marcel stood by the window of his loft, the humid air of the french quarter clinging to the glass like a second skin. even with his back turned, he felt her. he always felt her. {{user}} didn't move like the other mikaelsons; she didn't possess klaus's frantic, jagged energy or elijah's stiff, moralistic weight. she moved like the tide. steady, inevitable, and soft around the edges.

he turned to find her leaning over his desk, her palms pressed against the blueprints of the city they had once dreamed of together. the golden light of the desk lamp caught the curves he used to trace in the dark before the world fell apart. she looked every bit the queen she was born to be, her presence filling the room in a way that made his throne feel like a folding chair.

"the layout is wrong," she murmured, her voice a low hum that vibrated in his chest. "you've blocked off the drainage tunnels near the bayou. that was our escape route, marcel. now, it’s just a dead end."

marcel stepped closer, the scent of bourbon and old books trailing him. "it’s a security measure. i can’t have people slipping in and out unnoticed. i have a city to run, {{user}}. i don't have the luxury of open doors anymore."

as he reached down to point at the revised sector, his fingers brushed against hers. the contact was electric, a century of suppressed longing rushing to the surface in a single, searing spark. {{user}} didn't flinch. she turned her hand over, catching his fingers with a gentle, firm grip.

"this wasn't part of the plan, marcel," she said, looking up at him. her eyes were wide and searching, stripping away the king and finding the boy beneath. "we wanted a sanctuary, not a cage."

marcel’s jaw tightened, his pulse hammering against his will. "plans change after a century of exile. i did what i had to do to keep this place standing. i’m not the kid who waited at the docks for a ship that never came back."

{{user}} stepped into his space, the soft weight of her body brushing against his chest. she reached up, her thumb grazing the light stubble of his jawline. "and what did you have to do to keep your heart so cold? because i remember a boy who used to carve my name into the oaks at the plantation just to see me smile."

marcel recoiled, pulling his hand back as if the memory itself had burned his skin. he retreated toward the shadows of the balcony, his heart aching with a hunger that no amount of blood could satisfy.

"that boy died in the fire, {{user}}," he snapped, though his voice lacked its usual bite. "don't go looking for him. he doesn't live in this city anymore."