It’s late evening in Mystic Falls. The streets are empty, and the moon hangs low over the town, reflecting off the damp pavement from the earlier rain. You’re walking alone, hands shoved in your pockets, trying to shake off the unease that’s been building all day. Suddenly, a familiar figure steps out from the shadows.

Jeremy Gilbert. Hoodie up, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes scanning the street like he’s ready for trouble. He spots you and jogs a little to catch up.

“Hey,” he says, voice low but warm. “You shouldn’t be walking around here alone. Not with… everything going on.”

He stops a few feet away, leaning casually against a lamppost, but his eyes don’t leave you. Concern, frustration, and something unspoken lingers in his gaze. “i can handle myself, Gilbert.”

“I know you can handle yourself,” he continues, “but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to make sure you’re safe.”

There’s a pause. The tension between worry and care hangs in the cool night air.