The Shape of What Was Lost
Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Fem!Reader
Summary: After months of vivid, fractured dreams filled with haunting eyes and a grief you can’t name, you begin to unravel. As memory bleeds into waking life, you are drawn back into the gravity of a connection that defies time, grief, and the magic that tore it apart.
Warnings: A to the N to the G to the S to the T (This is like pure, unadulterated angst), Memory Loss, Compulsion, Dissociation, Emotional Distress. . Let Me Know If I Forgot Something
A/N: Hey guys! It's been a minute since I wrote for Elijah and I really missed him. So I decided to whip up this bad boy. I've been tinkering away on this and I'm really happy to be finally sharing it with you all!! Thank you so much for reading. I hope you all enjoy and that you have a wonderful remainder of your day!
Masterlist | TVDU Masterlist
You are all too aware of him.
The man silhouetted in shadow, half-lit by the moonlight that spills in fractured fragments through broken windows. His presence hums low, vibrating the air around you like static, quiet but suffocating. The air itself feels wrong, heavy, like it knows you’re not supposed to be here. Like it wants to force you out.
You squint, hard. But no matter how sharply you focus, the man’s face stays just out of reach — a blur of angles and edges, the ghost of a jawline, a brow, a mouth. Not enough to place. Not enough to forget.
The room is unfamiliar. Yet something deep inside you insists you’ve been here before — not just in memory, but in bone. In the twitch of muscles that remember how the cold gathers in the corners. In the instinctive way your body braces for the draft that slips down the left wall, though there's no door there.
Like grief knows silence.
Like longing knows absence.
Your bare feet press into slick stone, chilled and biting. You have no recollection of how you got here, and strangely, you don’t try to run.
But the eyes — his eyes — glow through the dark like embers, molten and ancient. They fix on you. They see you. Know you. And something inside you snaps taut, a string pulled past its limit, straining toward him without reason. Without name.
But you know that you know him.
You know him in the way empty rooms know silence.
You know him in the way your heart forgets how to beat without asking why.
And you know you have to reach him.
You take a step forward. The air smells of blood and old wood, of dust and the kind of silence that feels deliberate. A wind stirs where there should be none, brushing past you like a whisper too faint to decipher.
Your breath catches. Quickens.
You jolt upright in bed, a gasp clenched tight in your throat. Damp hair clings to your forehead. Your pulse thrums loudly in your ears. You’re still there in the dream, just for a second. Still staring into eyes that shouldn’t exist.
Still waiting for him to speak.
You sit there for a while, unmoving. Willing your pulse to slow. Telling yourself it was just a dream — again. One more in a long line of them. You’ve stopped counting how many. It no longer feels like sleep. It feels like remembering something you were never told.
The dreams never fade. They cling to you like cobwebs. They haunt the corners of your day, feeding on the quiet, on the moments you pretend to be fine. And when you wake, your apartment always feels too still. Too hollow. Like it's waiting for someone who forgot how to come home.
You move through the motions. Autopilot. The floor creaks under your feet as you shuffle toward the kitchen, the sound achingly familiar and not quite yours. Like an echo of someone else’s life.
You flick the switch on the coffee maker. It sputters to life, gurgling and hissing like it resents being woken. The smell of brewing coffee should comfort you. It used to. Now it just fills space. You’re not sure there’s a difference.
While it brews, you open the pantry, eyes skimming the shelves.
There’s a box of Earl Grey tea on the second shelf. You don’t drink Earl Grey. You never have. You don’t remember ever buying it. You’ve tried throwing it away before — more than once — but every time, something inside you recoils. A small ache in your chest whispers: no... leave it.
You try not to wonder why.
The coffee finishes with a hiss. You pour a cup and wrap your hands around it like it might hold you together. Like the warmth might chase off the cold the dream left behind.
You lean against the counter and stare out the kitchen window, watching the city slowly come alive.
That’s when you see them.
Not clearly. Just a flash. Across the street. Behind the glass of a passing bus. But they’re there. Familiar. Searing. Dark. Tired in the way only centuries can be tired.
You blink, and they’re gone.
You don’t spill your coffee. Don’t scream. You just stand there, heart hammering, waiting for reality to knit itself back together.
You tell yourself it’s just the dream bleeding into your waking life. An unholy mixture of sleep deprivation and stress. But some part of you — the part that refuses to be reasoned with — knows better.
