The bourbon tasted a little too smooth in the Salvatore boarding house—too clean for men with blood on their hands and centuries of regret in their bones.

Enzo St. John stood near the fireplace, one hand curled around a glass he hadn’t touched. His jaw was tight, dark eyes distant in a way that meant he was thinking far too much.

Across the room, Damon Salvatore lounged lazily in an armchair, boots up on the coffee table, while Stefan Salvatore leaned against the sideboard, arms folded.

“She’s bored of me,” Enzo muttered finally, accent thickening with frustration. “You should see her, mate. Every time we sit together—on the sofa, in bed, doesn’t matter—she’s yawning. Eyes drooping. Half asleep before I’ve even finished a sentence.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I pour my heart out, and she’s fighting to keep hers beating slow enough not to drift off.”

Damon arched a brow. “Wow. You finally found someone immune to the Enzo St. John charm. That’s tragic.”

Enzo shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “I’m serious.”

Stefan pushed off the sideboard, expression calm but thoughtful. “When does it happen?”

“When she’s with me,” Enzo snapped. “That’s the bloody point.”

“No,” Stefan said gently. “I mean—does she fall asleep everywhere? Or just when she’s with you?”

Enzo hesitated. His grip loosened slightly around the glass. “Just… with me.”

Damon’s smirk faded a fraction.

Stefan shook his head slowly. “A sleepy woman in your presence isn’t bored, Enzo.”

Enzo’s eyes flicked up.

“She feels safe around you,” Stefan continued. “You regulate her entire nervous system. You know how her home life was—always on edge, always waiting for the next explosion. That kind of tension doesn’t just disappear. It sits in your bones.”

The room fell quiet.

“She’s been in survival mode for years,” Stefan added softly. “People like that don’t relax easily. They don’t rest easily. But around you? Her body finally believes it’s allowed to.”

Enzo swallowed, something fragile cracking behind his carefully curated bravado.

Damon tilted his head. “You’re basically a supernatural weighted blanket, buddy.”

Enzo glared at him, but it lacked its usual bite.

Stefan stepped closer. “Think about it. Does she curl into you when she’s tired? Does she breathe slower?”

A memory flickered across Enzo’s face—your fingers knotted in his shirt, your cheek pressed to his chest, your breaths evening out as if his heartbeat alone could lull you.

“She always grabs onto me,” he admitted quietly. “Like if she lets go, she’ll drift off somewhere she doesn’t want to be.”

“That’s not boredom,” Stefan said firmly. “That’s trust.”

Damon stood, surprisingly serious now. “You spent decades locked in a cell, Enzo. You know what constant fear feels like. Imagine finally finding a place where your body doesn’t expect pain.”

The fire crackled between them.

Enzo looked down at his hands as though they were capable of far more than violence and vengeance. “She’s always so alert everywhere else. Jumps at every noise. Sleeps light.” His voice softened. “But with me, she’s dead to the world.”

“Exactly,” Stefan said.

For the first time that evening, Enzo’s shoulders eased. Not fully—but enough.

“So,” Damon drawled, reclaiming his glass, “congratulations. You’re not boring. You’re emotionally stabilizing.”

Enzo huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. “Bloody hell.”

He stared into the fire, something warmer than pride settling in his chest.

Maybe your sleep-heavy smiles weren’t indifference.

Maybe they were surrender.

And maybe—for the first time in his long, fractured life—Enzo St. John was someone’s safe place.