Chapter 3
Elena had to practically drag you out of your house that night. You weren’t in the mood for another Mystic Falls party. Not after how things ended last time — waking up wrapped in Stefan’s scent, heart full, only for him to push you away like none of it had meant anything. But Elena insisted, pulling you by the hand, telling you it would be fun, that you needed to “get out of your head, and to quit the lovesick over anyone."
The second you stepped into the party, though, all of that effort unraveled. Because there he was.
Stefan.
Leaning against the far wall, drink in hand, eyes downcast on a girl talking to him. He hadn’t noticed you yet, but your chest tightened anyway. Your gaze snagged on him immediately, like your body knew where he was before your mind caught up. Everything in you buzzed — nerves, hope, heartbreak — tangled together in a way that made it hard to breathe.
You told yourself to look away, to focus on anything else. But then, as if he could feel it, Stefan glanced up. And his eyes locked right onto yours.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t approach. But he didn’t look away, either. That unreadable expression you’d come to know — guarded, heavy — settled across his face like a shield. You froze in place, unsure whether to cross the distance or retreat.
Before you could decide, someone else caught your attention from the corner of the room. Another man, tall, dark-haired, wearing a crooked smirk like he owned the place. His eyes flicked over you curiously, sharp and knowing, and he tipped his glass slightly in your direction — not exactly a greeting, more like he was observing you.
Your gaze lingered a little too long.
Suddenly, Stefan was at your side, not even feeling the man beside you till he spoke up, almost a supernatural speed to get next you that fast and unnoticed.
—“That’s my brother,” he said quietly, voice low but edged. “Don’t pay attention to him.”
You glanced back at Stefan, about to ask more, but the look on his face stopped you. Tight-jawed. Closed off. It felt like he was already preparing to leave before you even spoke.
You swallowed, feeling your stomach sink.
—“I wasn’t.”
He gave a stiff nod, barely a reaction, before motioning for you to follow him. Away from the crowd, through the sliding doors out to the cool night air. The noise inside dulled, but the pounding in your chest didn’t.
Neither of you spoke at first. You stood by the railing, arms crossed against the breeze, while Stefan leaned next to you, gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the trees. You hated how badly you wanted him to say something —anything— that might make sense of all this.
Finally, you broke the silence.
— “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
—“I didn’t plan to stay long.”
Your heart twisted. Always keeping himself distant, like any moment spent with you was already too much. But still, he hadn’t walked away yet. That had to mean something, didn’t it?
You forced a breath.
— “Last time we talked… you seemed like you didn’t want to see me again.”
Stefan’s jaw flexed, his eyes darting down toward the ground. “I don’t know what I want,” he said carefully, voice rough. “But I know what I shouldn’t want.”
The ache bloomed deep in your chest. You wanted to ask why—why he kept pulling away, why it felt like every time you got close he slammed a door shut in your face—but instead, you just swallowed hard and said, “I don’t care about ‘shouldn’t.’”
He looked at you then. Really looked. For a second, something flickered behind his eyes—something like longing, or regret, or both.
You didn’t move. You let the silence stretch, heavy and loaded, until finally, he spoke.
—“Are you busy tonight?” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant.
You shook your head, pulse hammering. Stefan softly nodded his head, pulling your phone from your pocket and slipping his number in it, silent the whole time.
—“I’ll text you,” he said simply, straightening up, already stepping back toward the house party.
Your throat tightened, but you nodded. You understood what he meant without him saying it outright. No promises. No feelings. Just tonight.
Maybe tomorrow, too.
You watched him disappear inside, leaving you alone on the porch, the cool night air brushing against your skin. You told yourself it didn’t matter if he wasn’t saying the words you wanted yet. He was still choosing to see you again. That had to count for something.
You didn’t notice the same man— Stefan’s brother he mentioned— watching you from across the room when you went back inside, his eyes sharp and thoughtful.
All you could focus on was the message that buzzed your phone a little while later.
Stefan:
—[You coming over?]
And without hesitation, you typed back:
—[Always.]
—————
From that night on, it became a routine — or maybe, you made it a routine.
Every other night, you found yourself either at Stefan’s apartment or him at yours. It was always the same. Texts were brief but electric to each other. You up? I’ll be there in an hour. Come over, now. The messages seemed to come with the weight of something more, but each time you tried to reach for it, to hold onto the emotion behind them, Stefan would pull away — quietly, imperceptibly, but firmly.
At first, the time together felt perfect to you. Every kiss was the one you’d been waiting for the whole day, each touch leaving you breathless with anticipation. To you, this was love. Maybe not the love you had imagined — not the declarations, not the promises — but it was real. He was real.
And yet, with each night, you began to see the pattern. Stefan or you always arrived just on time, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite name — desire, perhaps, or something more complicated. When he kissed you, it was always deep, full of fire. His hands would trace your skin, his lips pulling at yours like he needed it, a sensual, almost meaningful sex to you.
It never went past that. Afterward, there was a silence, a stillness that felt like a wall had been built between you. You would lie next to him, close but not close enough. He would stare at the ceiling, or sometimes out the window, as though he wasn’t even there with you. But you were there— your heart wide open, your love pouring into him without reservation, without hesitation, with no title.
But no matter how much you let him in, he kept slipping away. There were nights when he would say little things — “You should go.” “It’s getting late.” And though you hated hearing it, you would pull yourself together, nod, and leave quietly. Sometimes, there were no words at all, just him standing by the door with that same look of conflicted intensity on his face, as though he was begging you to leave before you could ask more questions.
The drive home was always the hardest. Alone in the car, your heart still wrapped in the warmth of his touch, your mind would replay the moments — the ones that felt so perfect in his arms, the way his lips brushed against your skin like it meant something. But when you left, you were just leaving. No boyfriend to call yours, no relationship to claim, just you leaving your lust behind and taking a heart with you.
The thought of him quietly shutting the door behind you, retreating into himself once you were gone, twisted something deep inside you.
Then there were times when it was him who had to leave your place first.
You’d wake up in the middle of the night, the sheets tangled around your body, his absence already sinking into the space beside you. His side of the bed would be cold, and you’d know without checking that he was already gone. By the time you would find your phone, there would always be a message waiting for you. “Good night. Sleep well.”Short. Sweet. And so utterly distant.
You never knew if he had stayed up just to make sure you were asleep before slipping out, or if the whole thing — the whole night — was nothing more than a fleeting escape for him. All you could do was hold onto the feeling of him for as long as you could, let your fingers trace the ghost of his touch, your heart aching for the connection you were desperately holding onto, but he kept pulling away from.
Some nights, when he came to your place, there would be more words between you. Soft whispers. Quiet confessions that only the darkness could hear.
But even then, it wasn’t enough. You could feel his resistance, his reluctance to fully engage. You would press yourself closer, hoping that maybe this time, maybe tonight, something would break through. But it never did. And when the night ended, he’d always slip out — no promises, no goodbyes, just the empty echo of his absence in your room.
After a while, you started to question if you were the one fooling yourself. Was it really just about the intimacy? Was it just about the moments he gave you, or was there something deeper, something you believed was there that Stefan didn’t?
But every time you tried to pull away — to stop this, to walk away from the cycle of longing— you couldn’t. You’d find yourself texting him again, at 2 a.m., wondering why you couldn’t quit him. Wondering if, maybe, one night, it would all change. And yet, it never did.
Not until the next night. Not until the next text.