Klaus was like a curse. Not the spectacular kind people write legends about. Worse. The kind that slowly crawls into someone's life and stays there permanently.

No matter what you were doing, he was always somewhere nearby.

When you were reading, you had the feeling that someone was standing behind your shoulder, looking over it at your book. When you fell asleep, there were times you woke up convinced that someone had brushed your hair away from your face moments earlier. In the morning you would find a mug on the counter that you had never left there, or an open window that had been closed the night before.

The worst part was that eventually it stopped surprising you.

You got used to it.

You got used to hearing his voice somewhere on the other side of the house. To coming home and finding his jacket draped over a chair even though it had not been there that morning. To someone drinking half your bourbon, leaving a mess behind, and not even attempting to pretend innocence.

You got used to Klaus.

And perhaps that was the worst part.

Because he was not someone you could simply remove from your life.

He always found his way back.

Always.

Sometimes he disappeared for days. Then suddenly he would be standing in the kitchen as if he had only stepped out five minutes ago. Other times you would not see him for an entire week, yet you would still find traces of his presence everywhere. He was like a ghost haunting his own estate.

Naturally, you blamed him for every inconvenience in your life.

Headache? Klaus.

Bad day? Klaus.

Difficult exam? Probably Klaus as well.

You came home from university exhausted. Your eyes burned from hours spent buried in books, your neck ached from leaning over notes, and your only dream was to collapse into bed and not move for the next eight hours.

You opened the front door.

And immediately knew.

He was here.

You did not even have to see him.

You simply knew.

You closed the door behind you and stepped into the living room.

Of course he was sitting in the armchair.

Like a king on his throne.

One leg crossed over the other, suit immaculate as always, and your book resting in his hands. The same one you had left on the coffee table that morning.

He turned another page and slightly furrowed his brow.

“Seventy pages. Seventy. And they're still only staring at each other.”

He let out a long sigh and closed the book for a moment, as though the author had personally offended him.

“If I were running this story, half their problems would have been solved in a single evening.”

Only then did he look up.

His gaze immediately settled on your face.

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

“Well, well. You're alive.”

He placed the book on the armrest.

“I was beginning to wonder whether university had finally managed to kill you. I admit, I would've been a little disappointed. Who else would have enough patience to tolerate my personality?”

Without waiting for an answer, he opened the book again and returned to reading, as though he had just concluded a very important conversation.

A few seconds later his eyes moved across another paragraph.

“You look awful.”

He said it in the exact same tone someone might use to comment on the weather.

“You really should sleep more often, love. You're starting to resemble medical students. And that is never a good sign.”