Time had done something strange to Hope.

When {{user}} left Mystic Falls, Hope had still been all sharp edges and potential—too young, too eager, always trying to prove she was more than a prophecy stitched together by other people’s expectations. Back then, she followed {{user}} like a shadow, casting spells just a little too loudly, a little too dramatically, always glancing over her shoulder to see if {{user}} was watching.

She usually was.

{{user}} had laughed it off then. Ruffled Hope’s hair. Called her cute. Told herself it was nothing more than a kid wanting approval from someone who passed through her life like a comet—bright, brief, unforgettable.

Then {{user}} left.

Business. Distance. Time. Twenty years collapsed into absence, and Hope grew up without her noticing.

So when {{user}} finally returned for the Mikaelsons, she expected familiarity. Nostalgia. Maybe awkwardness.

She didn’t expect to stop short the moment she saw Hope.

Hope stood differently now—grounded, composed, power humming beneath her skin instead of spilling out uncontrolled. Her magic didn’t announce itself anymore. It waited. Her features had sharpened, softened, matured into something undeniably striking, and for one disorienting second, {{user}} forgot how to breathe.

Hope noticed.

She always noticed.

Her eyes lit up first with recognition, then with something far more deliberate. The old eagerness was still there, but it had been tempered—polished into confidence. She didn’t rush forward. Didn’t throw herself into familiarity. She simply held {{user}}’s gaze, like she was measuring how much power she held now.

“You came back,” Hope said, calm but weighted.

{{user}} smiled, instinctively reaching for the role she used to play. “You grew up.”

Hope tilted her head slightly, lips curving—not smug, not quite soft. “I had time.”

There was a pause then. Heavy. Charged. Not hostile, not warm. Just full of everything unsaid.

Hope still tried to impress her—just not the way she used to. A controlled flicker of magic in the air. A casual mention of things she’d mastered. A quiet demonstration of restraint rather than excess. Every move calculated to say look at me now without ever asking outright.

And {{user}} almost gave in.

Almost let herself linger too long on the way Hope filled a room now. Almost let the familiarity blur into something more dangerous. Almost forgot that she’d known Hope when she was small, when admiration was innocent and uncomplicated.

Almost.

Hope watched her closely, reading the hesitation like a language she’d learned fluently.

“You don’t have to pretend I’m still the same,” she said finally, voice softer but no less sure. “I know I’m not.”

{{user}} swallowed, forcing herself to look away before the moment deepened into something she couldn’t untangle.

“I know,” she replied.

But knowing didn’t make it easier.

Because Hope Mikaelson was no longer the kid trying to impress her—

But god, when did she get so attractive?