ℍ𝔸𝕌ℕ𝕋𝔼𝔻 - ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪᴋᴀᴇʟꜱᴏɴꜱ

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖘𝖎𝖝𝖙𝖊𝖊𝖓

❧ werewolf drama ❧

≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫

Amalie sat cross-legged on her bed, the soft glow of dawn spilling through the half-open window. It painted streaks of gold across her small room, catching on the spine of the journal that rested in her lap. Outside, the world was waking—the first birds beginning their tentative songs, the rustle of leaves whispering in the cool breeze. The air carried a crispness that made everything feel sharper and cleaner, like the world was giving her a rare moment to breathe.

She hadn't slept.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the leather cover of the journal, her gaze fixed out the window. She hadn't meant to write for as long as she had last night, but once she started, the words just...poured out. Every moment with Elijah, every thread of information she could remember about the Originals, every fleeting thought or feeling that had been clawing at her mind—it was all there now, written in ink on those blank pages.

It wasn't like her to let her thoughts spill out so freely but writing it down had been the only way to make sense of it all. Or, at the very least, to convince herself that she could make sense of it eventually.

She glanced down at the journal, her fingers brushing the edge of the pages. What had unnerved her the most wasn't the bond Elijah spoke of or even the spell that had supposedly created it. What stayed with her was how calm he'd been—how patient, how sincere. Elijah Mikaelson, an Original vampire, one of the oldest and deadliest creatures on earth, had looked at her like she mattered.

And somehow, that had been the most unsettling part of all.

Amalie exhaled slowly, letting her head fall back against the wall behind her. She told herself she'd take it one step at a time—one moment, one truth, one unanswered question at a time. The journal was a start, at least  A way to organize the chaos.

Her quiet thoughts were interrupted by a faint knock on the doorframe. She tensed immediately, her fingers snapping the journal shut as her gaze darted toward the doorway.

Stefan stood there, his arms loose at his side, his expression careful. He wasn't leaning against the frame like Damon would've done, all cocky grins and arrogance. Instead, he just hovered, his presence deliberate but non-threatening.

"Didn't sleep, huh?" He asked, his tone low, almost cautious.

Amalie narrowed her eyes at him, her hand still resting protectively on the journal beside her. "How'd you know?"

Stefan lifted one shoulder in a small shrug, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. "I could hear your writing all night."

She rolled her eyes and let out a sharp breath. "Great. My insomnia has an audience."

Stefan ignored the jab and took a single step into the room. "I'm not here to bother you."

"Well, too late for that," she shot back, crossing her arms as she sat up straighter. "So, what do you want, Stefan?"

He hesitated for a moment, his expression flickering with something that almost looked like guilt. "I wanted to talk," he said finally, his voice quieter now.