1993 — Mystic Falls, Virginia

   To say that the Gilbert girl was bad at cooking was an understatement. Florence was, in fact, terrible. The only thing she knew how to make was boiled broccoli, and the majority of the time they were overcooked. Her mother was the one that did the cooking, the perfect food perfectly placed in the bright white fine china with the baby blue rims her mother had given her for her wedding.

   If Florence wanted to describe her mother in one word, it would be perfect. It was how her mother had always been, the woman who faught if one messed up how she put the ketchup in the fridge. So, one could understand how the youngest Gilbert felt when her mother did something so unperfect of her. It was strange. So unlike her mother.

   Florence watched Stefan move around the kitchen in the Salvatore house. He moved just like her mother did—perfect. His fingers opened drawers and pulled out things without him looking, knowing well where they were. He moved around while talking to her, mentioning little things of the lives he lived. He told her about the 1880's, how he spent them in Canada with his good friend Lexi. According to him, Toronto was beautiful in the fall, but it had been over a hundred years ago since he last visited the city. She wanted to visit the city as soon as he finished.

   "What did you do in the 70's?" she asked, laying a hand under her chin.

   Stefan scraped bits of chopped onion into a sauce he was making and smacked his lips together. "I was in, uh, Harvard."

   Her eyes widened. "You went to Harvard?" She choked on her saliva and coughed, her hands pressed to her chest for several moments. When the coughing died, she wiped away the tears from her eyes and smiled. "The Harvard University? Did you meet Bill Gates?"

   He laughed and shook his head, wiping his hand on a hand towel. "No, I didn't meet Bill Gates because he was in pre-law." He laid against his hands on the counter and looked at her with a foreign smile. It was as if he were remembering the very words he was telling her. "When I was around twelve, my mother got sick with consumption. I used to go to town and pick up her favourite teas and bring her flowers, just a few things that could lighten up the day." The smile disappeared from his lips. "My father sent her away as she got worse and worse, until she eventually died."

   "When did this happen?"

   "It happened in 1858." He turned and walked back to the industrial-sized oven. "I saw my mother slowly die and doctor's did nothing to prevent it. It was then when I decided that I wanted to become a doctor, try and save lives unlike the doctors that couldn't help my mother. So, I studied in several medical schools: University of California, Perelman School of Medicine, Duke University, Stanford School of Medicine, and lastly Harvard School of Medicine." He stopped and raised a finger at her, smiling. "Fun fact: I left for war in 1942 to be a combat medic and an ambulance driver."

   Florence stared at him with admiration. Her life had always been driven due to what her parents wanted; her father wanted her to become an Olympic swimmer and her mother told her to do something fulfilling for her future. None of those things were what she wanted to do, but she did them because her parents told her to do so. She found Stefan admirable, the way he knew what he wanted to do in his life when he was a child. There was a part of her that wished she was just like that, so focused in something that would do something great.

   "No," Stefan quickly interrupted her train of thought. "Don't you dare, Flo."

   "What?" She sat up and raised a brow. "I didn't do anything."

   "I can see the cogs in your brain turning," he said, standing straight and crossing his arms. "We had this conversation before, remember? We went to Bill's cabin, I made some great wine slushie, and you sat on the counter and told me you didn't know what you wanted to be in your life. I told you about how people don't know what they want to do in their lives, then I called you stubborn, and than you continued to eat the vegetables."

   A small laugh fell from his lips as she scratched the back of her head with a bit of embarrassment. "I'm still stubborn," she pointed out. "That's probably never going to change, so get used to it."

   "I got used to it the moment I met you," he smiled. "I had a feeling that you would be stubborn, because the majority of the Gilbert's were stubborn."

   "Right, yeah, you met my ancestors before," she reminded herself. "How were they like?"

   "Johnathan Gilbert was a business man, an inventor of sorts." He pointed down at her hand, the ring she wore on her middle finger. "He made that ring for his daughter, Maude. You, uh, remind me a lot of her."

   "Did you date her?" Florence asked, a hint of jealousy in her voice.

   Stefan let out a laugh and shook his head. "No, Flo, she was just a very good friend..." He trailed off and scratched the side of his head. "I, uh, almost killed her."

   "Wow," Florence responded, her eyes wide. She rubbed her neck and slightly tilted her head to the side. For a quick moment, she imagined him sinking his teeth into her neck and feeding her his blood. But, as soon as the image appeared, it disappeared. She couldn't imagine him being as terrible as Damon, but he had been. He had been worse than Damon at one point in his life, he had told her, to the point where he massacred a whole village of immigrants in Mexico. She wondered if that Stefan was the same one standing in front of her.

