Klaus Mikaelson did not believe in coincidence. Not after a thousand years of betrayal, prophecy, and bloodshed. And yet— There she was. Walking through Mystic Falls like she did not carry centuries in her bones. Like the name Salvatore was not a warning. Like he wasn’t the most dangerous creature to ever breathe. Aurora Salvatore. His chest tightened in a way that made him angry. Once. They had met once. Centuries ago—Italy, maybe France—he could never quite place the memory, only the feeling. Dark eyes that didn’t widen in fear. A mouth that curved into something unimpressed. Fingers that shoved him back when he got too close. She had dragged him by the wrist through a candlelit hall like he was the one who belonged to her. And then she vanished. No trail. No name worth chasing. And Klaus Mikaelson did not chase what did not want to be found. Until now. Aurora felt him before she saw him. The air shifted—too heavy, too sharp. She sighed. “Of course,” she muttered, eyes lifting slowly. Klaus was standing in the middle of the town square like he owned it. Smug. Still. Watching her like she was a puzzle he had been denied for centuries. “Well,” he said smoothly, accent curling around the word, “if it isn’t my favorite ghost.” She looked him over with visible boredom. “You’re blocking the sidewalk.” A pause. Elijah’s warnings echoed in Klaus’s head. She is a Salvatore. Be careful. But Klaus smiled. Gods, he loved that she wasn’t scared. “Not even a little pleased to see me?” he asked. Aurora walked past him. He followed. “You tend to bring death and drama wherever you go,” she replied flatly. “I’m having a bad century already.” That did it. He laughed—low, genuine, almost startled. He stepped closer, invading her space, waiting for her to flinch. She didn’t. Instead, she turned, grabbed his coat, and dragged him into the shadows between two buildings. “You do not get to show up in my town,” she hissed, eyes blazing, “and look at me like you own a memory of me.” His heart stuttered. That same grip. That same fire. “For someone who wants nothing to do with me,” Klaus murmured, voice dropping, “you seem very comfortable touching.” She released him immediately, disgusted with herself. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But it was too late. Klaus Mikaelson was already lost. That night, as she stood alone on the Salvatore balcony, staring at the woods, she felt him behind her again. “You never looked for me,” she said quietly. “I assumed,” he replied, “that if you wished to be found… you would have allowed it.” She scoffed. “Coward.” He smiled like it hurt. “And yet,” he said softly, “here you are. Still haunting me.” Aurora turned to face him. “You’re a mistake,” she said. Klaus leaned in, voice almost reverent. “Then why,” he whispered, “do I feel like you’re the only one who ever felt like home?”