Chapter Text
Freshmen Year
The water is relentless and freezing.
Her body adjusts without resistance — a perk of her tribrid blood — but she still feels the chill, the way it settles deep in her bones like a memory she can’t shake.
It’s not unpleasant. If anything, it’s grounding. The cold sharpens her focus, quiets the noise in her chest, calms the nerves that no spell or sleeping potion have been able to.
The waves are quiet this afternoon. A strange kind of stillness for the local beach they found a few minutes from campus — a hidden stretch of coast tucked behind a line of wind-worn trees and crooked fences.
She’d discovered it with Lizzie during their second week in California, back when their focus was exploring and moving into their shared dorm room.
Surprisingly, she’s actually decent at surfing.
Mystic Falls hadn’t exactly been beach-adjacent, and the past few weeks were her first real time on a board. But the motion came naturally. The rhythm, the balance, the reaction — it was all muscle memory, even if the muscles were learning it for the first time.
The pull of the board carries her forward, and she likes that. That she doesn’t have to think — only feel the next wave coming. It reminds her of battle. The flow of it. Instinct. Movement without thought.
After catching one of the clean breaks, she paddles back toward the shore, her arms buzzing with the satisfying ache of a workout.
She finds Lizzie easily — lounging on the sand, oversized black sunglasses in place and a sunflower-yellow sunhat tilted over her face as she scrolls mindlessly through her phone.
“It’s really unfair that you’re good at everything, Mikaelson,” Lizzie grumbles, glancing at the surfboard Hope drops in the sand in front of them. The same one Lizzie had bought for her after Hope had stood in the store, arms crossed, only half-committed, insisting it was a waste of money for something she’d probably never use again.
Hope hadn’t expected Lizzie to actually buy it.
But Lizzie had, handing over her card with a smirk and a shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal.
It had stuck with her, the meaning of the action.
The board had lived in the corner of their dorm room for a week before she even touched it. And when she did, she’d thought of Lizzie — not just because it was her suggestion, but because it had felt like something Lizzie had given her. A small, ridiculous gift that cracked open a little space inside Hope.
“You said it was the teacher’s fault,” Hope says, fighting down the flush in her chest as she drops onto the sand beside her.
Hope smirks, the memory surfacing fast. Lizzie, all determination and dramatics, convinced she could master surfing in a single afternoon — and failing spectacularly. For a vampire with enhanced reflexes, she’d been shockingly bad at it.
“It was,” Lizzie insists, rolling onto her back, then rising to her elbow to glance over at Hope. “You’d be a terrible teacher, Mikaelson.”
Hope rolls her eyes, but the smile pulls at her mouth before she can stop it. It's automatic around Lizzie.
“You pushed me. Twice.”
Hope laughs. “That was because you wouldn’t move! I was trying to help you.”
“You launched me into a wave, Hope!”
“You said you were ready!”
“I was emotionally ready, not physically!”
They both laugh then, Hope’s shoulders relaxing in a way they only seem to around Lizzie. The sound of it blends with the waves and the wind and the distant calls of evening seagulls.
She feels light in a way she hasn’t in months — years, if she’s being truly honest.
Monsters and death have clung to her for so long, shadows wrapped tight around her like a second skin.
But here, now, with Lizzie by her side and the sunset painting the sky in soft shades of gold and rose, she feels something fragile yet undeniable stirring inside her.
Maybe — just maybe — this is her chance to start over.
“How does this look?” Lizzie asks an hour later, stepping out from behind the closet door with a little twirl.
They’d made their way back to the dorm after the beach, the scent of salt still clinging to their skin and hair. Lizzie had immediately launched into outfit planning for her date with MG, while Hope had planted herself at her desk, trying to focus on the art project due by Monday.
Hope glances up from her sketchbook, pencil paused between her index finger and thumb.
Lizzie is standing there in a soft lavender dress — flowy, with a neckline that dips just enough to be flirty but still tasteful. Her hair is half up, curled at the ends, and she’s wearing that barely-there gloss that always catches the light.
“You look beautiful,” Hope says, coming out easier than she expects — not just an automatic answer, but something true, something meaningful.
Lizzie’s smile is immediate, bright and pleased. “Yeah?”
Hope nods, lips twitching upward. “Yeah.”
