The house wasn’t yours, and it wasn’t hers. Some abandoned rental on the edge of nowhere, shutters loose, dust in the corners, kitchen smelling faintly of mildew. But it was far enough from Mystic Falls that Klaus wouldn’t just stroll past the window.

You’d been here three days. Elena had taken over the couch like it was her own, legs folded under her, a blanket thrown over her shoulders. You kept mostly to the kitchen table, nursing the same empty glass and listening to the quiet.

She’d asked you once why Damon and Stefan weren’t the ones babysitting her. You’d told her the truth—Stefan was too deep in Klaus’s orbit, Damon too wrecked to play bodyguard. That left you. The one who didn’t chase, didn’t play hero, and didn’t pretend to be part of their little dance.

“You’re quiet,” she said now, eyes on the book in her lap but her voice deliberate.

“You talk enough for both of us.”

A faint smirk tugged at her mouth. “You’re not like them.”

“Lucky me.”

Her gaze lifted then, studying you like she was trying to decide if you were worth the effort. “You never knew Katherine?”

You leaned back in your chair. “No. I’ve heard the stories. That’s enough.”

“Everyone says she was unforgettable.”

“Some people have bad taste,” you said, and her smirk turned into something sharper.

The days stretched into a strange rhythm. You went out at night to check the perimeter, to make sure no hybrids were sniffing around. She stayed inside, sometimes reading, sometimes pacing, sometimes watching you with that same faint curiosity.

One afternoon, rain tapping the roof in a slow rhythm, she asked, “Why are you really here?”

You looked up from the knife you were sharpening. “Because your life’s inconvenient enough without adding Klaus to the mix.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

She didn’t push, which you respected.

That night, you caught her in the kitchen, filling a glass of water. She glanced over her shoulder. “Do you ever… stop? The whole cold, detached thing?”

“Do you ever stop trying to figure people out?”

“It’s a habit,” she said.

“So’s mine.”

She studied you for a moment, then nodded toward the window. “You think he’ll find us?”

“If he does, I’ll deal with it.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You say that like it’s not a big deal.”

“It isn’t. Not for me.”

You didn’t try to fill the space between you with small talk. She seemed to notice. One evening, she sat on the arm of the couch, watching you as you cleaned your jacket.

“You know,” she said, “it’s almost peaceful here. For a house we don’t own, in a town that isn’t ours.”

You glanced up. “That’s because we’re not trying to play Mystic Falls politics. No one here to watch, no one to impress.”

She nodded slowly, as if that made more sense than it should have. “You don’t care about all that, do you?”

“Nope.”

“And that’s why I think I trust you.”

You didn’t answer, just went back to your jacket. Trust wasn’t the point. Survival was. But you didn’t correct her.

When you left her alone that night to patrol, the air outside was cool, damp from the earlier rain. You walked the property lines, listening for anything out of place. There was nothing. Just quiet.

Back inside, she was asleep on the couch, the blanket tangled around her legs, the book she’d been reading facedown on the floor. You picked it up, set it on the table, and sat back in your chair.

You weren’t here to be her friend. You weren’t here to compete with your brothers. You were here because keeping her alive was the job—and because, for once, the world outside wasn’t clawing at you.

In this corner of nowhere, with nothing but the rain and the creak of the old house, survival didn’t feel like running. It felt like waiting.

And you were good at waiting.