The air outside was cold, the kind of late-fall chill that bit beneath your clothes and made your bones ache. But you didn’t notice any of it.

You sat curled up on the Salvatore couch, your knees drawn to your chest, wrapped in one of Stefan’s softest flannel shirts you’d quietly stolen weeks ago. The house was silent except for the faint crackle of the fire he’d lit for you an hour earlier, just before he left to “handle something.”

He never explained exactly what he had to handle.

But you didn’t push him. You never did. Not when he came home with a tense jaw and his shoulders heavy with secrets. Not when his eyes said stay but his words kept a distance. You knew he cared. You knew that in the way he made you tea when your hands were cold, or how he memorized your favorite songs without trying.

You were staring blankly at the flames when the door finally creaked open.

“Hey,” his voice broke softly through the quiet.

You didn’t answer right away. He stepped closer, eyes scanning you carefully.

He always noticed everything.

“You okay?” he asked gently, like he was trying not to spook you.

You nodded once, but your eyes didn’t meet his. He didn’t believe the answer.

Within seconds, Stefan knelt in front of you, his hands brushing lightly over your ankles before slowly sliding up to hold your hands in his.

Your fingers were freezing. His were warm. Steady.

“Talk to me,” he whispered, tilting his head until he caught your eyes. “You don’t have to say much. Just… let me in.”