Lizzie turns back to the mirror, fluffing her hair like she’s trying not to look too excited, though the faint blush blooming across her cheeks gives her away.
There’s a pang in Hope’s chest at the sight — sharp and familiar, the kind of ache she’s grown used to ignoring. It’s been lingering more and more, a low hum in the background of every shared moment, every laugh, every look that lasts a little too long.
It had always been there, even when they were younger — buried under rivalry and biting words, when Hope thought Lizzie hated her. It survived fights and monsters and gods. Grew louder through late-night confessions and near-death battles and the impossible mess of a sire bond. It wrapped around her like ivy, persistent and patient, threading itself through her bones until she couldn’t tell where it ended and she began.
But it was never meant to be more than that — a shadow in her ribs, a secret she cradled too close.
Because Lizzie was happy. She had MG. A boy who made her laugh and held her hand in hallways and looked at her like she was magic.
And Hope? She’d chosen Landon. Again and again. Chosen the safety of a boy who wanted to give her the world, instead of the chaos of a girl who could break her with just a glance.
She looks back down at her sketchbook, pencil trembling slightly in her fingers.
Some truths are easier to live with when they’re left unspoken.
As Lizzie adds the finishing touches to her makeup — a sweep of gloss, a dab of shimmer at the corners of her eyes — she catches Hope’s reflection in the mirror and pauses.
“Promise you won’t stay in all night?”
The question is light, but Hope feels the weight of it all the same. A gentle nudge wrapped in warmth and worry.
She coils slightly, the subtle sting of the implication hitting somewhere deep.
It’s not that Lizzie means to call her out — not really — but Hope knows the truth of it. She hasn’t exactly made a habit of putting herself out there. If her time at the Salvatore School had a report card, socializing would’ve gotten a generous C-minus. Most of her connections had been incidental — formed through crisis, blood, and battle. And many of those friendships only stuck because of shared trauma or because they’d loved the same people.
Even when her humanity had been off, people had tried. Tried to reach her, to save her. But it hadn’t come easy. She had walls, sharp and tall. She always had. And while people like MG or Kaleb or Josie had seen through the cracks sometimes, she’d never made it easy for them to stay.
“Hope?” Lizzie prompts softly, mascara wand paused midair.
Hope blinks, snapping back to the present. “Yeah,” she says, voice low. “I won’t stay in all night.”
Lizzie eyes her for a moment, as if gauging how much of that is a real promise and how much is performance. But then she just nods and returns to her mascara. She doesn’t push — never pushes, not anymore. And that small shift, that quiet grace, makes something loosen in Hope’s chest.
She lets out a breath, fingers tightening slightly on her pencil as she watches Lizzie from the corner of her eye. Moonlight from the window glints off Lizzie’s blonde hair, softening her in a way that feels almost cinematic.
“Maybe I’ll take a walk around campus or something,” Hope adds, almost to herself. “Get some air.”
Lizzie hums approvingly. “Good. You could probably use a break from brooding.”
Hope smirks, the familiar teasing taking some of the edge off. “Says the girl who once sulked for three straight days because someone scuffed her Louboutins.”
“That was a legitimate tragedy,” Lizzie fires back without missing a beat, then stands, smoothing down the fabric of her dress. “And for the record, I’ve evolved.”
Hope grins. “You’re practically a saint.”
“I try.”
They share a quiet look — warm and easy, the kind that’s become more frequent between them being roommates.
And just like that, Lizzie is gone — a swirl of perfume and excitement — leaving behind a soft silence that settles over the dorm room like a blanket.
Hope glances down at her sketchbook, then out the window where the light of the moon is starting to fade.
Maybe she will go for a walk.
The walk feels longer than it should.
Hope’s boots crunch softly against the stone pathway leading to the student common lawn, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her leather jacket. The evening air is cool against her skin, and she pulls the jacket tighter, missing the warmth of Lizzie’s arm brushing against hers—back when they would sit out here, sharing campus gossip—or rather, Lizzie rambling excitedly while Hope listened. Half-studying under the golden sun, Lizzie’s laughter would spill into the breeze, a sound Hope hadn’t realized she’d memorized.
Now, Lizzie was on her date with MG, and Hope…Hope was trying. Trying not to stay buried in her room. Trying to do what Lizzie had asked.
“Promise you won’t stay in all night.”