   The Gilbert girl realised that she did a lot of wondering while with him. Maybe that was a good thing.

   "It was a dark time in my life," Stefan continued. "I regret those times."

   "You feed on animals now, so you're not the same person anymore," she said with a small smile. She tilted her head to the side and slightly pursed her lips. "Same vampire. Same...being?"

   He half rolled his eyes, but smiled. "Yes, Flo, I'm a vampire."

   She shivered at that word. It wasn't because it was who he was, but him saying it sounded weird. How could he be a vampire? He wasn't supposed to be a vampire. When she looked at him, she could only see human Stefan, the boy who had helped her through panic attacks and kissed her in her bedroom during the Fourth of July fireworks. There were times where she remembered the red eyes and the black veins, the fangs protruding from his teeth. Then, those images would be immediately replaced with the boy. She no longer could associate the monster she saw in the woods to him, and it made her feel a bit at ease.

   Stefan had made spaghetti and meatballs, claiming that it was an old family recipe. He had a look of pride as he served each a plate and sat on the table, a glass of red wine to the side. He claimed that wine would bring out the flavours from the sauce, with a hint of smile dancing on his lips. 

   Florence picked up the spaghetti with a bit of sauce and pushed it towards her mouth, her tongue exploding in a sense of taste. It reminded her of a family-owned restaurant, like the movies. She chewed, swallowed, grabbed some more, then drank a sip of wine. It was a repetitive movement.

   From her plate, she looked up at the boy in front of her and felt her heartstrings begin to make a soft melody. All she knew about love was from her brother's marriage and the many romantic films she and Cher had watched. They were all fill with undeniable romance, the lust sizzling in the air like electricity, one anxious for their lips to meet. But, Florence Gilbert did not feel that when she saw Stefan. What she felt was her heartbeat quickening, a sense of calmness beginning to set through her, the want to be just by him. There was sizzling lust in the air, no want to rip his clothes off and jump on him, like Cher had once suggested. In fact, Florence just wanted to be by him, holding his hand and watching a great film, just be in his presence.

   It was the most purest sense of love she could feel for him.

   "How did you learn to cook like this?" she asked once she finished chewing. 

   He pointed at her with the fork, smiling. "I have a good memory."

   "That doesn't really answer my question."

   "I read a recipe," he confessed, nodding. "Not an old family one, but Zach made it before and I thought I would give it my own spin. It has a secret ingredient."

   She arched a brow. "What is it?"

   There was a small and playful smile tugging at his lips, the tips of his ears turning a bit red. "Love."

   For a moment, Florence stared at him. A snort-like sound escaped her mouth as she tried to cover the laugh, the merriment pulling at the blackness in the pit of her stomach. "Oh my, God, Stefan!" she laughed. 

   "Funny?"

   "Hilarious."

   She wondered if her heart could burst anymore.

   They helped each other clean the dirty dishes, then went to the living room to watch some horror film on the TV. Outside, the rain continued to fall hard. It pelted against the roof of the house, making it sound as if someone were through thousands of little pebbles. It was a night full of comfort. She pulled a blanket around herself and snuggled closer to the boy, her head laying on his chest. If that was what pure happiness felt like, she clutched at it as tightly as she could, feeling its threads rig through her fingers. 

   There were three booming knocks on the front door. Florence jumped and turned back to look at it, then turned to Stefan. "Don't open it," she said. "This is how a horror movie starts."

   Stefan kissed her temple and pulled away, standing. "Remember, I'm a vampire, I can take care of the serial killer." He grabbed her hand and pulled her along. The warmth in her hand was like pushing your hand close to fire, warmer and warmer the closer to the flame. It disappeared a few feet away from the front door. He opened it to reveal two figures under a large umbrella, the rain ricocheting hard against it.

   "Dad?" Florence said in surprise. "Grayson? What are you two doing here?"

   "Looking for you!" her father yelled, marching in. "Do you have any idea how worried we were, Florence? We called everyone in this town, and almost put out an alert because we couldn't find you!"

   Florence swallowed. "I-I'm sorry, Dad," she softly said, her hands pressed together in front of her. "I-I was with... I stayed with Stefan."

   Her father's face turned red at her words.

   Grayson put a hand on his shoulder and stepped forward. "At least your safe," he said, loud enough for their father to hear. "Flo, get your bags, we're taking you home."

   "I don't—"

   "We're taking you home!" Gerard Gilbert's voice boomed through the house as if it were thunder.

