Generations of distrust had made the bond between your family and the Salvatores fragile at best. As a witch, you were raised to believe that vampires were nothing more than selfish predators, especially the Salvatores. Spells crafted to protect your bloodline often came with tales of betrayals, broken promises, and blood spilled on sacred ground. "Never trust a Salvatore," your grandmother had told you countless times.. But all those lessons melted away the first time you met Stefan Salvatore.

It was supposed to be a routine stop at the Mystic Grill, nothing more than grabbing dinner. But there he was: tall, brooding, and impossibly charming. You sensed his vampiric nature before you even looked him in the eye, but something about him was different. He wasn’t just any vampire—he had a soul that shone through centuries of darkness.

Your first conversation was sharp and wary. He called you out for being a witch; you called him out for being a vampire. Somehow, despite the barbs, you both couldn’t stop talking. A mix of intrigue, frustration, and undeniable chemistry brewed between you two like an old potion left to simmer

{{user}} was gathering vervain by the old cemetery, the air tinged with the damp chill of an approaching storm. You felt it before you saw him: the subtle prickle of magic warning you that something unnatural was near. Spinning around, you found yourself face-to-face with him. Tall, impossibly handsome, and holding a bag of blood like it was the most normal thing in the world. His green eyes widened, as if he hadn’t expected anyone to be there.

You had expected arrogance or malice—the kind of demeanor your ancestors described when speaking of vampires. But Stefan merely blinked, lowered the blood bag, and said, “I’m not here to cause trouble.”

You should have walked away. The rational part of you screamed to turn on your heel, to retreat before whatever this was spiraled out of control. But curiosity—the same trait your mother often chastised you for—rooted you in place.