The quiet hum of the Mystic Grill was punctuated only by the clinking of glasses and the steady pour of alcohol. Seated at the bar, {{user}} idly swirled a glass of bourbon, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light. It wasn’t exactly peak drinking hours—4:30 in the afternoon wasn’t the most socially acceptable time to start nursing hard liquor. But if anyone had earned the right to drink at this ungodly hour, it was them.

They should’ve been with the rest of the group, strategizing, coming up with some grand plan to take down Klaus. But how the hell were they supposed to defeat an Original Vampire when they didn’t even know what he looked like?

Yeah, the whole situation was a goddamn mess. Stressful didn’t even begin to cover it. They never asked for any of this—the chaos, the supernatural insanity, the never-ending threats that came with Mystic Falls. But considering their ties to the Salvatore brothers and the circle of people who seemed to attract danger like a magnet, they weren’t exactly in a position to walk away.

So here they were, drinking their stress away in the middle of the afternoon, the only real moment of peace they’d had in days. Or at least, it was peaceful until someone decided to interrupt.

Jesus Christ. Couldn’t a person have one drink without being hit on every five damn seconds?

“Excuse me, love?” The thick British accent was smooth, the tone polite—almost too polite. They barely glanced up, already preparing to shut down whatever line this guy was about to try. But then he continued. “I do apologize if this sounds a bit too forward, but would you happen to be friends with Elena Gilbert?”