After the first few weeks at this place that was going to be her "home" for the foreseeable future - whatever that meant - Bonnie had finally made up her mind.

If this was going to work, or at least be bearable, she'd have to actively make it so.

Therefore, when Enzo came home that night, like he usually did, she got up off the couch where she'd sat huddled and brooding, and told him, "I'll help with dinner."

Nothing more. No "hello, how was your day," or anything of that sort. No stupid small talk. She hadn't even waited for him to put his bag of fresh groceries on the counter.

What was up with that anyway? He always, unfailingly, brought fresh vegetables back to the cabin and then he cooked for them.

He cooked. Freaking Lorenzo St. John, vampire and Damon's friend-of-sorts, and he cooked. Enviously well, too.

She stood by the kitchen counter, a hand on it as if to steady herself, and pulled her her back to the side while staring at him.

A smile spread on his features. She expected a snarky remark, but to her surprise, he merely nodded over to the bag and said, "There're some carrots in there. Maybe you could wash those already and cut them up, while I'll take care of the onion."

He walked up to her, uncomfortably close, and stooped down a little, almost as if in a tango. She felt his breath against her neck, and she fought not to flinch. He was playing his little powerplay, and she didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

No, Mr. St. John, Bonnie Bennett was not just your usual damsel, she was a witch - even if currently without access to her magic, and she wouldn't back down. She was just as strong as he was!

She shook her head. Right, she thought. Cooking. Aloud, she let him know, "Carrots it is. Any particular… cut?"

"You can julienne them. But whatever works for you," he replied and she was annoyed that she didn't know what "julienne" meant. She was not gonna admit to that, however. She'd just go with "whatever works for you."

They both got to work in the small kitchen area, and she secretly admitted that she was glad he'd spared her the onion. She already felt her eyes tear up a little from where she stood, those things were potent!

"Ow!" She suddenly yelled out, in shock. She hadn't paid attention at all to what she was doing. When she looked down where her big kitchen knife was still embedded in her index finger, she started shaking uncontrollably.

She'd almost cut her finger off! Instinct and reflex had made her want to pull it away, but it only intensified the pain. "Oh gosh, no," she whined, barely noticing that Enzo was already by her side, gently making her unharmed hand let go of the knife that she was still holding in a vise.

"Let me see, love," he said, his voice dark and calm, and strangely soothing.

She looked up to him, real tears in her eyes now, not just because of the onion anymore.

"I cut myself," she dumbly blurted, "I… cut myself…"

"I can see that," he said mildly but without mirth. She watched as he inspected the damage she'd done. "I'll have to pull the knife away from your finger." He looked at her, concern in his eyes. "That'll probably hurt."

She sobbed a little, but allowed an "okay. Can… can you be qui-"

Before she had gotten the last word out completely, he'd already finished. The searing pain exploded a second too late, and she let out a scream as she found herself being pulled against Enzo's chest.

He'd somehow managed to quickly wrap her finger in a rag or towel or some other fabric, she couldn't be sure, and she didn't care, and was now holding her.

"You're alright," he murmured into her hair, but she couldn't stop crying just yet. It hurt so friggin' bad.

"It hurts. It hurts it hurts," it escaped her, her body shaking like reeds in his warm embrace. She didn't even care at the moment that she was supposed to only moderately tolerate him if at all. Right now he was her anchor, her shield against the pain.

"I know, love," he soothed, "it'll be over soon. If you allow me, I'll give you some of my blood to help you heal faster."

So polite. He could be such a gentleman, it was jarring. Though right now she really didn't care.

She didn't even care that this was usually quite a tough decision for her, she just begged him to get it over with already, to make the pain stop. To make her finger be alright again.

And he did.

…

It was after a dinner that he'd finished up alone, that she had finally completely calmed down again. They were still sitting together, quietly, and she felt his inquisitive stare on her.

"I'm fine now," she eventually allowed, looking a little sheepish. "I'm sorry I… lost it there, earlier."

"That's quite alright. And understandable." He smiled. She was, yet again, surprised he wasn't milking it. She felt the need to explain herself, she didn't know why.

"It's just… the pain-" she abruptly stopped herself there, her face flushing with embarrassed heat. Of course he knew everything about pain. What would he be thinking of her, a sobbing mess because of a bad cut on her finger. Granted, she'd almost amputated the limb, but still. It was surely nothing compared to what he'd had to endure in his past.

His past… she knew so little about it. Everyone only ever spoke of it as if it was all just some short random unfortunate thing. But that hadn't been the case.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, "you must think I'm so ignorant. Here I sit and complain about something as small-"

He waved a hand at her, a small gesture begging her to stop. She saw it in his eyes, something dark. But all he said aloud was, "I wouldn't exactly say almost cutting a finger off is small. I'm glad you let me help you," he nodded to her, lifting his wrist up a little as if to remind her. But she didn't need reminding. She still had the copper taste in her mouth, and she licked her lips subconsciously.

He continued, "But let's agree on one thing: I'll do the cooking from now on, and you… we'll find something else for you to do. How about…" he stood up abruptly and walked over to the wall facing the couch, picking up a guitar that had sat there untouched ever since she first got to the cabin.

He walked back over to her and placed the instrument in her hands. "You want me to play the guitar," she stated, incredulous. And he smiled widely.

"Music is a wonderful pastime, is it not?"

"I don't even know how to play."

He positively beamed. "Even better! That will be your new task then, your new 'hobby' to keep you busy and entertained. No one can stare at the computer and old books non stop. Since cooking is clearly too much of a hazard, you can learn how to play-"

She shook her head no, but couldn't help the small smile that crept up.

"I'll show you, love. You'll see. In no time you'll be able to play and then…"

She smiled at him, awkwardly.

"Come on, give it a try," he encouraged her. But as soon as she did and the cord she struck sounded like a horribly disharmonious shrumming, they both just started laughing.

"Alright," he allowed, "this will be quite the project…"

"You sure?" She teased and struck the cord again. He covered his ears, smirking.

"Okay okay, stop it, Bonnie Bennett. First lesson will start… now."

And he grabbed the guitar off her again and showed her where to place her fingers. It was a strange, almost tender moment, and she marveled at how natural it felt.