Tempted by My Best Friend’s Father

The bruises bloomed like ink in water.

First on her shoulder—a perfect fingerprint pressed into the soft skin near her collarbone. Then another, curling along the curve of her thigh. Faint, shadowy things that hadn't been there when she'd fallen asleep beside Damon.

Serena stood in front of the mirror again, robe parted, breath frozen.

She touched the bruises gently. They didn't hurt.

That made it worse.

It felt like her body had been borrowed. Like something had stepped inside her skin, worn her face, and left… just in time for her to wake.

Behind her, Damon's voice broke the stillness.

"Again?"

She turned.

He leaned in the doorway, hair damp from the shower, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His chest was bare, a towel slung over one shoulder, but his eyes—those eyes—were sharp. Awake. A man slowly realizing he was no longer facing grief, but a war.

Serena nodded. "Two more this time."

He approached, carefully, as if afraid of touching something that might vanish.

"Same pattern?" he asked.

"No," she whispered. "New places. Different shapes."

He brushed a knuckle along one, the edge of a crescent blooming beneath her ribs.

His jaw tensed. "She's not just showing you visions anymore."

Serena met his gaze. "She's using my body."

---

They sat on the floor of the music room, candlelight flickering low. Damon lit a fire in the old hearth. No wine tonight. No silk. No games.

Between them, a stack of old photographs, brittle with time.

"She looks so much like me," Serena murmured, thumbing through pictures of Lina.

"But not in the way that matters," Damon said.

Serena held up one photo—Lina laughing, half-turned, sunlit. "You loved her."

"Yes."

"Do I look like her when I sleep?"

He hesitated.

Then, quietly: "Yes."

A breath left Serena's lungs like a confession.

"I don't want to become her," she said.

"You won't."

"But what if I already am?" she asked. "What if she's using me to get back to you?"

Damon's silence was answer enough.

Serena curled her knees to her chest. The fire warmed her skin but couldn't thaw the fear. "She plays the piano through me. She makes me wear her dress. Now… bruises. What happens next?"

"She won't win," he said again, firm this time.

But Serena didn't reply.

Because part of her wasn't sure that was true.

---

That night

She tied a ribbon around her wrist—a simple velvet band.

"Why?" Damon asked, watching her from the bed.

"If I wake up and it's gone," she said, "I'll know someone else was using my hands."

He nodded slowly.

She climbed into bed beside him.

"I'm scared," she whispered.

"I'm here."

"But what if she doesn't want to take me?" Serena asked, her voice trembling. "What if she wants you—and I'm just the way back in?"

Damon turned toward her, one arm wrapping around her waist.

His lips brushed her temple. "Then let her come. I'll remind her who I mourned… and who I chose."

Serena looked up at him.

"You chose me?"

He nodded. "Every time."

Then he kissed her.

Soft. Slow. Real.

She melted into him, and for a few precious moments, there was only breath and skin and heat. No mirrors. No ghosts. Just two people fighting against the dark by holding onto each other harder.

---

But at 3:17 AM…

The ribbon was gone.

Serena's body moved like sleepwalking.

She stood before the mirror, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted as if dreaming.

Inside the glass, the other Serena mimicked her.

But this time, she smiled first.

And the bruises on her reflected arms were older.

Deeper.

Marks of things Serena hadn't yet lived.

And wouldn't remember doing.

Until it was too late.