New Orleans, 85 Degrees, Early May
Imagine : Damon Salvatore had once again vanished into the night like the chronically delusional fool he insisted on being—convinced Elena Gilbert would sit around pining, waiting, longing. As if she hadn’t already outgrown that entire chapter of her life. As if she hadn’t already found someone who actually showed up. And right now, that someone was Elijah Mikaelson—Original vampire, eternal gentleman, and currently the smuggest man in the entire state of Louisiana.
Elena sat in the passenger seat, tank top clinging to her skin, shorts showing off legs no one in Mystic Falls had ever seen her reveal. It was 85 degrees in May, the kind of heat that wrapped around you like a blanket you couldn’t kick off. And she was only two months pregnant, due in December, which meant she was about to spend the entire summer growing a Mikaelson baby in Louisiana humidity.
She was glowing. She was sweating. She was starving. She was happy.
And Elijah? Elijah was smug.
Not subtle-smug. Not polite-smug.
One hand on the wheel, the other rubbing slow circles over her tiny but unmistakable baby bump, his thumb brushing the soft fabric of her tank top like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.
“Eyes on the road,” she muttered, though she didn’t move his hand away.
“I am perfectly capable of multitasking,” he replied, voice smooth as bourbon. “Besides… I find myself rather distracted.”
He didn’t answer. He just smirked—that smirk—the one that said I know exactly what I’m doing and I’m enjoying every second of it.
How They Ended Up Like This
Not a romantic ballad. Not some slow, emotional confession.
“It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere” by Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffett blasted through the speakers at a little bar off Bourbon Street. Elena had dragged Elijah out for “just one drink,” which turned into… well… not one drink.
Shots someone insisted were “tradition.”
Elijah Mikaelson—stoic, refined, dignified Elijah—had downed seven margaritas like he was trying to prove something to the universe.
By the time the chorus hit, Elena was laughing so hard she nearly fell off her stool, and Elijah—Elijah—was loosening his tie, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly mussed, looking at her like she was the only person in the room.
And then… well… one thing led to another.
A night neither of them forgot.
A baby they never expected but instantly loved.
Elena shifted, pulling Elijah’s T-shirt (which she’d stolen that morning) away from her stomach. “It’s hot,” she groaned.
“It will get hotter,” Elijah said, sounding far too pleased about it.
“Why do you sound happy about that?”
“Because,” he murmured, leaning over to kiss her shoulder at a red light, “you will be here. With me. And I intend to take very good care of you.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away.
“And Damon?” Elijah added lightly, as if discussing the weather. “He will return eventually. He always does.”
“Let him,” Elena said, rubbing her belly. “He made his choice.”
“And you made yours,” Elijah replied, hand sliding back to her bump, reverent and possessive all at once. “And I assure you, my love… I do not take you for granted.”
The Porsche roared forward.
And somewhere far away, Damon Salvatore had no idea just how thoroughly he’d already lost.
THE NIGHT IT HAPPENED — AND THE NIGHT DAMON FINDS OUT
🌙 The Night Everything Changed
The bar was loud, humid, and glowing with neon. The moment “It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere” blasted through the speakers, Elena threw her hands up like she’d been waiting her whole life for that exact moment.
Elijah—Elijah Mikaelson, the man who usually sipped bourbon like it was a sacred ritual—looked at her, then at the bartender, then at the hurricane cocktail in front of him.
A terrible, wonderful, history‑altering decision.
She downed eight hurricane drinks like they were Capri Suns at a kid’s soccer game.
By drink five, Elijah’s tie was off.
By drink six, his hair was mussed.
By drink seven, he was smiling—smiling—like a man who had just discovered joy for the first time in a thousand years.
She was laughing, glowing, leaning into him like gravity itself had chosen him.
When she kissed him, it wasn’t impulsive.
And when he kissed her back, the world didn’t end.
☀️ NOW — TWO MONTHS LATER
Elijah’s Porsche Panamera S purred through New Orleans traffic.
One hand on Elena’s small, warm, two‑month baby bump.
The baby was probably glowing.
Elena wore a tank top and shorts—something Damon had never seen her in—and Elijah looked like he’d won the universe in a card game.
