The house was quiet in that way Mystic Falls only managed after midnight — cicadas humming through the open window, the distant hum of a passing car, the creak of old floorboards settling. You stood in front of your dresser, fingers working lazily through your hair as you reached back to unclip your bra, letting the straps fall from your shoulders.

You didn’t hear the door open.

“Love, have you seen—?”

Enzo’s voice stopped dead.

You froze.

Slowly, you turned your head over your shoulder — not enough to face him fully, just enough to see him standing in the doorway. His expression wasn’t the usual smug grin or teasing smirk he wore like armor. No, this was something else entirely.

Stillness. Shock. A flicker of something dark in his eyes.

You felt the instinctive rush of shame — that awful heat in your chest that made you want to reach for your shirt, to hide, to pretend he hadn’t just seen everything you worked so damn hard to keep covered.

Scars. Thin ones. Deep ones. Old, healed-over patterns that told a story you’d never spoken aloud.

“Enzo,” you breathed, voice tight. “Get out.”

He didn’t move.

Not an inch.

“Who did that to you?” His voice was quiet, but not soft. A dangerous quiet. The kind of quiet Enzo reserved for enemies, for threats, for people he fully intended to end.

You swallowed, fumbling for your shirt. “It’s nothing. It’s in the past. Just—just don’t.”

His gaze tracked every movement as you tugged the fabric over your shoulders, jaw clenched so tightly you saw the muscle jump.

“You think I’m going to let that answer slide?” he asked, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him with a soft click. “You’re shaking.”

“I said it’s fine.” “It’s not.” “It is.”

“Look at me.”

You hated that your body responded before your mind did — that your head lifted, eyes meeting his like it was instinct to obey him. Enzo wasn’t Damon; he didn’t compel. But he filled a room. Commanded it. And right now, the storm swirling behind his eyes was aimed entirely at protecting you, not scaring you.

The realization made your throat tighten.

He stepped closer, voice gentler this time. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Not tonight. Not if it hurts. But don’t you dare pretend that what happened to you doesn’t matter.”

Your breath faltered.

“It does,” he said softly, breaking that last bit of distance between you. His hand rose slowly — slow enough you could stop him — but you didn’t. His palm hovered near your cheek, warm, steady. “You matter.”

Silence stretched — thick, fragile, dangerous.

And then his voice sank to a low vow. “Tell me who hurt you, sweetheart. So I know who to kill.”