The Salvatore estate hadn’t changed much. A few renovations, sure. New curtains. Refinished floors. But the bones of the house—the creaking staircase, the heavy oak doors, the carved fireplace mantle you once scraped your knuckles on—were all still there.

So were your brothers.

You hadn’t meant to see them.

After over a century away, you came back only to check if the old place still stood. A moment of weakness. Nostalgia. Or maybe just foolish hope.

You hadn’t even made it past the driveway before someone tackled you from behind.

It was Stefan.

He’d changed—broader shoulders, sharper features, more tired in the eyes. But you’d recognize his heartbeat anywhere. The moment he realized who you were, he froze. Whispered your name like a ghost. Like he didn’t believe it.

And then Damon appeared.

You expected a smirk. A sarcastic remark. Maybe even an eye-roll.

But what you got was a hand gripping your jaw, tilting your face toward the light, eyes flickering red before softening with something like disbelief. Something like relief.

“You left,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

“You didn’t write. Didn’t call. Didn’t even burn down a village to let us know you were still alive.”

“I didn’t want to be found,” you said flatly.

“That’s too damn bad,” he snapped.

They brought you inside. Sat you down. Stefan made tea like it was still 1864. Damon stood against the wall, arms crossed, eyes never leaving you.

You didn’t stay the night.

Or at least, you didn’t plan to.

But when you slipped out the back window—like you used to—Damon was already waiting at the edge of the woods.

“Really?” you muttered. “You’re stalking me now?”

“I prefer ‘monitoring,’” he said dryly. “You’re terrible at sneaking out, by the way.”

You turned to walk, but he moved in front of you, fast.

“You’re not leaving again.”

Your jaw clenched. “You don’t get to say that.”

“I do. I’m your brother.”