the french quarter was louder tonight— music echoing off brick walls, laughter spilling into the streets, headlights cutting through the haze. but none of it touched you. you were too busy trying not to fall apart as the witches marched you through the alley like some girl they had no regard for.

you hadn’t meant to loosen up so much tonight. you hadn’t meant to leave yourself vulnerable. but they saw an opportunity— they always did— and dragged you straight to the one name everyone whispered when things got too dangerous: klaus mikaelson.

the compound door slammed behind you, sound bouncing off empty walls. and there he was, standing at the bottom of the stairs like he’d been waiting, like the universe had warned him you were coming. his eyes hit you first— cold, sharp, furious— but the second he saw the shaking in your hands, the dried blood on your temple, something in him snapped.

“what did you do to her.” he all but yelled, not a question. a warning.

the witches started explaining, voices trembling, but klaus didn’t hear a word. his whole focus was on you. only you. he was in front of you in a breath, his presence swallowing the room whole. you tried to stand taller, to pretend the world wasn’t spinning, but your legs buckled— and that was all it took.

klaus caught you before you hit the ground. he didn’t shout. didn’t rage. didn’t tear into the witches the way he usually would. instead, he lowered himself with you, slow, deliberate, as if any sudden move might break you more.

klaus mikaelson actually knelt. one knee on the cracked stone, one arm around your waist, his other hand cradling your cheek with a gentleness that felt unreal— wrong, even, coming from someone like him.

“love,” he breathed, eyes scanning your face. you blinked, chest tight, throat burning. his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, wiping away a smear of blood, jaw flexing with every shaky breath you took.

behind you, one of the witches tried to speak, but klaus didn’t even turn his head. “leave,” he ordered, voice low enough to be terrifying. they vanished before he finished the word.

and then it was just you and him. and the way his hand still held you like you were something priceless.

“you’re hurt” he murmured. for a moment, he just looked at you— really looked at you— anger melting into something darker, softer, dangerous in an entirely different way.

“tell me what happened,” he said quietly, “and i’ll fix it. whatever it is.”