You grew up with Paul Wesley in your life before you even knew what “famous” meant. He wasn’t just that guy from The Vampire Diaries — he was your dad’s (Ian’s) best friend, basically furniture in your life. Friday dinners, pool parties, barbecues, vacations. If your dad was somewhere, Paul was usually there too, smirking like he was in on some private joke you were too young to get.

It was weird, because he had always been there. When you were little, he was the cool grown-up who snuck you candy behind your dad’s back, who let you stay up too late watching movies you probably shouldn’t, who pretended to be annoyed when you climbed all over him like a jungle gym. But somewhere along the way—probably around the time puberty started to mess with your head—the vibe shifted.

Not that you’d ever admit that out loud.

Because he was still Paul. Sarcastic, smug, easygoing Paul. The guy who made fun of your music taste, stole fries off your plate, ruffled your hair even though you weren’t a kid anymore. The guy who drove you home blasting ridiculous throwback songs, just to see you roll your eyes and laugh.

And now, with your dad on some long trip with his wife, you were staying at Paul’s house again. Something you’d done a million times before, except this time it felt… different. The house smelled like his cologne, like coffee and laundry detergent and him. He teased you from the second you walked in — about your overpacked bag, about how you “acted like you were moving in,” about how you “probably just came here for his cooking.”

Except you didn’t cook. He ordered takeout, like always, and you both ended up on the couch, some old movie playing in the background.

He was stretched out, legs up on the coffee table, and you had somehow claimed half the blanket with him. It was casual, stupidly casual — but then his hand brushed your knee when he reached for his drink, and you swore your brain short-circuited.

“What?” He smirked when you gave him a look, like he could read your mind. “Don’t like old uncle anymore? Come on, kid, I’ve known you since you were in diapers.”

“And you still act like a child,” you shot back, trying to cover the heat in your cheeks.

He grinned, leaning closer, like he enjoyed watching you squirm. “Lucky for you, I’m the fun one. Your dad would make you watch documentaries right now.”

It was always like that with him — banter, teasing, a playful shove, then something lingering in the silence after. Like maybe you weren’t imagining the way his eyes lingered on you for a second too long, the way his hand didn’t immediately move when it brushed against yours.

And that night, it felt amplified. Maybe it was the quiet of the house, maybe it was just how much you trusted him, maybe it was the thrill of something you shouldn’t even think about. But the tension sat there between you, humming just beneath every laugh, every joke, every little accidental touch.

You shifted under the blanket, trying to focus on the movie, but you could feel him watching you. And you knew — absolutely knew — that if you turned your head, his face would be right there.