Hope hadn’t said it out loud, but she wanted Lizzie to be proud of her. Even if Lizzie didn’t know how much it mattered. Even if Lizzie was with someone else.
She makes her way toward the open stretch of lawn where something is clearly happening — fairy lights strung between lampposts, a small crowd gathered around a temporary stage.
Someone’s hosting an open mic night, the kind of student-run event she’d normally avoid.
She recognizes no one at first, and for a moment, she almost turns around — but a familiar face catches her eye.
A girl from her art class, standing awkwardly near the edge of the group, her guitar slung across her chest like a shield. Hope can’t remember her name. Maybe Phoebe? Or Cara? She had sat across from Hope once, glancing up between charcoal smudges and sketchbook pages like she wanted to say something but never did.
Hope sits in one of the folding chairs near the back, letting the music wash over her like static. It’s background noise, something to tether her so she doesn’t drift too far into her own head.
When the girl finally makes her way onstage, she announces that the song is original — voice trembling just enough to be noticeable — and then begins to sing. She’s good. Not perfect, but raw in a way that the girl should be proud of.
And when the girl steps down to scattered applause, Hope thinks that’s the end of it — until she sees her weaving through the crowd. Headed straight for her.
“Hope, right?” the girl says, beaming nervously.
There’s a light flush on the girls cheeks — either from the performance or from approaching someone like Hope, who’s rarely spoken more than a sentence in class.
Hope forces a small smile, nodding. She wants to respond, to say something friendly, but her mouth doesn’t quite cooperate. She still doesn’t remember the girls name.
The girl doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she does and chooses to give her an easy out.
“Didn’t peg you for the open mic type,” she says, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, clearly trying to joke.
Hope shrugs, managing a breath of a laugh. “I’m not, usually. My roommate made me come out tonight.”
Lizzie made me.
She doesn’t say her name aloud, but it echoes in every corner of her mind.
“Well,” the girl says, her smile softening, “I’m glad you did.”
Hope looks at her again — really looks — and wonders what Lizzie would say if she saw her now, sitting out here, making an effort.
Would she smile? Would she be proud? Would she be jealous?
The last thought hurts. Not in a sharp, immediate way — but in that dull, lingering sense of missing something you never quite had. The ache that slips in during the quiet moments, where longing has nowhere else to go but inward.
Still, Hope holds the smile on her face, lets it soften her features, and listens as Cara, yes, definitely Cara, rambles nervously about chord arrangements and capo positions.
She’s animated, her fingers sketching invisible strings in the air as she talks, her words tumbling out faster the more she realizes Hope isn’t running away.
Hope nods in the right places, offering the occasional hum of agreement. But really, her mind drifts. Not rudely—she wants to care, and in a way, she does. This is the first real conversation she’s had with someone outside of her small, ever-shrinking orbit in what feels like forever.
It matters.
But her thoughts keep curling back to Lizzie. To her reflection in the mirror earlier tonight, cheeks pink with excitement, the way she’d turned to Hope and glowed under her compliment. The way that glow hadn’t been for Hope. Not really.
She wonders—if Lizzie saw her now, talking to this pretty, nervous girl under string lights and soft music—would it stir anything in her chest? Would it even register that Hope was trying to move forward, even if her heart still reached backward?
“—but I guess the G7 just didn’t work with the bridge, so I scrapped the whole second verse,” Cara says with a laugh, a little breathless.
Hope blinks, realizing she’s missed half of whatever explanation that was. “You rewrote it?” she asks, gently coaxing Cara back into the rhythm of her story.
“Yeah,” Cara says, visibly brightening. “Sometimes you have to let go of what isn’t working. Even if it sounded right in your head.”
Hope swallows and nods. The words hit harder than they should.“Well, you sounded really great up there. I think you made the right call.”
She means it — honest, kind in a way she doesn’t always know how to be. But Cara really did sound good.
Cara beams, a little pink in the cheeks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. That’s when Hope notices it — the stutter in Cara's chest. A heartbeat, quickened and bright. Something in Hope stills.
She’s human.
It shouldn’t surprise her — she and Lizzie had chosen a normal college on purpose. A chance to start fresh, away from enchantments and blood and monsters. But it still startles her in the way an old wound does when you bump it — not painful, exactly. Just a reminder.
No scent of magic. No unnatural stillness. No simmer of power humming under skin.
