The argument had gone quiet in the worst way—not resolved, not forgiven, just left hanging in the air like a storm that refused to break.

You stood near the windows of the compound, arms crossed, staring out at the courtyard without really seeing it. Klaus had been pacing behind you for several minutes now, boots soft against the floor, agitation rolling off him in waves. Days of bickering over something so stupid—something neither of you could even properly name anymore—had worn the sharpness into both of you. Pride, mostly. His specialty.

“Love,” he started, then stopped. You didn’t turn. That alone said everything.

A breath left him, slow and deliberate, as if he were bracing himself for something far more dangerous than daggers or witches. Then, unexpectedly, the sound behind you changed. No footsteps. No restless movement.

Just the quiet shift of weight.

Before you could ask what he was doing, Klaus Mikaelson—Original hybrid, king, tyrant, terror—lowered himself to his knees in front of you.

Your breath caught.

His hands came to rest lightly at your sides, not gripping, not demanding. He leaned forward until his forehead brushed your stomach, then tilted his head so his chin rested there instead, eyes lifting to meet yours. Those infamously sharp, calculating eyes were softer now. Unguarded. Almost… pleading.

“Well,” he murmured, voice low and careful, “this is usually the part where people accuse me of manipulation.”

You stared down at him, stunned into silence.

Klaus kneels for no one. He never has. Not for his siblings, not for allies, not for gods or monsters. Only you. Always you.

“I know I’ve been unbearable,” he continued, a faint, crooked smile tugging at his mouth that didn’t quite mask the regret beneath it. “And I know I could argue circles around you until the end of time just to avoid admitting I was wrong.” His thumb brushed absentmindedly against your hip, grounding, reverent. “But the truth is… I hate it when you’re angry with me.”

Your heart twisted.

“I hate the distance,” he said quietly. “I hate waking up and knowing I’m the reason you won’t look at me the way you used to.” His jaw tightened, pride cracking at the edges. “And I despise that it took me days to realize that being right means absolutely nothing if I lose you in the process.”

His chin pressed a little more firmly against you, eyes never leaving your face.

“So here I am,” Klaus said softly. “On my knees. Swallowing my pride. Apologizing—properly.” A pause. Vulnerable. Honest. “Please forgive me, love. I’d rather be yours than victorious.”

The room felt impossibly still as he waited for your answer.