You go through the remainder of your routine with the kind of mechanical precision that comes from doing something over and over just to survive it. You tell yourself today will be normal. You’ll answer emails. Eat lunch. Smile when someone says something mildly funny. Pretend like the dream didn’t rattle you.
The walk to work is short. Just a few blocks through the Quarter. The street is charming, even idyllic — cobbled in places, shaded by old trees. The café on the corner pipes the smell of beignets into the air.
It should ground you. These comforts. These rituals.
But everything feels... off.
Not wrong. Just misaligned. Like you’re walking through someone else’s memory of your life.
You smile when you're supposed to. Answer questions with just enough enthusiasm to pass. Nod along in meetings you won’t remember. Your body is present, your voice polite — but you aren’t really there.
The dreams hang behind your eyes, flickering like a second film reel, always a breath out of sync with the real world.
Conversations blur. Tasks complete themselves. You eat lunch, but you don’t taste it. It might’ve been soup. Or maybe a sandwich. You only remember the warmth in your hands — even that fades too fast.
You glance at the clock often, but you never remember what it says. The numbers refuse to root themselves in memory.
By five o’clock, the sky outside is a bruised kind of gray. You don’t bother saying goodbye to anyone.
The pavement is damp from rain. The air smells like ozone and wet stone. Street lights blink to life, one by one, casting blurred halos in the mist. You don’t take the usual path home. You don’t even realize you’ve veered off until you’re two blocks past your turn.
You don't correct it. You just keep walking.
The city murmurs around you — cars, voices, the hum of neon. You pass a bookstore you’ve never seen before. A record shop. An alley that looks like it could swallow you whole. You don’t stop. Your footsteps pull you forward, rhythmic and aimless.
You’re not sure what you’re looking for. Only that you are.
Somewhere between a cracked diner sign and a shuttered antiques store, you hear it — a violin. Low. Slow. Mournful.
It drifts through the air like smoke, curling under your skin. You pause. Just for a breath. Just long enough to feel it settle deep into your bones, like the memory of something you’ve never lived but somehow lost.
Eventually, you reach your street. Your door. The keys in your hand feel heavier than they should.
The lock sticks, like it doesn’t want to let you in.
The door opens with a groan.
And you step back into the silence that's always waiting for you.
The apartment greets you like a stranger — like a memory you’ve inherited. Familiar in its shape, but hollow. Like someone gutted the soul of the place and left the skin behind.
Rain trails softly down the windows — not loud enough to be noticed, but present enough to fill the spaces between thoughts.
You drop your keys in the dish by the door. Kick off your shoes. Toss your bag on the counter. You should be hungry. But the thought of food feels distant. Pointless.
You move like a ghost through your own life.
You light a candle on the coffee table — lavender and sage. It's supposed to help with stress, or maybe sleep — you can't remember where you read that. You sit on the couch, legs curled beneath you, and stare at the blank television screen without turning it on.
You don’t need the noise. The silence is already a presence. Heavy. Settled into the room like dust.
You used to hate silence.
Now you’re not sure if it’s comforting or cruel.
Sometimes it feels like this place used to be filled with someone else’s presence — shared laughter, the soft hum of music, the sound of a page turning beside you. Quiet moments wrapped in warmth.
But that’s impossible. Isn’t it?
You press your lips together, force yourself to move. Reach for the worn notebook on the table — soft cover, corners curling, the binding delicate from use. Your dream journal. You started keeping it weeks ago, hoping it would help. Hoping maybe if you got the images out of your head and onto paper, they’d leave you alone.
You flip past pages filled with fragments — smudged charcoal sketches of places half-remembered, sentences with no ending and no clear beginning, ink blurred where tears fell without permission.
You turn to a fresh page. Write the date in the top right corner.
Your pen hovers. Waiting.
Stone floor. Cold. Blood again — I think?
I stepped forward this time.
I almost heard him speak. I think he was going to say my name.
I don’t know why this keeps happening.
I miss someone I’ve never met.
The ink bleeds into the paper.
You stare at the last line like it betrayed you.
Then, carefully, you underline it.
You close the notebook and set it aside. But the ache in your chest remains — low and constant, like a wound that never healed quite right.
Eventually, you stand and wander into the kitchen. The light overhead buzzes faintly before catching. You open the refrigerator, more out of habit than need. The cold air spills out and washes over you.
