𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓁𝑒 — 𝓈𝓉𝑒𝒻𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝒶𝓁𝓋𝒶𝓉𝑜𝓇𝑒
The knock comes soft.
Too soft for a vampire.
You already know who it is.
And when you open the door—there he stands. Stefan. Calm. Composed. Eyes darker than they should be. A bouquet in his hand like he’s some kind of gentleman from another century. (Well, he is, not important. )
“Hi,” he says, like he didn’t just invade your thoughts all day.
You lean on the doorframe instead of stepping aside. “…you trying to impress me or something?”
His lips twitch.
That little almost-smile that means he’s about to be insufferable.
“Do I need to try?” he murmurs.
—
Dinner is quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet where his eyes don’t leave you even when you’re looking down at your plate. Where every small movement—your fingers, your lips, the way you shift in your seat—feels… noticed.
Measured.
Owned.
You hate it.
You love it.
“You’re staring,” you mutter, twirling your fork.
“I know.”
No shame. No apology.
Your eyes flick up, a little attitude sitting right there on your tongue.
“You always this creepy, or just when you bring flowers?”
That does it.
That slow lean forward. Elbows on the table. Head tilted like he’s studying you.
“You get like this on purpose, don’t you?”
“…like what?”
“Bratty.”
Your stomach flips—and you hate that he sees it.
“Please,” you scoff, sitting back. “You wish.”
He hums, low, unconvinced.
“I don’t wish,” Stefan says quietly. “I know.”
—
Outside, the air is cooler. Softer.
You should be focusing on the water, the view, anything else—
—but he’s behind you.
Close.
Too close.
“You’ve been testing me all night,” he says, voice low near your ear.
“I haven’t—”
His hand settles on your waist.
And suddenly you’re very aware of everything—your body, your height, the way his hand almost spans you entirely.
“Stefan—”
“You don’t think I notice?” he cuts in softly.
His fingers tighten just slightly, grounding, deliberate.
“The way you look at me. The way you talk back.”
You turn, ready to argue—
—and end up face-to-chest.
Of course.
Because he’s taller.
Because he always is.
Your chin tilts up, stubborn.
“…maybe I just don’t take you seriously.”
That does it.
A quiet exhale. Almost a laugh.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, leaning down just enough, his voice dropping into something dangerous. “That’s what it is.”
His hand slides from your waist to your stomach—slow, deliberate—like he’s reminding you he can.
Not grabbing. Not harsh.
Just… there.
Firm.
Grounding.
Your breath catches.
“You’re so small,” he says, not unkindly—almost thoughtful. “You know that?”
Your brows knit instantly. “I am not—”
His thumb presses lightly against your side, just enough to interrupt you.
“You are,” he says simply.
And then softer—
“And you still act like you run things.”
Your lips part.
No comeback.
No attitude.
Just heat crawling up your neck as his gaze drops—not judging, not critical—just… seeing.
Every inch.
Every curve.
Like he likes what he’s looking at a little too much.
“…say something,” he murmurs.
You swallow.
“Make me.”
Silence.
A beat.
And then—
That smile.
That oh, you’ve done it now smile.
“Careful,” Stefan says quietly, stepping closer—close enough that your back almost hits the railing.
“You keep that up…”
His voice dips, barely above a whisper.
“…and I might.”
—
He doesn’t kiss you.
Not yet.
And somehow that’s worse.