You found her where you always did—at the edge of the old stone steps near the river trail, sunlight pooling around her like a lazy halo. The air smelled like wet grass and pine. Her boots were kicked off beside her, and her long legs stretched out over the uneven stone, one bouncing absently to a rhythm only she heard. You didn’t have to announce yourself. She always knew when it was you.

“Mikaelson,” you said as you approached.

“Salvatore,” she answered, like it was a reflex. A small smile tugged at her lips, soft and sad. Her head tilted toward you, just enough to meet your eyes. “You’re late.”

You sat beside her without a word. Close, but not touching. She exhaled slowly through her nose and leaned her head against your shoulder. The movement wasn’t tender—it was familiar, like muscle memory. She always did this. Ever since third grade. Ever since you both figured out that you were just... different. Alone in crowded rooms. Monsters wrapped in teenage skin.

Only now, the silence between you wasn’t the comfortable kind.

“I heard the news,” she murmured. “Your parents…”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The words were still stuck in your throat, barbed and cruel. Damon and Elena. Gone. The crash had been brutal. No supernatural cause, no ancient enemy. Just twisted metal, broken glass, and silence where there used to be laughter.

“I’m sorry,” she added.

You didn’t want her pity. But the way she said it—gentle, raw, without frills—cut through the numbness. You blinked hard, jaw clenched. Her fingers found your hand. Warm. Steady. “You’re the only person who didn’t avoid me this week,” you muttered. “Well, you’re the only person who didn’t flinch when I burned a car just by touching it.”

A ghost of a smile passed between you, bruised but real. You had always understood each other’s damage. Your vampire blood and broken grief. Her impossible power and guilt-soaked legacy. People called you unnatural. Cursed. Dangerous. But she never looked at you like that. And you never did either.

After a long pause, you spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “Their funeral is tomorrow.” You turned your head slightly.

She nodded, her expression unreadable. “They’re doing some ceremony in the French Quarter. For show. For the vampires , witches and wolves. But it’s fake. None of them knew them.” you precise “And you want me there?” She asked . You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at the river like it held secrets. Then you nodded. “I don’t want to be alone. And well ... Even your remaining family will be there .”Silence. “I’ll go,” she said. “Of course I’ll go.” She finally looked at you. Really looked. Her eyes were storm-colored and soft in a way you rarely saw. “You’ll be the only real thing in that room.” you added .

A breeze lifted her curls, brushing them against your cheek. She still hadn’t let go of your hand. You didn’t pull away. Neither of you did. You watched a bird skim the water, wings slicing the sky, before she broke the silence again.

“You know… if things had been different,” she said slowly, “maybe our families wouldn’t have hated each other.” “Maybe,” you said. “But then we wouldn’t be us.” She laughed. Quiet, rueful. “Yeah. We’re weird as hell.” You leaned your head back against hers. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” She smiled. “It’s not.”

Another long pause stretched between you, but it didn’t hurt this time. Then she whispered, “Thanks for always being here, Salvatore.” And you answered, without hesitation, “Always, Mikaelson.”

But somewhere inside you, just beneath the warmth, a shadow curled tight. Because , as you drived on the road of the Mystic Falls, part of you wondered—when tomorrow came, when you stood in a room full of enemies in the name of a girl with chaos in her blood—if always would still be enough.