Just a girl.
Nervous, maybe a little flustered. Breath catching at Hope’s attention. And that human heartbeat — fast, alive, unguarded.
Hope doesn’t remember the last time something felt that… normal.
She lingers longer than she meant to, listening to Cara talk about song structure and open mic nerves and whether the campus coffee is secretly cursed. There’s no pressure here, no legacy to live up to, no danger lurking beneath the surface.
Just the warmth of someone willing to talk. And the quiet buzz of life Hope had nearly forgotten how to notice.
Maybe — just maybe — tonight doesn’t have to be about Lizzie. Maybe it can be about this.
Something simple. Something hers.
It’s hours later when Lizzie finally comes home. Hope smells her before she hears the click of the dorm room door — roses and MG. Faint, but unmistakable. A scent she’s come to recognize... and resent.
“Hope?” Lizzie calls gently, her heels thunking into the corner where she always tosses them.
Hope shuts her eyes at the sound of her name. She’s already curled toward the wall, the lines of her body shaped into the illusion of sleep. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe too deeply — afraid even that might give her away.
Because tonight had been… nice. Unexpectedly soft. Music, laughter, conversation that wasn’t haunted by memory or magic. And she wants to hold onto that for just a little longer.
She doesn’t want Lizzie — pink-cheeked and glowing with someone else’s attention — to be the final thing she remembers before sleep.
So she stays still when she hears the rustle of sheets — her sheets. Then the mattress shifts beneath her as Lizzie slides into her bed like it’s routine. Like it doesn’t split Hope wide open.
It’s not the first time.
Roadside motels with shared beds and whispered nothings that were never meant to mean anything. Lizzie insisting it was just what best friends do. Hope pretending it didn’t matter. But every day left her aching for the routine — aching to feel Lizzie in her arms and fall asleep with the shape of her beside her.
Lizzie shifts, long limbs folding in, her leg draping over Hope’s back in perfect placement — like it belongs there. Like she does.
Hope breathes through it. Through the scent of Lizzie’s familiar shampoo, the warmth pressed into her spine, the soft exhale that grazes her neck and sets her nerves alight.
It’s not the closeness that hurts. It’s how natural it feels.
And how easy it is — in the hush of the dark — to pretend it means something more.
They never talk about it.
Not even the next morning, when Hope wakes to find Lizzie tucked against her chest, nose grazing the curve of her neck. Limbs tangled. Breath slow and warm.
At this point, it’s routine.
A perfectly carved-out sliver of peace — the one moment Hope gets Lizzie all to herself, without the pressure of saying too much or too little. No deciphering glances. No pretending they’re just friends.
Just this. Stillness. Contact. The illusion of closeness that doesn’t have to be explained.
Hope always wakes first. She likes the quiet of the morning, the bite of air against her skin when she runs. Lizzie prefers to lounge, wrapped in softness and stolen warmth.
By the time Hope returns, sneakers damp with dew and shirt clinging to her spine, Lizzie is up — legs curled beneath her, hair wild with sleep. She tosses Hope a blood bag.
“What’d you get up to last night?” Lizzie asks, curiosity light in her voice — but there’s something else buried in it. Something edged, unspoken.
Hope catches the blood bag mid-air, the cool plastic smacking into her palm. She shrugs. “Not much.”
She doesn’t say a girl with warm eyes and no magic in her blood. She doesn’t say I didn’t think about you for a whole hour, and it scared me a little.
But Lizzie doesn’t look convinced. Her gaze lingers too long. Like she’s trying to read between the lines — and Hope hates how well she can.
There’s a gnawing in her chest, familiar and unwelcome. A tug-of-war between keeping Cara to herself and the quiet vow she’d made after turning her humanity back on: be honest where it counts. Let Lizzie in — when she can.
So she does.
“I ended up going to an open mic night. On the quad,” she adds, like that softens it somehow.
Lizzie blinks. Then her brows rise, surprise flickering across her face before it melts into something warmer — proud, even. “Really?”
Hope nods. “There was this girl. She sang.”
That’s all she says. That’s all she offers.
But the way Lizzie’s smile fades just slightly — like it’s trying to decide whether to stay or go — tells her she heard everything Hope didn’t say.
