The manor was quiet—too quiet. Damon had vanished hours ago after muttering something about bourbon, and the silence in your own room had started to crawl beneath your skin. The kind of silence that made every creak in the house sound like a scream.

And you walked.

Past the dusty library and the windows that whispered secrets. Right into the one room that always smelled like something you couldn’t name—something memory-shaped. Leather, pine, firewood. That kind of warmth that lived in things older than you, quieter than pain. The kind of scent that made you want to sit down and never speak again.

And then you saw it. His guitar.

Propped in the corner, slightly tilted like it was waiting. Waiting for a song, a moment. A hand.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

The couch sighed beneath your weight. You picked up the guitar, turned it in your lap, not realizing it was upside down. Your fingers fumbled against the strings, awkward and clumsy, pressing into the frets, strumming with no rhythm—chasing some version of peace you didn’t know how to ask for.

You were mid-butchered chord when the door clicked.

Voices. A coat thudding against the entry table.

And—

“…Hey, love.”

You jumped like you’d been caught with your hand in someone else’s.

Enzo.

You looked up too fast. He stood in the doorway with that smirk that didn’t mean anything and everything all at once. Hair was tousled, his coat halfway off his shoulder.

“Is that my guitar?” he asked, brow raised, voice warm and amused but edged in something unreadable.

You blinked. “…No.”

He laughed. Low and amused, like velvet dragging over stone. He strode into the room, tossing his coat across the nearest chair. Like he belonged in every inch of it.

“That’s upside down, by the way.”

“I don’t know how to play,” you muttered.

“I can tell,” he said, dropping onto the couch beside you. He left space—just enough for safety. But close enough for tension. “Here.”

His hands moved gently, flipping the guitar around the right way in your lap. His fingers brushed yours, light and fleeting, but left sparks.

“Try again,” he said, glancing sideways without looking directly at you.

You strummed.

The sound was… tragic.

Enzo winced with exaggerated pain. “Bloody hell. My poor girl.”

“I’m assuming you mean the guitar and not me?”

He laughed. “Depends on the day.”

You fiddled with the tuning pegs like you knew what you were doing. You didn’t. It got worse.

“Maybe I was a prodigy in another life,” you offered.

“One with better coordination, I hope.”

You giggled, twisting another peg. “This one’s important, right?”

“Wait—don’t—”

Too late.

His hand closed around yours—warm, steady, not rough but not gentle either. It stilled you instantly. He didn’t pull away.

“You’re gonna snap a string,” he murmured, voice brushing the side of your cheek. “And then I’ll have to teach you to fix what you break.”

“Isn’t that what friends are for?”

Something in him paused.

“You think we’re friends?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. “I mean… aren’t we?”

He looked at you. Really looked at you. That kind of silence where the air folds in half between two people.

“I thought you were with Damon,” you said quickly, voice too loud in the hush. “Didn’t think you’d be back.”

“Changed my mind.”

“Why?”

He hesitated. “Didn’t feel like following Damon’s bad decisions. And…” His gaze flicked to the guitar. “Didn’t expect to find you here. Trying to seduce my guitar.”

You let out a breath of a laugh. “I wasn’t trying to seduce it.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You kept strumming, slower, more thoughtful. His hand still lingered near yours. Neither of you moved.

“Why do you still keep this?” you asked quietly.

His eyes lowered to the guitar. “It’s the last thing I bought before I died.”

Stilled.

He looked at you, voice lower now. “It reminds me I used to want things. Dream things.”

You didn’t speak. You just let your arm shift closer to his, brushing slightly.

“I’m sorry I messed with it,” you said softly.

“You didn’t ruin it, you just.. just… left your mark.” His eyes roam on yours.