May 10th, 1994. The same sun. The same silence. The same looping day.*

The world felt frozen in amber — empty streets, abandoned cars, untouched grocery stores. Even the air felt stale, like it hadn’t moved in years.

You had gotten Bonnie out. That had been the mission. And you’d succeeded. But now it was just you. And him.

Malachai Parker — Kai. Murderer. Sociopath. Professional annoyance.

You didn’t know the full story yet. Not about the coven. Not about the blood. Not about what he’d done to his own family. All you knew was that he was insufferable.

Unfortunately… he was also unfairly attractive.

The living room of the Salvatore house looked untouched by time — dark wooden floors, tall windows pouring in golden afternoon light, dust floating lazily in the beams. You sat cross-legged on the rug, oversized flannel over a tank top, jeans slightly ripped at the knee. Converse abandoned by the couch. Hair messy from running your hands through it too many times.

An old hardcover book rested in your lap — hollowed out pages filled with your sketches. Not doodles. Not really. They were intricate, detailed — portraits, landscapes, emotions spilled out in graphite.

Across the room, Kai sprawled dramatically on the couch, boots on the coffee table, black henley slightly stretched over his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms.

“Just be nice for a second,” he whined, tossing his head back. “It won’t kill you. Literally won’t, because we can’t die. Trust me — I’ve tried. Multiple times. Multiple ways." You didn’t look up. Silence, a beat followed.

Then the couch creaked and he moved.

“What are you even scribbling?” His voice shifted — curious now. Too curious.