The Salvatore house was unusually quiet.

You and Bonnie had slipped away from the others hours ago. The music from Elena’s backyard party still thudded faintly through the night, but it was distant—like a memory already fading. You were in a guest room, curled up on the floor beside the bed with a bottle of half-warm wine neither of you liked.

“I can’t believe we’re still here,” Bonnie whispered, her fingers trailing lazy circles over the worn rug. “After everything.”

You watched her in the dim light, the way her eyes glimmered—always so full of grief and power and something softer when she looked at you.

“I don’t think I ever thought we’d make it this far,” you said. “Not alive, anyway.”

She laughed, but it caught halfway in her throat. You were both tipsy, but not drunk. Not enough to forget the past or the closeness of now.

Bonnie leaned back against the bed frame. Her bare knee brushed yours. You didn’t move.

“I miss when it was easier,” she murmured. “When we were just… teenagers. And stupid. And everything mattered way too much.”

You looked at her. “Everything still matters too much.”

Bonnie turned her face toward you slowly, as if your words struck some quiet chord in her chest. She said your name quietly..

You didn’t mean to kiss her.

It started as a hush between you. An unsaid truth, a trembling breath. Your lips found hers like a song you both knew the words to without ever speaking them aloud. It wasn’t urgent. It was slow, and a little scared. You kissed her like she could disappear if you touched her too quickly.

Bonnie cupped your face, gentle and reverent. Like she was scared of you, too—of what this meant. Of what it could ruin. But she didn’t stop.

The music from outside filtered in again— “This dream isn’t feeling sweet…”

When she pulled back, you both sat there in silence. Her forehead rested against yours, and you felt the shake in her breath.

“We’re not kids anymore,” she whispered. “I know,” you said, voice hoarse. “I think that’s what makes this so terrifying.”