The night air in Mystic Falls carried that same sharp bite it always did before a storm — humid, electric, restless. You leaned against the railing of the old Salvatore porch, a glass of bourbon in hand, watching the lightning dance somewhere far beyond the treeline.

Behind you, the creak of a door.

“Didn’t take you for the brooding-on-a-porch type,” came a smooth British voice, teasing yet soft at the edges.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was. Enzo.

He stepped into view, his dark hair tousled, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. In his hand, a second glass, already filled.

“Thought you might want company,” he said, offering it.