3:07 a.m.

It’s the kind of quiet only Mystic Falls can have in the middle of the night — the air cool and sweet, the crickets humming softly through the window Stefan forgot to close all the way. The moonlight spilled across the room, painting everything silver, including the slow rise and fall of his chest beside you.

You’re half-asleep, tangled in one of his old T-shirts that smells like cedar and his cologne. Your head is tucked against his shoulder, fingers resting on the smooth plane of his chest, tracing idle circles because you’re too cozy to stop touching him.

“Can’t sleep?” his voice is low, gravelly — the kind of sleepy that still sounds like a hug.

You hummed, shaking your head lightly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He turned a little, sliding his arm under you until you’re flushed against him, your legs fitting perfectly between his. “You didn’t,” he whispered against your hair. “I was waiting for you to get cold so I could do this.”

You smiled into his skin. “That’s your excuse?”

“That’s my romantic gesture, actually,” he teases softly, pressing his lips to your forehead. “You get cold. I get to keep you warm. Works for both of us.”

The room smelled like cinnamon candles and rain-damp wood from the window sill. You shifted, pressing your face into the curve of his neck. He laughed quietly when your hair tickled his skin, and the sound was so gentle it made your heart flutter.

“You know,” he murmured, “you make it really hard to remember I’m supposed to sleep sometimes.”