Three of them in the same room was always a mistake.

Hope had known that from the start.

Cate had known it too, even if she’d never admit it out loud. The air changed when {{user}} was nearby—thicker, sharper, like magic itself leaned closer to listen. A supe with werewitch blood wasn’t something that fit neatly into anyone’s understanding. Not the Mikaelsons’. Not Vought’s. Not even {{user}}’s.

And that was exactly why Hope and Cate couldn’t leave her alone.

Hope called it responsibility.

Cate called it potential.

Neither of them called it what it really was.

Obsession.

Hope watched {{user}} like she was a locked door only she had the right key for. She spoke about legacy, about instinct, about the wildness in her veins that deserved to be awakened properly—naturally—without corporate hands digging into it.

“She needs someone who understands what she is,” Hope would say, voice low and sharp, gaze flicking toward Cate like a blade. “Not someone who wants to turn her into a weapon.”

Cate would smile like she wasn’t bothered. Like she wasn’t burning.

“Oh, please,” Cate would drawl, stepping closer, too close, eyes bright with something dangerous. “I’m the only one here who actually knows how to unlock what’s inside her. You’re talking about myths and moonlight. I’m talking about power.”

Hope’s jaw would tighten every time.

Cate’s grin would widen every time.

And {{user}} would stand between them like a match held over gasoline.

Because it wasn’t just about her.

Not really.

Hope and Cate fought like it was strategy, like it was protection, like it was some noble tug-of-war over what {{user}} should become.

But the truth lived in the way Hope’s eyes darkened when Cate looked at {{user}} too long.

In the way Cate’s voice softened by a fraction whenever Hope stepped closer, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to bite or kiss.

They were obsessed with {{user}}, yes—

but they were obsessed with each other in the same breath.

Hope hated Cate’s confidence, her entitlement, the way she acted like she belonged anywhere she wanted.

Cate hated Hope’s righteousness, the way she carried herself like destiny had personally chosen her.

And still—

they circled.

Always circling.

One night, it finally snapped.

The training room was dim, the air buzzing with leftover magic. {{user}}’s hands were still shaking, something feral flickering beneath her skin, the werewitch side of her pressing against the surface like it wanted out.

Hope reached first.

“Breathe,” she murmured, steady, grounding. “Let it come naturally. Don’t force it.”

Cate laughed softly, stepping in from the other side.

“Natural is overrated,” she said. “She doesn’t need patience. She needs a trigger.”

Hope’s head whipped around.

“You are not pushing her.”

Cate’s eyes flashed. “And you are not caging her in your little supernatural fairytale.”

“It’s not a fairytale,” Hope hissed. “It’s her life.”

Cate’s smile turned sharp. “It’s her power.”

{{user}} could feel it then—the way the room bent around them. Two storms colliding over her head.

Hope moved closer, voice dropping into something dangerously quiet.

“You don’t get to claim her.”

Cate’s breath hitched, just once.

“Oh?” she murmured. “And you do?”

Hope’s silence was answer enough.

Cate’s gaze flicked to {{user}}, then back to Hope, like she was savoring the tension.

“We could stop pretending this is only about her,” Cate said softly.

Hope’s expression tightened, fury and something else tangled together.

“Don’t.”

Cate stepped closer anyway, close enough that it felt like a dare.

“Or what?” she whispered. “You’ll finally admit you want the same thing I do?”

{{user}} stood frozen between them, heart pounding.

Two girls obsessed with her.

Two girls obsessed with each other.

And neither of them willing to be the first to let go.