Elijah didn’t even flinch.
He just smirked and hit speaker.
Damon: “Elena? I’m back. I know you’re mad, but—”
Elijah’s thumb stroked her belly.
Smugness radiated off him like heat from asphalt.
Elena: “You left, Damon. Again. What did you expect?”
Damon: “I expected you to wait for me!”
A soft, elegant, condescending laugh.
Elijah: “That was… optimistic.”
Damon: “Why is he there?! Why is he—why do I hear a seatbelt? Elena, where are you?!”
She placed her hand over his on her stomach.
Elena: “I’m with Elijah.”
Damon: “WITH him? Like—with him with him?”
Elijah’s smirk sharpened into something lethal.
Elijah: “She is carrying my child, Damon.”
Damon made a noise like a dying lawnmower.
Elijah kissed Elena’s shoulder, eyes on the road, voice velvet-smooth.
Elijah: “My child. Our child. Conceived the night you abandoned her. Seven margaritas. Eight hurricanes. A truly unforgettable evening.”
Damon: “YOU DRANK WHAT?!”
Elena: “We were celebrating.”
Damon: “CELEBRATING WHAT?!”
Elijah squeezed her thigh.
Somewhere in Mystic Falls, a crow probably fell out of a tree.
ELIJAH’S SMUGNESS — FINAL FORM
Elijah ended the call with a tap, then turned to Elena with a smile that could power the entire French Quarter.
“Do you think he understood?” he asked.
Elena laughed. “Oh, he understood.”
Elijah kissed her temple.
The summer heat wrapped around them.
He had just realized he didn’t lose Elena.
THE MOCKTAIL ERA — AND ELENA IS SUFFERING
Elena sat on the Mikaelson balcony, legs curled under her, sipping a bright red hurricane mocktail out of a tall glass with a pineapple wedge.
It tasted like fruit punch.
It smelled like fruit punch.
It looked like a hurricane.
But it was missing the one thing she loved most:
She took another sip and groaned dramatically.
“This is… juice. JUICE, Elijah. I miss the real thing.”
Elijah, sitting beside her with a book he wasn’t actually reading, looked over the rim of his glass with the smuggest expression known to man.
“You’re pregnant, my love.”
“I know,” she muttered. “But the real hurricanes were so good.”
And the seven margaritas he had.
And the night that followed.
He set his book down, leaned closer, and murmured:
“I recall you enjoyed them very much.”
He kissed her cheek anyway.
ELIJAH’S SMUGNESS — PREGNANCY EDITION
Loved the fact that Damon was somewhere in Mystic Falls screaming into a pillow.
He loved that Elena Gilbert—strong, stubborn, hurricane‑drinking Elena—was now sipping a mocktail like a grumpy toddler.
“You’re enjoying this,” she accused.
She threw a napkin at him.
He caught it without looking.
THE MOCKTAIL MARGARITA TRAGEDY
Elena sat at the kitchen island, swirling her alcohol‑free margarita like it had personally offended her.
She took a sip and made a face like she’d licked a battery.
“This is wrong,” she muttered. “This is a crime. Jimmy Buffett would NEVER drink this.”
Elijah, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, smirked like a man who had won the lottery and the moral high ground.
“My love, Jimmy Buffett is not the standard for prenatal care.”
“He IS the standard for margaritas,” she snapped.
He was remembering the night she drank eight hurricanes and he drank seven margaritas, and how that ended with a baby currently growing inside her.
“I believe,” Elijah said softly, “Jimmy Buffett would approve of the result.”
She threw a napkin at him.
He caught it without blinking.
ELIJAH’S SMUGNESS — PREGNANCY EDITION
Elijah walked behind her, slid his hands over her shoulders, and kissed the top of her head.
“You will have the real thing again,” he murmured. “In December.”
“DECEMBER?!” she groaned. “Elijah, that’s six months away. SIX. MONTHS.”
“I’m sober. That’s worse.”
Elijah chuckled, rubbing her tiny bump with both hands now.
“You’re carrying our child. I think you’ll survive.”
He kissed her cheek anyway.
