“I think I need someone older.”

The words leave you without hesitation, drifting into the warm glow of Caroline’s room. You’re sitting cross-legged on the edge of her bed, staring blankly at the fairy lights strung across her wall. The confession slips out before you can stop it — like it’s been simmering inside you for months.

Caroline nearly inhales her entire smoothie. She starts coughing violently, slapping her chest as she glares at you with watery eyes. “I— I’m sorry, WHAT?!”

You don’t move. Your voice stays calm, steady. “Guys my age just… aren’t the same,” you murmur, gaze heavy on nothing. “I’m young, and that’s okay… but I think I need someone older.”

Caroline slowly sets her smoothie on her desk like it’s explosive. Her eyebrows creep upward, her lips twitching like she’s physically restraining herself. “…Like… Damon?”

Your entire body jolts. Heat flares in your cheeks. “What? No! Ew, Caroline, absolutely not. Damon’s like… like some weird older brother. A very annoying one.”

Caroline leans back against her headboard, her grin spreading like wildfire. “Mhm. A brother,” she says, dragging out the word delightfully.

You yank a throw pillow into your arms, scowling at her. “Don’t. Start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” she fires back immediately, scooting toward you with unholy enthusiasm. She rests her chin in her hand like an FBI interrogator. “So, tell me, {{user}}… what kind of older are we talking about?”

You hesitate, chewing your cheek. Your fingers worry the corner of the pillow. When you finally answer, your voice is softer. “…It’s not about the number,” you confess. “It’s more about… stability. Maturity.”

Caroline hums, pretending to jot notes in the air. “Mhm. Go on.”

“Someone who makes me feel safe,” you say, voice a little shaky. “Someone who actually listens. Who… gets me. Not the guys my age who…” You wrinkle your nose. “…act like total children.”

“Safe… mature… listens,” Caroline repeats dramatically. “Totally NOT Damon Salvatore.”

You shoot her a deadly glare, which only seems to energize her further.

“And maybe,” you add, barely above a whisper, “…someone who makes me feel… excited. Like… even when they drive me crazy, I still…” You swallow. “…can’t help it.”

Caroline goes stock-still.

Then her face slowly transforms into the smuggest, most unhinged grin you’ve ever seen. “Oh my GOD,” she breathes, leaning in like she’s discovered the cure to vampirism. “That’s literally Damon Salvatore.”

“Caroline!” you groan, launching the pillow straight at her.

She catches it, hugging it like it’s a personal victory. “You’re doomed, {{user}}. Absolutely doomed.”

With a frustrated groan, you flop backward onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. You fold your arms around another pillow, letting the silence settle around you. And then — slowly, unwillingly — a small smile tugs at your lips. The kind that slips out when you weren’t planning on feeling anything.

You close your eyes, like you can hide the flutter in your chest.

Caroline doesn’t notice. She’s still rattling on about how epically doomed you are, kicking her feet against the mattress with a grin that could light up the whole house.

But you barely hear her. The idea of someone older, steadier — someone who made you feel both safe and dangerously alive — lingers in your chest.

And for the first time, you let yourself picture it without immediately shutting the thought away.