"You don't seem like the others," Davina murmured, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of her wine glass, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

You smirked, tilting your head. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

She let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. "I haven't decided yet."

Stefan had excused himself long ago, leaving you and Davina at the dimly lit restaurant, conversation flowing far too easily for two people who should have been enemies. There was something magnetic about her—her sharp wit, the way she carried herself with quiet strength, the fire in her eyes when she spoke of magic.

And when you met the rest of the family—Damon’s skepticism, Stefan’s knowing smirk, Elena’s cautious but kind welcome—she had every reason to pull away.

But she didn’t.

Now, standing on the Salvatore estate balcony, moonlight casting silver across the trees, she looked at you as if she was seeing something impossible.

"I should hate you," she whispered, arms crossed.

You stepped closer, heart still even though you knew the weight of her words. "Do you?"

Silence.

And then, a slow exhale as she shook her head. "No. And that scares me."

Your lips curled into a soft smile, reaching out to take her hand—cool against your own. "Maybe some things are worth being afraid of."

She didn’t pull away.

And just like that, Davina Claire had fallen for the one thing she swore she never would.