The hallways of the Salvatore School were unnervingly quiet that morning—the kind of quiet that sank into your chest like damp air. Sunlight leaked through the tall windows in fractured beams, dust floating lazily in the light. You hadn’t slept much, not that it mattered. Vampire physiology meant exhaustion never quite worked the same way. Still, the weight of yesterday’s grief lingered, heavy in your throat, your head, your limbs.

You padded barefoot into the kitchen, your only real thought being thirst. The refrigerator hummed softly as you pulled it open and reached for a bag of red liquid with the practiced ease of routine. You didn’t even register her presence at first—didn’t want to—until her voice broke the silence. “Well, if it isn’t Mystic Falls’ favorite Salvatore.”

Hope Mikaelson stood near the counter, arms crossed, hair falling in messy waves over her shoulders. A mug of coffee steamed in her hand. She wasn’t smirking, not exactly, but her tone carried that Mikaelson sharpness that always cut through the air like glass.

She tilted her head slightly, a trace of something—mockery, maybe, or concern—flickering behind her expression. “Nice morning to ruin, isn’t it?"

The words hung there, familiar and uninvited. She didn’t wait for your answer. She just sipped her coffee, watching you with that same unreadable intensity.

The silence that followed was heavier than before. You leaned against the fridge, blood bag in hand, watching her from the corner of your eye. She looked tired too—shadows under her eyes, her posture drawn and quiet. You hated yourself for noticing.

Then her voice softened, the sharp edges falling away. “The funeral’s tomorrow.”

Your chest tightened. Damon and Elena Salvatore. Your parents. The names felt foreign in your head, almost like they belonged to someone else. Their demises hadn’t been some epic ending or supernatural tragedy—just fire, metal, and the merciless simplicity of human fragility. In the same way as your adoptive maternal grandsparents.

Hope’s eyes met yours, and for once, there was no sarcasm there. Only quiet understanding. She stepped closer, her presence careful but certain, until the space between you felt charged. Her fingers brushed your hand briefly—a fleeting contact, enough to ground you, enough to keep the room from spinning.

You followed her down the familiar trail toward the river, the one that wound behind the school like a secret vein. The morning air smelled like wet grass and pine, cool against your skin. Sunlight pooled in patches across the ground. When she sat on the old stone ledge, her boots discarded beside her, she looked almost human. Almost normal.

She didn’t look at you right away. Her gaze was fixed on the water, eyes distant. You sat beside her, the space between you charged and quiet. She turned toward you eventually, her expression unreadable but her voice steady. “I’ll be there.”

The certainty in her tone left no room for argument, no space for doubt. When you looked up, her eyes were already on you—storm-colored, unwavering. “You’ll be the only real thing in that room,” she said. “And I’m not letting you face it alone.”

Her words seemed to echo in the stillness. You could almost feel the walls around your grief cracking, just a little. Hope’s gaze drifted back to the river, her voice barely more than a whisper. “If things had been different… maybe our families wouldn’t have hated each other. Just like we do.” She laughed quietly after a moment, brittle but real. “We’re weird as hell, Salvatore.”

Her head came to rest against your shoulder, the movement instinctual, familiar. The morning light shimmered off the water, and for a fragile second, the world felt suspended—grief, history, and everything that had ever separated you dissolving into silence.