And for a second, Lizzie’s smile stays. But it doesn’t quite reach her eyes anymore. There’s a falter — subtle, but real — like she’s trying to recalibrate. Like she wasn’t expecting Hope to mention anyone, let alone a girl she watched perform.
“Sounds like it was fun,” Lizzie says, and her voice is too even. Hope knows that tone — the one Lizzie uses when she’s trying to pretend she’s unaffected. When she’s trying not to sound like she cares too much.
Hope catches it anyway. It presses tight against her ribs.
She offers a small smile in return. Careful. Controlled. Not quite an apology. Not quite a confession.
Because as much as she loves Lizzie — in all the ways that matter and all the ways she’s never allowed to say — she can’t be the one to shift the weight between them.
“It was,” she says, soft but steady. “We’re meeting up after class.”
And even if it feels like she’s cracking something open, she doesn’t take it back.
Hope stirred the ice in her drink, watching the lemon wedge bump gently against the glass. Cara was mid-story, something about her roommate’s tarot cards and a wine-fueled meltdown — it should’ve been funny. Normally, it might’ve been. But Hope’s laugh stuck somewhere between her chest and her throat.
She offered a smile instead. Polite. Controlled.
Not enough.
It wasn't Cara’s fault. She was lovely, really — all open smiles and eager energy. Her voice was soft in that way that made people lean in without realizing. Hope liked that. Liked her. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was the ache lodged behind her ribs, the one that had started pulsing the second she saw Lizzie’s smile falter over the weekend. The way her eyes had dimmed — not enough to notice unless you knew her, really knew her. But Hope did. Every version of her. Every sharp edge and tender soft. And she’d caught it. That blink-and-you-miss-it moment where Lizzie shifted, like she wasn’t sure where she stood anymore.
Hope wasn’t sure either.
She forced herself back into the now. Cara was watching her, waiting.
“I didn’t know you were into astrology,” Hope managed, voice light.
Cara lit up again, easy and bright. “Oh, I’m not. But it’s fun to pretend, you know?”
Hope nodded. She didn’t. But she liked the way Cara’s eyes crinkled when she grinned. Human. Real. Safe.
She should want this.
No centuries of trauma. No love who would be reborn until he wouldn’t. No ferry-man tethered to fate and finality. No supernatural mess tangling itself into every breath, every moment.
Just a girl. A simple, uncomplicated possibility.
So why did it feel like she was breaking her own heart?
Hope looked down at the condensation sliding down her glass and thought of Lizzie’s leg draped over her back, easy and thoughtless. Her breath against Hope’s neck. The way her body curled into her space like it belonged there — like it always had.
And now? Now she was sitting across from someone who didn’t know a thing about that.
Someone who hadn’t watched her burn her world down just to hurt people she didn’t deserve to hurt.
Who didn’t know the way Lizzie had looked at her — raw and trembling — when she begged Hope to come back from the brink of humanity.
Like she was something to be survived.
Or maybe saved.
And wasn’t that the whole thing?
Hope had spent years surviving Lizzie Saltzman. Surviving what they were — and what they never quite became. Every near-miss. Every almost. Every unbearable silence that screamed louder than a fight ever could.
Now she was here. Trying to build something outside of it. Outside of Lizzie. Outside of Landon. Outside of every version of herself that had died a little just to keep going.
But all she could think was:
Lizzie’s gonna ask about this later. And I won’t know how to lie.
Things started to shift. Lizzie, buried in pre-med classes and wrapped up in her new relationship with MG, was spending more and more nights at MG’s apartment in the city.
Hope wasn’t sure what to do with the extra time, so she found ways to fill it without Lizzie. She joined the local surfing club. A few kids from her college showed up, and though they were way more experienced, they were patient, sharing tips and keeping the loneliness at bay.
Hope also spent more time with Cara — nothing official, but something steady and easy, everything except labeled.
When Lizzie met Cara, it went about as well as trying to impress Lizzie ever does.
They even double dated a few times, awkward as you’d expect. Cara and MG bonded over comics and fantasy worlds — something Hope had secretly hoped might pull Lizzie in too, given her own quiet love for those things — but Lizzie stayed distant, like it wasn’t quite enough.
Now here she was on a Friday night — MG was working a shift at the comic shop, Cara buried in study notes for her upcoming psych exam — and somehow, that left her and Lizzie orbiting each other in their shared dorm.