   Florence cringed and nodded, feeling small under her father's stare. She quickly glanced to Stefan before retreating upstairs. As she grabbed her bags, she could hear her father yelling at Stefan, blaming him for not taking her back home as soon as she arrived. Stefan tried to explain, but her father's voice continued to get louder and louder. No longer was it thunder, but an explosion of curses. She cringed at his voice, her nails digging into her arm.

   "She's seventeen!" her father yelled as she walked closer to them.

   "Dad," Grayson sighed, "nothing happened. Stefan is not that kind of boy." He grabbed his hand and shook it. "Thank you for taking care of her for the day, Stefan."

   "Yeah," Stefan said, his voice full of confusion. "Mr. Gilbert, I swear that nothing happened. Florence came here crying, and I thought it would be fine if she stayed in a room for the night. It was raining hard, and she could have gotten sick."

   Her father humphed.

   Florence stepped closer and squeezed her hand together. "I have everything," she said as loud as she could. Unlike her father, her voice sounded like a squeak.

   Grayson stepped forward and grabbed her bag from her shoulders. He looked over at the boy and smiled. "Again, thank you, Stefan." He marched back to the car, their father following behind him, grumbling.

   Florence turned to look at Stefan, frowning. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know I was going to cause this."

   "Don't worry about it," he said with a gentle smile. He grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze, the warmth returning to her at that moment. It was the fire, the pure fire that licked at the palm of her hand and up her arm. "Call me when you get home, okay?"

   "I don't think I might be able to leave for a few years after this," she said, a soft smile on her lips. She glanced back at the car to see if they were looking. When she realised they weren't, she stepped forward and quickly kissed him. "I'll see you in a few years."

   He chuckled. "Better make it a date if I'm not going to see you for a few years." He looked up to the car, then quickly leaned down to kiss her. It was a soft a gentle kiss, emotions swerving between the two of them. It was fire and ice, the happiness she had clutched so tightly pulling at her towards him. He pulled away and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll see you later."

   Back in the car, Florence felt the warmth of the heater hit her face hard. She sat in the passenger's seat, courtesy of her brother. The warmth in the car was different from the warmth she shared with Stefan, meaner.

   "Do you have any idea how bad this is, Florence?" her father lowly hissed. It was like distant thunder, coming closer and closer. "Your mother thought that you could have died!"

   "I'm sorry," she squeaked, pushing herself deeper into the seat. She wanted it to swallow her whole. 

   The rain hit hard against the car as her father sped through the dwindling streets back to their home.

   "Sorry?" her father boomed. "Do you think sorry will fix the trouble that you're in? We had the police looking for you!"

   "I'm sorry!"

   "I don't want to hear it!" he snapped, his hand hitting the steering wheel. "For the love of God, Florence, don't you understand how worried we were? You ran out of the house and didn't go to Grayson's house like you told Miranda. Today, the house was full of police officers. Do you want to know what Sheriff Mead told your mother? He said that if you couldn't be found in forty-eight hours, the probability was that you could be dead."

   Tears pricked the corner of her eyes and she bowed her head. "I'm sorry!"

   "Sorry isn't going to fix this, Florence!" he yelled, turning to her. His brown eyes were full of rage, an invisible anger that made her chest contract and more tears spill down her cheeks. "You're going to be grounded for the rest of your life, young lady! The only times you'll be able to leave is for swimming practice and school, nothing else."

   "Dad, you're being too harsh," Grayson said with a soft sigh. "She was overwhelmed with what you dropped on us yesterday."

   "You and your brother didn't act like this."

   "She's seventeen!" he defended her. "John's in college,  I'm a father—of course we wouldn't act like that. She's just seventeen, Dad."

   "When I was seventeen, I didn't act like this." Gerard Gilbert huffed and shook his head, mumbling about how her age didn't matter.

   The road was slick. The rain was harsh. Gerard Gilbert drove fast.

   "I'm sorry," Florence repeated, a little softer this time. "I-it won't happen again..."

   "Of course it won't!" he yelled. "You're grounded, young lady!"

   Grayson cleared his throat. "Dad, lower your speed."

   "I'm sorry," Florence croaked. "Dad, I'm sorry, but..." She clenched her fists and glared at him. "How am I supposed to feel after you and mom say that you're getting a divorce, huh? Am I supposed to congratulate you two and say that it's all fine? I can't say that because it's not, and I'm not fine. I don't want you and mom to get divorced; I don't want to swim anymore!"

   "Dad!" Grayson yelled.

   Gerard Gilbert turned the steering wheel of the car to the side, the car screeching as it skidded through the slick road. It spun several times, the speed continuing to rise. It hit a tree. The happiness Florence Gilbert had clutched onto tightly slipped through her fingers, weaving together with her blood.