Leftovers. Condiments. A bottle of wine you’ve been meaning to finish.
And there — nestled between a carton of eggs and a wedge of forgotten cheese — sits the unopened jar of blackberry preserves.
You take it out. Set it gently on the counter.
You don’t know how or when you started buying it. Muscle memory, maybe. Leftover habit from a life you can’t recall. It doesn’t make sense. You’ve never liked blackberries. Not even in childhood. But here it is. Always. Always here. As if some unseen part of you needs it close. As if it matters.
Your chest tightens. Your throat goes hot.
You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, hard. Breathe deep and slow like it might help.
You lean over the counter, head bowed, fingers curling into the edge like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
You’re so tired of hurting.
Of waking up breathless and empty. Of seeing eyes in dreams and shadows and bus windows.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
Maybe the dreams will stop.
Maybe, just once, you’ll sleep through the night — without feeling like your soul is trying to claw its way back to someone who never said goodbye.
You wake unrested. Unrestful.
The dream is more fragmented this time, more intense. The silhouette was closer. The space between you — thinner. His hand had started to reach for yours.
And then you were torn awake — breathless, wanting, empty.
You cried without knowing why.
You call in sick to work. You lie and say it's a migraine.
What you feel is harder to name.
You wander the streets without direction. Your feet know where they’re going before your mind catches up. A blur of passing cars, the rustle of oak leaves overhead, wind against your cheek like a memory you can’t quite place.
Time blurs. So do the streets.
They feel familiar in the way a dream does — real until you look too closely.
You pass bakeries and wrought iron balconies. Murals chipping from brick walls. A street performer plays something mournful on a saxophone, half-hearted and beautiful in its sadness.
You’re somewhere near the edge of the Quarter when you stop.
The flickering “OPEN” sign buzzes in the window. You remember now that there are some things you need to get: toothpaste, dish soap, small, forgettable things.
The bell over the door chimes a dull, hollow note. The air inside smells like citrus cleaner, old linoleum, and cheap incense — the kind that clings to your hair, your clothes, your thoughts.
There’s a woman behind the counter reading a magazine. She barely glances up.
You drift toward the back without thinking.
You pass a man as you walk down the cleaning aisle. Tall. Impeccably dressed in a dark suit. Too sharp for a store like this. He moves past you in the opposite direction. It really is a fleeting glance — the kind you give strangers all the time.
But something in your chest seizes and your steps stop mid-stride.
You turn to look at the man — to examine him closer — but he’s gone. No trace. No fading footsteps.
But for one breathless, shattering second — you know what you saw.
Molten. Haunted. Hollowed by grief.
You stand frozen. The plastic handle of your basket bites into your palm. The faint overhead music suddenly pierces — too loud, too sharp, too real.
You lurch around the endcap, searching aisle after aisle. Faster now. Each turn more desperate.
No movement. No lingering warmth in the air. Not even the scent of cologne.
It shouldn’t matter. You don’t know this man. This stranger.
But your body is sure of it. Certain. He was here.
You dart toward the front of the store. The woman behind the counter looks up at your sudden movement.
“Did someone just come through here?” you ask, voice too breathless, too tight.
She squints. “Tall guy? Dark suit?”
You nod. Fingers white-knuckled around the basket.
She shrugs. “Didn’t see him leave.”
You’re not sure how long you stand there.
Long enough to know you won’t find him. Long enough to feel the ache behind your ribs root deeper — heavier, sharper. Like something that almost found you. Like the moment before a memory returns... and slips away.
You leave the basket near the door. Step back out into the street and wander.
You don’t go home right away.
Because stopping feels unbearable. Because the silence of your apartment feels suffocating and oppressive and if you go back now you fear it will smother you.
The city unfolds around you in golds and grays. Neon reflections tremble in puddles. People laugh in doorways. Somewhere, a trumpet wails through an open upstairs window, the notes low and aching.
You try to match your steps to the rhythm. You fail.
Not beside you. Not around a corner. But in you. In that deep, wordless place where dreams get stored and forgotten. Where grief lives without a name.
Eventually, you sit on a bench — not from exhaustion, but from the tremble in your hands. The tightness in your chest. The way your breath won’t come right.
You curl forward, elbows on knees, palms over your face.
What is happening to you?
Why do you feel like you’ve lost someone you never met?