A dorm that had started to feel more and more like her own. Not because it was, but because Lizzie had stopped treating it like home. Her side of the room was still neat, still full of color and expensive skincare and the faintest scent of roses — but her presence felt borrowed. Like she was only ever halfway through the door.
Hope sat on her bed, textbook open but barely touched, pretending to read. Lizzie was on her phone, scrolling, foot bouncing absently against the mattress. The silence between them wasn’t new, but it felt louder now.
And maybe it wasn’t the silence that was the problem. Maybe it was that Hope was starting to get used to it.
The silence stretched — not quite uncomfortable, but close. Just brittle enough that when Lizzie suddenly spoke, Hope flinched.
“Hey,” Lizzie said, soft. “You’re not… mad at me, are you?”
Hope blinked, looking up from her book like she’d forgotten how to pretend she was reading. “What?”
Lizzie shrugged, eyes still fixed on her screen. “You’ve just been… distant.”
Hope huffed a breath, not quite a laugh. “Says the girl who’s never here.”
That landed heavier than she meant it to. She saw it in the way Lizzie’s fingers stilled over her phone screen, how her body went still like she’d been caught off guard.
For a second, neither of them said anything.
Then Lizzie looked up. Not annoyed. Not defensive. Just… quiet. “I didn’t realize it felt like that.”
And just like that, the air shifted — from something weightless to something thick. A tension that wasn’t sharp, just… tired. Familiar.
Hope wanted to apologize. To tell Lizzie it was fine, that she understood. But the truth was she didn’t. Not really.
So instead, she said, “It’s whatever,” and turned back to the page she hadn’t read at all.
Lizzie didn’t push. Just pulled her blanket up to her chest and stared at the ceiling. The room didn’t feel any bigger.
But now it felt lonelier.
Lizzie’s voice cut through the quiet again, gentler this time. “I didn’t mean to disappear on you, Hope. Things with MG have just been…”
“Good?” Hope offered, too quickly.
Lizzie’s brow furrowed. “Complicated.”
That shouldn’t have made Hope feel better. But it did. Only for a second.
Then Lizzie added, “You know how it is.”
Hope’s stomach sank. “No,” she said, sharper than intended. “I don’t think I do.”
Lizzie turned to look at her then, confusion lining her features. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Hope sat up, book abandoned, her jaw tight. “You get to be complicated with MG. You get to disappear and reappear like that’s normal. And I’m just supposed to wait around in case you want to talk.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” Hope asked. Her voice didn’t rise — it dropped, low and quiet and dangerous. “You have MG. You have school. You have everything you wanted.”
“And you have Cara,” Lizzie snapped before she could stop herself.
Hope froze. “That’s not the same.”
Lizzie looked away, suddenly fascinated by a string pulling from her blanket. “Feels like it is.”
Hope let out a dry laugh — humorless. “Cara doesn’t know the worst parts of me. She doesn’t ask questions I can’t answer. She doesn’t make me feel like I’m always asking for too much.”
Lizzie looked up then, eyes wide. “Is that what you think I do?”
“I think you don’t see me,” Hope said, quiet. “Not really. Not anymore.”
Silence. Thick and heavy. Lizzie didn’t deny it. Didn’t reach out. Didn’t move.
And that — more than anything — told Hope what she needed to know.
She stood, slowly. “I’m gonna go for a walk.”
Lizzie nodded, barely. “Okay.”
Hope didn’t slam the door. She just closed it behind her. Soft. Final.
And the dorm was too quiet without her.
Hope didn’t expect Lizzie to still be there when she got back. But she was.
The red rim of her eyes caught Hope’s gaze the moment she stepped through the door, silent and raw. Like she’d been crying.
Hope’s chest tightened — a sharp, sinking ache that made her want to turn around, disappear.
Lizzie’s voice broke softly through the quiet. “I gotta go,” she said, starting to end the FaceTime call with Josie.
Hope didn’t want to intrude on whatever they were saying, so she tuned out the last fragments of their conversation — a few sentences floating in the air, words she wasn’t meant to hear.
She moved to the mini fridge that held their blood supply, the cold glass door fogged slightly from the chill inside.
Her fingers hovered over the usual bags — but then she reached past them, grabbing a spiked blood bag. The potent stuff Kaleb sometimes slipped her way. Something to take the edge off, to blur the edges of everything that felt too sharp tonight.
