They don't treat her like glass, like she could shatter at any moment. Or, rather, they do treat her as such, but not in the normal sort of way.

They don't try to keep her from breaking and they don't guard her. Instead, they work to push her to the breaking point—to that instant right before the glass shatters, that defining moment—then they put her back together again.

It's a cycle Caroline has long accepted.

Klaus likes to push her, bringing her to the edge by whatever means necessary. He started with violence—with her at first, but then just made her watch. Elijah liked to pull her back. He would hold her still— one hand around her waist, one holding her hand—as he whispered to her through her unwanted bloodlust.

The sex came later, when they could no longer see the eagerness for carnage in her eyes.

Klaus is cruel; biting, clawing, rough, whatever it took to maintain control. It's beautiful and passionate and all that she tells herself she doesn't want. And when he is done, when he finally gets her to submit, he will leave her on the floor or the table or whatever indecent surface he has dragged her to. He doesn't speak a word.

Elijah finds her after, curled up into herself yet still holding it together. He picks her up and carries the shaking and crying girl to bed. He's always gentle, with innocent kisses and careful touches, finding the pieces of her soul his brother had strewn about and bringing them back to her. He whispers kind words in her ear, tells her she'll be perfectly fine, and makes her believe it.

Caroline will ask him to hold her after and he'll oblige.

The two brothers are so different from each other that it surprises her that they could both love her. She knows they do, even if only one of them says the words. She wouldn't be lying here between them, each with an arm around her waist, if they both didn't love her.