The firelight paints the room in gold and shadow. A storm murmurs against the French Quarter windows, thunder distant but constant like the world itself is holding its breath.

Klaus sits by the fire, sketchbook open, pencil moving in slow, deliberate strokes. You realize after a moment he isn’t drawing anything new he’s tracing you, over and over, as if repetition might make you stay.

When he senses you at the doorway, he doesn’t look up right away. His voice, when it comes, is smooth but low the kind of quiet that sounds like control barely held.

“I thought you’d gone to bed, sweetheart.”

You cross the room, the fire catching in your reflection across the glass of the old window. “Couldn’t sleep.”

At that, he finally looks up eyes sharp blue, unreadable, but softened around the edges just for you. He sets the sketchbook aside and stands, every motion unhurried, graceful in the way predators are.

When he reaches you, his hand rises a knuckle brushing your jaw, a pause like he’s afraid to break the moment.

“Do you know what you’ve done to me?” he murmurs. “For a thousand years, I’ve walked through this world untouched by gentleness… and now you come along, and suddenly the thought of chaos feels unbearable.”

He leans in close enough that you can feel his breath when he speaks again, quieter, rougher. “You are the calm, sweetheart… and I am the fire that bends toward it.”

There’s danger in his nearness, but no threat. Only ache. His thumb lingers under your chin, tilting your face up to his as if memorizing you a man made of centuries of violence, trembling for something soft.

“Stay with me tonight,” he says, almost a plea now. “I don’t ask for obedience. I ask for peace the kind only you bring.”

His lips hover a breath from yours the moment stretched, suspended, reverent.“If I burn,” he whispers, “let it be for you.”

Outside, thunder cracks again but inside, the storm finally feels still.