1993 — Mystic Falls, Virginia

   Florence knew the woods of Mystic Falls as if it were a swimming pool. It wasn't because her father enjoyed the outdoors and hiked the Mystic Falls trails when she was a child, but because she used to sneak into them with her friends. To her, the woods knew more of Florence Louisa Gilbert than her own family. The woods knew more secrets than any other person, and they probably knew the youngest Gilbert girl better than anyone.

   "How did you get that cast on your hand?" Cher asked, loudly, pointing down to Florence's hand with her chin. She didn't have to worry about being loud, for the woods only had ears but not mouths. 

   "It's a compression," Florence corrected. She raised her hand and took a look at the tight bandaging her brother had wrapped around it in the morning. "Grayson said that it would stop it from hurting and swelling."

   "I didn't ask what it is, I asked how."

   "Oh, I, uh..." Three people; three lies. "Mom closed the back door on my hand this morning. She was scared she broke it, so she called Grayson and he fixed me right up."

   To Stefan, she said that Cher had closed the car door on her hand. To Grayson, she said she hit it on the bottom of the pool when she dived. To Cher, that her mother accidentally slammed the back door on it. She wondered how many more lies could she say about a fractured hand, just as she wondered how the hell could a seventeen year-old boy do that kind of damage. Every time she thought of that, she would glance down at her hand and think back to The Granada Theatre. And every time she did that, she would think back at the brother with the bluest-blue gem for eyes.

   She noted that both brothers were severely different, both in looks and in the way they made her feel. While Stefan made her feel all warm and giddy and as if her chest would burst open and butterflies would fly from where her heart was, his brother made her feel as if she would throw up. Damon made her feel dangerous, even when he was just standing in front of her doing nothing. She only met him one time, but she wanted to know why did he have such a bad effect on her.

   After her small and loquacious Cher spilling secrets she had kept in her chest ever since she found out she liked both girls and boys, Florence Gilbert decided to go to the Salvatore boarding house. She didn't know why, but she felt the need to see if Stefan was there, if his brother was there. There was something about the eldest Salvatore that made her feel queasy, as if she was falling and had no parachute. 

   Down curved roads with springing trees, their branches appearing like curtains that covered her from the harsh sun. There was a breeze as she moved carefully down the road. As dangerous as it was, she sometimes closed her eyes and let the breeze caress her face, let the sunshine between the leaves warm her up. The sun, all of summer, made her feel giddy. The leaves, all of summer, reminded her of Stefan Salvatore. 

   The Salvatore Boarding House was one of the creepiest places in Mystic Falls, but it held a certain charm to it. Made in 1914, it had lost a bit of its woody smell. One could still smell the wood, but only if they focused on that single scent. Other than that, the house smelt ordinary, like the food Gale and Zach made, or the flowers that decorated almost every inch of the house, or the faint scent of cologne that wafted in certain places. 

   Florence stopped in front of the house and stared high at it, regretting her decision for a couple of seconds. She took a deep breath, kicked the stand of her bike, and slowly walked to the front door. Three careful knocks rasped against the wooden doors, her knuckles slightly hurting. She inhaled deeply, and slowly exhaled as her eyes scanned the door. There were numerous times that she had seen the door, but at that moment she could feel her her nerves swimming inside her. 

   The door opened to reveal the man with the bluest-blue gem for eyes, a Mona Lisa smile on his lips. He leaned against the door, arm raised high while his other hand rested on his waist. "Well," he breathed, almost in satisfaction, "if it isn't Florence Gilbert."

   Her eyes widen as her name slithered out of his mouth, almost as if he were deciding whether her name was a good or bad thing. "How... How do you know my name?" 

   "Mystic Falls is a small town," Damon replied with a shrug of his shoulders. "I just ask the first person I see. You can't blame me for wanting to know who was my little brother hanging out around? For all I know, you could be a vicious predator." There was a teasing smile on his lips, one side quirked more than the other. 

