cause trouble at any moment. A journal lay open in his hand—an old habit he’d never admit to—ink dark and sharp, just like the thoughts he kept buried. The king of Mystic Falls didn’t need peace, but he owned it anyway.