The image of his eyes won’t leave you. You didn’t imagine it — you know you didn’t. It was the same as the dream. Exactly the same. Not close. Not similar. The same.
And the way your body reacted — like someone slammed a piano chord inside your chest.
You drag your nails lightly across your arms. You rake your nails gently down your arms, grounding yourself. Or trying.
It’s not just the dreams. Not just the tea. Or the preserves. Not just the way your apartment feels too big or the way strangers’ laughter feels like it’s missing someone.
Like someone ripped out a piece of you and then smoothed the edges so you wouldn’t notice until now. Until something in the universe tilted just enough for light to hit the seam.
You sit there for a long time. Until the chill finds you. Until your breath fogs the air.Until your heart stops clawing at your ribs like it’s searching for something it forgot how to live without.
When you finally stand, you don’t know where you’re going.
But you know you can’t keep pretending.
And if you don’t find it soon, you’re going to lose the rest of yourself with it.
You weren’t planning on going. You’re not even sure why your feet brought you here now — only that you needed out. To move. To breathe.
And for tonight, that is reason enough..
A coworker mentioned the place to you — a jazz club off Chartres Street. Said it has a vintage vibe. Live sets. Strong drinks. Something about it lingered. Stuck to your mind like a whisper.
So this is where you find yourself.
Your steps slow as you approach the building. A flicker of warm light spilling from a narrow doorway. There’s no sign. Just the soft swell of music curling out into the street like an invitation whispered through a keyhole.
You’ve walked this block a hundred times. And yet you’ve never seen this place.
And still — it feels familiar. Like your feet already knew the way.
Inside, the air is thick with candle smoke, old wood, and something sweet — orange peel and bourbon. The lighting is low and golden.
A jazz trio plays from the far corner — slow, smoldering. The bass vibrates beneath the floorboards. A woman sings something low and brokenhearted into the mic, her voice wrapped in velvet and ache.
It smells like memory. Sounds like a secret. Feels like grief.
You take a few slow steps inside.
The host glances up from his podium. Smiles like he knows you.
His expression softens — not with embarrassment, but with something stranger. Something like recognition.
“I was starting to wonder when you’d return,” he murmurs. “It’s been… a while.”
Your hands grip the strap of your bag just a little tighter. “I’ve never been here before.”
There’s a pause. A quiet flicker of confusion crosses his face.
“If you say so,” he murmurs, not unkindly. Then, with a polite gesture, “Right this way.”
You follow, heart hammering. The floorboards creak beneath your steps — a sound that feels too familiar. Like rhythm you’ve carried in your bones.
The host slows, turns toward a familiar booth tucked in the shadows. Private. Close to the stage.
“Your usual is still open, if you’d like it,” he offers.
You don’t know why that table makes your stomach twist. Or why your palms start to sweat.
“No,” you say too quickly. “I’ll sit at the bar.”
He nods, unbothered, and guides you forward.
A slow, mournful tune rises — piano first, then a soft hum of strings. The singer begins to croon something low and aching, her voice curling through the air like smoke through candlelight.
The back of your throat tightens. Something in your chest pulls taut, like a wire straining toward memory.
You don’t ask the name of the song. You just follow the host to the bar, fingers trembling as you ease onto the stool.
The bartender doesn’t ask what you want. He just sets down a short glass with something dark and amber in it.
You blink at it. “Did I… order this?”
He offers a gentle shrug. “It’s what you always get.”
You open your mouth to correct him — to say, no, that’s not right — but the words don’t come. Because now you’re not sure.
You wrap your fingers around the glass anyway. The warmth of it feels strangely comforting. Like holding someone’s hand.
Behind you, laughter breaks across a nearby booth — warm, tipsy. You try not to eavesdrop, but then you catch it.
“—remember when Elijah used to come in with her? Always looked like something out of an old black-and-white film…”
Your head turns before you even realize what you’re doing.
You scan the room, trying to find the source. Two older women in cocktail dresses are seated at a nearby table, heads close together, leaning close in the hush of reminiscence.
“God, he was so polite,” one says, stirring her drink. “Always held the door. Pulled out her chair. And the way he looked at her…”
The other laughs softly. “You’d think she was made of glass.”
They both fall quiet. The kind of quiet people get when they’re thinking about the things they don’t talk about.
You turn back around, pulse thrumming in your ears.
You don’t know an Elijah.
But the name lands inside you like a stone dropped into deep water.