   Florence nodded slowly, eyeing him carefully. It was the second time she had stood before Damon Salvatore, and just like the first time she wanted to run away. It was that terrible feeling at the pit of her stomach where she knew she was doing something bad, something that would get her in terrible trouble. Falling. No parachute.

   "What a terrible host I am!" he gasped, sarcasm laced in his tone. He stepped back and opened the door wider, signalling her to come in with his hand. "Come in, Florence."

   "Is Stefan here?" she asked, taking a step back.

   "Stefan's a little busy," Damon said with the same quirked smile. "He's in a bit of a pinch." He took one big step towards her, closing the large distance between the two and tilted his head to the side. "Come in, Florence. He's bound to come down in a few minutes." Instead of waiting for her answer, he laid his hand on her back and pushed her inside. 

   Instead of pushing back, Florence allowed him to push her inside the boarding house. She felt that if she decided to push back, something bad would happen. Her eyes averted away from Damon and focused on her surroundings. The boarding house looked the same way it did several months ago, which was the last time she took a step inside the most creepiest house in all of Mystic Falls. She remembered her father picking her up from school, she remembered his haste expression, and she remembered the quiet conversation he and a small group of Mystic Falls personnel had in the parlour. Of course, she didn't know what exactly they were talking about, but she did pick up bits and pieces: Mrs. Grey, blood everywhere, murdered.

   "Florence!" Damon sang, waving a hand in front of her face. "I asked if you'd like anything to drink."

   She noticed that he was standing too close to her, so she took a step back, hitting a table in the movement. She immediately turned and steadied it before the vase that was on top could fall. At that single moment, she regretted going to the Salvatore household, she regretted allowing the eldest Salvatore pushing her inside. The youngest Gilbert swallowed hard and turned to look at Damon. He was leaning against the sofa, arms crossed, rolled pieces of papers in one hand and a glass of alcohol in the other. 

   "I've been wondering why my dear little brother decided to come back to Mystic Falls," he hummed, his voice full of curiosity. "Now, that's still a mystery, but I now why he's staying. Always for some pretty girl, this time a Gilbert out of every other family in this godforsaken town."

   "Excuse me?" Florence stared at him with furrowed brows, confused. 

   Damon let out a sigh, drank the rest of his drink, and opened the rolled up papers in his hand. "I never guessed Stefan to appear in a play, especially not in Romeo and Juliet. I'm guessing you had something to do with him appearing in this, right?"

   "No," she answered, scratching her arm. "I, uh, had nothing with him appearing at the auditions."

   "I actually like the irony of this," Damon chuckled, staring down at the script as he flipped through it. "You, Juliet. Him, Romeo. I wonder if what's happening between the two of you will end the same." He slowly glanced up from the script towards her, the quirked smile on her lips. "Some shall be pardoned and some shall be punished; for never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo."

   His words caused a chill to run down her spine. She swallowed hard and grabbed on to the table behind her; probably for support. Her eyes scanned the parlour, avoiding the eyes of the man with the bluest-blue gems. A hand laid on her arm, and she jumped from the sudden force of contact. She turned to see Stefan standing besides her, a worried look in his eyes. 

   "Are you okay?" he asked, softly, just like the time he accidentally squeezed her hand too much. But, this time, he stood in front of her, hands on her shoulders, standing too close.

   Florence nodded. "I-I'm fine," she breathed out in relief. "I just..." She stared at him, just taking him in. Each time she looked at him, her heart acted all silly and her stomach filled with butterflies and her breath to get caught in her throat. It was one of those good feelings that one wanted to feel again, and again, and again, and again. If she were honest with herself, she would lie and say that she hated how he made her feel.

   "Come on," Stefan said, laying his hand carefully on her back. It was the opposite feeling that Damon Salvatore emitted when he did the same thing. Instead of vile wanting to rise from her throat, it was comforting. It felt like basking in the sun. "I'll take you home, okay?"

   "I came here on my bike," she said, softly, almost as if she were afraid to say those words.

   "I'll put it in the car," he said, pushing her gently to the front door. He suddenly stopped.

