The Return of Damon Salvatore ⚜ TVD

un - saint petra's float spa

A/N : 1599 words whelp- hoorah for my incapability to calm tf down with my writing. Anyway, if you don't like long chapters...here's where you'll stop. If you're still here for the ride, well buckle up, it's gonna be a long one.

i - Saint Petra's Float Spa

I SORT THROUGH the files laid higgledy-piggledy on my desk, occasionally humming to the ramblings of my coworker and best friend, Adrian. Or as he likes to dub himself, Ben Affleck's twin. Trust me, it doesn't stick as he thinks it does.

He was more or less the talkative one out of us two, and very eager to start conversations with people, be it strangers or people we know. I, on the other hand, loathed the idea of conversing with people out of my friendship circle; which admittedly was very small in the first place. It included the few co-workers that haven't disgusted me, my friends from high school that I wasn't estranged with, and Adrian. Very small, as I said.

"Are you even listening to me?" A voice jolts me out of my thoughts.

"Hm?" I look up, noticing the unimpressed look Adrian was giving me. My body reacted instinctively late; only now feeling the need to freeze up, making me smudge ink all over my notepad.

I frowned at the impressionable blue mark it left on the yellowed paper. What a waste. I made sure to show my clear distaste towards that blue-eyed punk.

Squinting, he holds my gaze. My eyes caught on the slight smirk of his before it disappeared.

"So?" He asked as if challenging me.

My eye twitched at his question. It was a trap. He knows I don't give a shit about what he says when he starts rambling, especially when he does it at work. I learned to have selective hearing long ago to deal with situations like this.

Though, it does come back and bite me in the ass when this happens. "So what?" I countered, forcing nonchalance.

He rolled his eyes and shrugged, all the while leaning on my desk. "You weren't listening when I said I booked us an appointment at Saint Petra's Float Spa."

My hairline could've reached the stratosphere with how high it rose at his statement. "The Saint what now — What the fuck is that?"

He gives me a pitying look, to which I silently grind my teeth at. Fucking bastard. He really should stop getting on my nerves. The beach-blonde Australian shoved his hands into his winter coat (seriously, what the hell is this sociopath doing, wearing this in the middle of summer?) and said, " It's a spa specializing in 'float therapy', which is basically fancy wording for floating in a huge ass tank full of water mixed with salt."

"It's supposed to be therapeutic." He finished.

"'Supposed to', huh. Something's telling me you haven't tried it yet," I cock my eyes, my gaze curious.

"Duh. Can't very well go without my trusty partner-in-crime now, can I?

I suppressed a chuckle. "Oh, you can, actually," I look at my computer screen. "You have other friends besides me, Adrian. And who are less responsible enough to want to accompany you to Saint Peter's —" " — Saint Petra's — " I wave my hand, dismissing his words. "Whatever —my point is, you'll have more fun with those wild friends of yours instead of boring ol' me."

"Well, you're special."

I give him a pointed look. "You're gonna have to get better at lying. You suck." I click send on my email message.

"Well, going there might be good for you. Make you less grumpy and grouchy." He added, unhelpfully, might I add.

My eyes darted across my table to find a form I desperately needed before my attention was grabbed yet again by Adrian. "Plus, you're single. Maybe you'll finally meet a girl that doesn't mind your workaholic ass."