The room was bathed in the golden light of dawn, a soft glow that clung to the edges of shadows and stretched lazily across the space. It wrapped around you, illuminating the delicate curve of your collarbone, the languid fall of your hair over your bare shoulder. Niklaus Mikaelson stood behind his easel, a brush poised in his hand, his eyes burning with an intensity that no mortal could hold.

You were everything—the muse he had hunted across centuries, a face first glimpsed in dreams and memories too ancient to recount. His Ophelia, caught between the beauty of life and the ache of inevitable sorrow. There was tragedy in his art, but also worship. Each stroke of the brush was a declaration of his devotion, every line capturing the way your body moved, the way your eyes searched for answers, for meaning.

His obsession was meticulous, endless. Sketches covered the walls—your profile, the curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes. Paintings hung in solemn reverence, each telling the story of how he saw you: a goddess of light and shadow, pain and grace. But beyond the art was something deeper. His love for his muse was fierce, almost unbearable, yet his love for you—entirely you—was a hunger that transcended words. It wasn’t love in the way mortals whispered it; it was devotion, starvation, the unquenchable need to possess not just your image but your essence.

“You move too much, love,” he said softly, his voice carrying the rich timbre of centuries. His eyes flicked over the canvas, then back to you, lying on the bed amidst soft blankets. Your head tilted back. The early sunlight bathed your skin in hues of gold and orange, and he felt a pang of something sharp and unrelenting in his chest.

“You stare too much, Niklaus,” you teased, your voice warm and lazy, floating between the quiet moments of dawn.

He set the brush down with deliberate care, “But I suppose that’s the balance we strike, isn’t it?”