She twisted the cap and pulled the straw, and the sharp, metallic tang hit her tongue. The warmth spread slow and steady, dulling the ache that wouldn’t quiet inside her.
From the corner of her eye, she caught Lizzie watching, silent and still.
Hope didn’t know if it was pity. Or something worse.
She turned away, sipping the blood slowly, the tension in the room stretching thinner with every heartbeat.
Hope swallowed the lump in her throat. She wanted to reach out, to say something, anything, but the words got stuck somewhere behind the knot of tension tightening her throat. Instead, she stood frozen, feeling more like a stranger in her own room than ever.
Because whatever Lizzie was holding back, however much she was hurting, Hope couldn’t touch it. Not yet. Not tonight.
She doesn't know what she expects, but it's not Lizzie crossing the room and sinking to her knees in front of Hope who is sitting on her bed. She looks older, even though she has been frozen in time for a couple of years.
“I’m sorry,” Lizzie whispered, her fingers curling into Hope’s, rubbing soft circles into the palm of her hand.
The vulnerability of it caught Hope off guard. She saw the crinkles by Lizzie’s eyes, the flicker of blue that shone brighter than any magic ever could. To Hope, it was one of the most beautiful sights she’d ever known.
Her undead heart, so long dormant, would start beating again if it could at the sight.
“I want you to be happy,” Lizzie said, her fingers pausing, like the words cost her more than she wanted to admit.
There was something left unspoken, hanging between them.
Hope’s throat tightened, aching to say, I’ve never been happy without you. Not really.
But the words caught in her, swallowed whole by the weight of what couldn’t be said.
Lizzie sat back on her heels, still holding Hope’s hands but pulling them gently away as if afraid she might break something fragile between them.
She swallowed hard, eyes darting away for a second before settling back on Hope’s face. “MG… he’s good to me,” she said quietly, voice tight with something she didn’t want to admit. “I don’t want to hurt him. He—he doesn't deserve that.” Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I’m trying to be someone I can live with.”
Her breath hitched.
“But I don’t want to lose you either. That’s what scares me the most.” Lizzie’s voice cracked on the last words.
Hope felt the slight tremble in Lizzie’s grip—urgent, almost desperate. Her eyes kept darting away, like she couldn’t bear to be seen too clearly. Every breath Lizzie took was shallow, her shoulders pulled taut with invisible tension. And Hope recognized it for what it was: fear. Guilt. Love.
Then Lizzie looked up. Her eyes were glassy but burning, like she was trying to hold herself together with sheer force of will.
“I don’t know how to do this without breaking one of us.”
Hope’s breath left her. The words hit something raw and buried inside her—bruising her deeply because they weren’t just Lizzie’s truth. They were hers too.
“You’re trying to be someone you can live with,” Hope said, softer now, her voice barely above a whisper—words slipping past the guard she usually kept so carefully in place. “What if I am, too? What if this version of me—the one who lets you go quietly—is the one I can’t stand?”
She caught the flicker of pain in Lizzie’s eyes, the way it settled just behind the surface, fragile and sharp. Hope didn’t know exactly what it meant, but she knew it stung.
Lizzie blinked rapidly, as if willing herself not to cry, but a single tear escaped, sliding unchecked down her cheek. She made no move to catch it.
“I hate that it’s like this,” Lizzie whispered.
Hope’s throat tightened, the weight of those words digging into something too familiar. She barely managed her next question. “Then why are you here?”
Lizzie shifted on the bed, sitting beside Hope but careful to leave a small space between them. Her hands twisted the hem of her sleeve, eyes fixed somewhere beyond.
“I don’t want to keep hurting the people I care about,” she said quietly. “This limbo—me, you, MG—it’s not fair. To anyone.”
Hope’s gaze dropped to the floor. She nodded slowly, the knot in her chest tightening.
“I want to stay in your life,” Lizzie added after a long pause. “Just not… in a way that makes you wait for something I can’t give.”
Hope finally looked up, her expression unreadable. The silence stretched, heavy with all the things they wouldn’t say.
“Friends, then,” she said, voice steady but quiet.
Lizzie let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Best friends.”
They didn’t reach for each other. Didn’t break or cry.
They just sat there, the space between them both a fault line and a fragile truce.