The front door closes behind you too hard.

Your breath breaks immediately.

Damon looks up from the couch, ready with a comment—then he sees your face. Red eyes. Shaking hands. You’re trying to hold it together and failing spectacularly.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Okay… come here.”

You don’t explain. You can’t. You just cry.

Damon doesn’t ask questions. He pulls you into a hug, solid and steady, one hand rubbing slow circles into your back like he’s done this before—like he knows exactly what to do when someone’s hurting but not talking.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to tell me anything. Just breathe.”

He settles you on the couch, wraps a blanket around you, stays close. When your breathing stutters, he times his own to yours until it evens out. Eventually, exhaustion wins.

You fall asleep against his chest.

He doesn’t move.

Hours later, the front door opens quietly.

Elena freezes when she sees you asleep on the couch. “Oh my god…” she whispers, rushing forward.

Stefan stops short, eyes immediately on you—your breathing, your posture, the way your hands are curled like you were holding onto something.

“What happened?” he asks, low and controlled.

Damon looks up, tired but calm. “She came home upset,” he says simply. “Didn’t want to talk. Fell asleep.”

Stefan nods once. Then he carefully reaches down, sliding one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you with impossible gentleness.

You stir slightly—but don’t wake.

Elena watches with tears in her eyes as Stefan carries you upstairs, holding you like you’re something precious and breakable. He lays you down slowly, tucks the blanket around you, brushes your hair back with two careful fingers.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, more promise than sound.

Elena presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” she whispers.

Stefan straightens, jaw tight with worry—but his hand lingers on yours until he’s sure you’re settled.