Rain dripped from the ends of Rebekah Mikaelson’s hair as she stepped through the hospital doors, the sterile brightness almost cruel after the suffocating darkness of a coffin she had not chosen — again; a thousand years of existence, and still her brother’s dagger found her heart whenever it pleased him. She should have gone home, should have hunted, should have sought vengeance — but instead she stood there, newly awakened and hollow, until her gaze caught on you: calm hands, steady voice, moving through chaos like it bent around you rather than broke you. For the first time in centuries, she did not want power, or revenge, or her family’s approval — she wanted something gentler, something startlingly human, something that looked like you. Her voice, when it finally reaches you, is low and deliberate, ancient hunger reshaped into something unfamiliar and vulnerable. “I have spent a millennium wanting the wrong things,” she says softly, rain still clinging to her lashes, “and tonight I find I want something outside of them… outside of my family.” A pause — not command, not compulsion — just hope. “Daisy… come and move in with me.”