   Florence stopped as well and turned, seeing the staring contest between the siblings. Stefan was glaring, Damon had a smirk on his lips with his arms crossed, clearly amused. He wiggled his fingers as a form of goodbye, then turned and walked away. At that moment, Stefan's stiffened shoulders slumped a bit, his hands slowly falling from her back and fingers brushing against her hand. He let out a sigh and looked down at her.

   "I'm sorry," he said. "You shouldn't have seen that."

   Florence shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come without calling first."

   Stefan let out a chuckle and shook his head. "Florence, you're welcome anytime, just not when..." He trailed off and glanced at the direction in which his brother went. "Not when he's here."

   "Is he dangerous?" she asked as the boy with summer in his eyes led her outside. "He looks dangerous."

   "I just don't want you around him," he explained as he put her bicycle in the back of his car. "Florence, I don't want you to..." He stared at her, just stared, summer eyes against autumn eyes. At that moment, the youngest Gilbert felt her heart do a silly jump, the palm of her hands begin to sweat, and her stomach become full of butterflies. She had become accustomed to that simple feeling, that good and simple feeling, and she didn't mind it that much anymore. It made her feel warm, like drinking hot chocolate during a cold night.

   Stefan let out a small sigh as a small smile spread around his lips. "Damon's not the best person to be around," he said as he opened the passenger's door for her. "He's not, uh, in his right mind at the moment."

   "Okay," she simply said, getting in.

   The youngest Salvatore circled the car and got inside, immediately stopping when he was about to turn on the ignition. "Did I, uh, do that to you?" He stared down at her hand, the one that had the compression.

   "You didn't!" she quickly said. "No, Stefan, it wasn't you. Mom slammed the back door on my hand this morning."

   "I thought you said Cher slammed the car door on your hand yesterday..."

   Florence stared at him for a couple of seconds, mouth slightly open. "Yes!" she exclaimed, nodding viciously. "And then, uh, Mom slammed the back door on my hand this morning! I have terrible luck with doors, if you haven't noticed." She gave him a big grin, and hoped that he could hear how her voice got higher when she lied, or how her heart hammered wildly against her chest because she didn't want him to know that it was actually because of him. She didn't want him to know that the compression on her hand was because he squeezed too hard.

   "I'm sorry," Stefan said again, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have..."

   "It wasn't you," Florence interrupted him. She was going to reach for his hand, but quickly pulled her hand back to her lap and gave him a grin. "For the last time, Stefan. It wasn't you."

   Florence Louisa Gilbert was a liar. Other than lying that her hand did not hurt, she lied about what she felt about Stefan Salvatore. Or, she didn't want to accept how she felt for the youngest Salvatore with summer in his eyes. When her heart hammered against her chest when she was near him, she wanted it to be because she had just ran, not because he was standing close. When her hands got clammy, she wanted it to be because she had been holding on to something for a while and the weather was hot, not because he was standing close. When her stomach filled with butterflies, she wanted it to be because she was nervous about a competition, not because he was standing close. She wanted to have a different explanation to her emotions, and she didn't want Stefan to be that explanation.

   "Thanks," Florence said one he stopped the car in front of the house. Neither of them moved, but allowed the gentle sound of the motor and the music to be the only thing other than them. 

   "Florence," he began with a sigh, "call me before coming to the house next time."

   "I know," she nodded, "I should have done that before, but I..." She stared at him, drank him in, wanted to remember how he looked like under the sun that hit him through the window.

   I wanted to see you, she thought.

   "What are you doing tomorrow?" Stefan asked out of nowhere. The conversation shifted just as fast as his face, a smile replacing the solemn look he had sported while driving. 

   "Swimming practice," she said, slowly. "I have swimming practice."

   "What time?"

   "Eleven."

   "I'll pick you up."

   Florence's mouth slightly fell open. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered harder. "W-what?"

   "I'll pick you up," he repeated, smiling. "You swim, I'll time you, and we'll practice our lines for the play." He stared at her with a soft smile, summer eyes perfectly combined with a summer smile. "So, tomorrow at ten?"