You raise your drink to your lips — trying not to tremble. The ice clinks gently.
A silence inside you. A shadow. A presence.
You don’t know how you know he’s there.
Your skin prickles before your mind catches up. You know this feeling — this weight in your chest, this stillness in your bones.
At the back of the room, tucked into the shadows of that booth. The one the host offered. The one you refused.
The man from your dreams sits.
Not a silhouette. No longer a flicker. Not just a shape in a dream.
Dark suit. Composed posture. Hands folded. Still and silent. Like a statue carved from grief.
They’re the same eyes that haunt you every night. Molten, ancient, impossible. They hold you in place with the weight of everything you don’t remember.
He doesn’t look surprised.
Like seeing you again hurts more than anything else ever could.
You stand slowly. Not because you decide to — but because your body does. You move toward him, one breath at a time, each step like a memory trying to break through.
Your eyes never leave his — not even to blink. You’re afraid that if you do, that if your eyes leave him for the smallest fraction, he will disappear again, becoming nothing more than another haunting memory.
He rises too — slow, deliberate — like he’s approaching something sacred.
You stop a foot away, the flickering candlelight stretching between you like a line neither of you are sure how to cross.
It’s not a question. It’s something deeper. A recognition your mind can’t explain — but your soul already knows.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
You search his face, looking for an answer you’re not sure how to ask. He’s older than you imagined — or maybe just tired. There’s a sadness in him so profound, it feels like standing in the center of a storm.
“Do I… do I know you?” you ask.
His jaw flexes. His throat works around something unspoken.
And then, softly — like he’s saying a prayer:
The words hit harder than you expect. Past tense. Heavy. Final.
Your chest tightens. “What does that mean?”
But his eyes betray him — pain, love, guilt all blooming there.
You feel like the ground beneath you is shifting.
“I keep seeing you,” you say, voice breaking. “In my dreams. In reflections. Just out of reach. I thought I was losing my mind, but now you’re here, and I don’t—” You break off, breath catching. “Why do I feel like I’ve lost something I can’t name?”
He closes his eyes, just for a second. When they open, they shine with unshed grief.
“You weren’t supposed to remember,” he says softly.
Your voice comes out quieter, but sharper. “What?”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
He just looks at you — and suddenly it’s all there.
The way he knows you. Every part of you.
Your heart slams against your ribs.
“What did you do to me?” you ask, a tremor in your voice now. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“I loved you,” he says, the words ripped from somewhere deep. “More than I’ve ever loved anything in this world.”
“But your life was in danger. Because of me. So I did what I swore I never would. I compelled you to forget. To move on. To be safe.”
You stagger back half a step, like the truth itself knocked you off balance.
He moves forward instinctively, like he might catch you, but stops himself — fingers curling into his palm.
“I tried to let you go,” he says, voice raw. “I tried to stay away.”
He swallows hard, eyes shining.
“But I failed. I couldn’t stop looking for you. Couldn’t stop… missing you.”
Silence stretches between you. Sharp. Endless.
You look at him — wrecked, unmoored — and all you can say is:
“I still dream about you.”
You weren’t sure who moved first. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was him.
But there was a shift — an unspoken agreement that the jazz club was not the place to continue this conversation.
You followed him as he led you through narrow streets without explanation. Past shuttered galleries and iron-laced balconies dripping with Spanish moss. Your footsteps echoed off the stone, and neither of you spoke.
Finally, you stop at a narrow courtyard tucked between buildings — overgrown with ivy, lit only by the soft flicker of gaslight lanterns. There’s an old wrought-iron bench beneath a fig tree whose leaves whisper with the breeze. The city feels miles away here.
He turns to you. Doesn’t sit. Just watches you like you’re still a ghost he can’t believe is real.
You should be afraid. You’re not.
The silence between you is no longer empty — it’s thick with longing, grief, and something you can’t name but have always felt.
And then you speak — voice low, steady, wrecked.
His eyes darken. “I did. I do.”
You stare at him like the truth might split open if you look long enough. Your breath is still caught somewhere in your chest, a jagged thing. He’s still watching you — those same eyes, molten and mourning. The same eyes from every dream. Every sleepless night. Every unanswered question clawing at the edges of your mind.
And the weight of it crushes you.
You take a shaky breath. “That’s not enough.”
Elijah’s expression doesn’t shift. But something flickers at the corners — regret, maybe. Or fear.
