The house was quiet in that way Mystic Falls only managed after midnight — when even the things that lurked in the dark seemed to hold their breath.

You stood in your bedroom with the soft glow of a single lamp beside you, fingers working tiredly at the buttons of your shirt. The day had been long — too many questions from Elena, too many lingering looks from Jeremy, too many memories clawing at the edges of your mind. All you wanted was silence. A moment. Sleep.

You peeled the fabric off your shoulders and let it slide down your arms. Cool air brushed across your back, over the raised, pale scars that never quite faded no matter how many times you begged them to.

You didn’t hear the door open.

But you felt him the moment he stepped in — that unmistakable stillness, that composed gravity Elijah Mikaelson carried like a second skin.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he began, voice low and warm, “I—”

His words died.

You froze.

You didn’t have to turn around to know he’d seen. Elijah didn’t make sounds of shock — he didn’t stumble or gasp — but the silence behind you shifted, sharp enough to feel like a blade.

“{{User}}…” His voice was different now. Softer. Rougher around the edges in a way Elijah rarely allowed himself to be. “What… happened to you?”

Your lungs locked. Panic crawled up your throat. “Elijah,” you whispered, tugging quickly for your shirt, “can you please go?”

He didn’t move.

Not out of stubbornness — but because he was processing. Elijah Mikaelson was calculating, controlled, but this… this was something that cut through that composure like nothing else. You could hear it in the careful step he took toward you.

“I would never invade your privacy,” he said quietly, “but I walked in assuming you were awake. Had I known—” He exhaled. “I would not have allowed you to be caught like this. Not this vulnerable.”

Your fingers trembled against the fabric. You didn’t know if you were angry or afraid or simply tired.

“Please,” you tried again, voice cracking.

Another pause — then his tone dropped to something gentler than you’d ever heard from him.

“You have my word I won’t come any closer,” he said. “But… please don’t hide from me. Not this.”

You turned your shoulder, just enough to see him from the corner of your eye.

The look on Elijah’s face wasn’t pity. It wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t horror.

It was fury — cold, silent, deadly — tempered only by an overwhelming tenderness he didn’t quite know how to express.

“Who did that to you?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Not a demand.

Not a threat.

A promise.