You step forward. “You can’t just tell me you loved me and leave it at that. You don’t get to drop a word like that and walk away like it’s some mercy.”
“I’m not walking away,” he says, softly. “Not anymore.”
“Then tell me,” you demand. “All of it. I deserve to know.”
His jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists at his sides. He looks away, for just a second — like the truth is too heavy to carry in your gaze.
“You don’t remember,” he says. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
You almost laugh — but there’s nothing funny about it. “I know exactly what I’m asking.”
You step closer. Something inside you frays, delicate and violent all at once.
“You think I haven’t felt it?” Your voice shakes now. “Like a hole in the middle of my life I can’t fill? Like a grief with no source? You think I haven’t known something was missing every time I woke up in tears with no name to cry out?”
He flinches. And for a moment, you wonder if he’s about to run again.
But then he speaks. Voice low. Ruined.
“I remember the last time you cried like that,” he says. “You were in my arms.”
The air is gone from your lungs.
“You had just seen something you shouldn’t have — blood, death. Me. What I was.” He swallows hard. “You begged me to stay. Even then. Even knowing what I was. And I did. God help me, I did.”
You blink, eyes stinging.
“I stayed too long,” he continues, voice rough now. “And it nearly killed you.”
A silence falls between you, long and sharp.
“What happened?” you whisper. “What did I forget?”
He breathes out, slow and steady, like he’s bleeding.
“There was a night,” he says. “A fight. You were caught in the crossfire. A blade meant for me…” His eyes close. His voice falters. “I held you in the street. You were fading. And I—” He cuts himself off.
“I healed you,” he says. “With my blood. But that meant others would come. You became a target, just by surviving.”
He looks up at you again — and it’s all there. The storm. The weight.
“I couldn’t keep you safe. Not without ruining you. So I did what I swore I’d never do.”
His voice is barely a breath now.
“I took the memories. I rewrote them. I told you we’d never met.”
Your hands are trembling. You don’t try to hide it.
“You erased me,” you whisper.
“I thought it would save you.”
He looks like he might shatter. “I know.”
“I’ve been a ghost of myself since the day you left,” you say. “Every night, I’ve been haunted by you. And I didn’t even know your name.”
The pain in your chest feels like it could split you open. You want to run. You want to hit something. You want to scream until the silence finally screams back.
But instead, you ask the only thing that matters now.
“If I loved you…” Your voice cracks. “If it was real… why didn’t you let me choose?”
Elijah doesn’t answer right away.
He steps forward. So slowly. Like every movement aches.
And then, with a voice full of ruin:
“I couldn’t watch you die,” he says. “Even if it meant taking away everything we were. Even if it meant you’d hate me for it.”
He steps closer, close enough to touch.
“I chose for you,” he says. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”
You stare at him. And something in you splits — anger, love, grief, all at once. It feels like standing on a fault line just before it cracks open.
You don’t know when the tears start. Just that they come fast. Silent. Relentless.
And then, without thinking, you reach out — hand trembling — fingertips brushing his chest, just over where his heart beats.
Like a wave crashing into your chest.
Laughter. Music. Fingers laced in yours. Sunlight through bedroom curtains. Elijah’s voice whispering your name in the dark. His lips against your temple. Blood on your hands. Fire. Screaming. His arms around you. A promise made on a rooftop. A goodbye you don’t remember.
You gasp, stumbling back.
Elijah catches you before you fall — his hands gentle, grounding.
You’re shaking, breath ragged, eyes wide.
“I remember,” you whisper.
He doesn’t speak. Just holds you like he might never get to again.
“I loved you,” you say, voice cracking. “You… you were mine.”
He nods once, like he’s breaking. “And you were mine.”
Silence, thick and sacred beneath the leaves.
You pull back just enough to look into his eyes.
“You don’t get to leave again,” you say.
“I want the rest of it. All of it. I want to remember everything.”
His hands frame your face. His thumb brushes your cheek — reverent, afraid.
You stare at him — steady, certain. The storm behind your ribs finally beginning to settle.
If you want to be a part of my tag list, please submit an ask specifying series, fandom, or all and I will happily add you (If you don’t specify, I’ll just assume you want to be on the general list)!
Taglist: @catmikaelson20 @jennyamanda8 @tsukilover11 @gamarancianne @hazgold @devotedlycrookeddonut
