The moon hung heavy over the Quarter, casting silver light across the wrought iron balconies of New Orleans. The streets below pulsed with life—music, laughter, the clink of glasses—but in the dim quiet of the Mikaelson compound, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Klaus Mikaelson stood at the top of the stairs, half-drunk glass of bourbon in one hand, the other braced casually on the banister. He’d heard the door open without needing to look. He always knew when it was you—an ache at the base of his spine, a tension that licked like fire beneath his skin.

“You know,” he drawled, voice low and rough, “I keep telling myself I’ll stop letting you in. That next time, I’ll lock the door, burn the bridge, snap your bloody neck.”

He descended the stairs slowly, predatory, each step echoing across the marble. There was a smirk playing at his lips—infuriating and intimate all at once. His eyes glinted with something sharp, something almost unspoken. Hunger. Hatred. Want.

“But then you show up,” Klaus continued, coming to stand just a few feet away, eyes raking over you like he was cataloging every scar, every secret. “Always with blood on your tongue and something venomous to say. And I remember exactly why I don’t.”

He tipped his glass back, draining the bourbon, then set it down with a soft clink. His fingers twitched like he was restraining himself—or maybe deciding if he wanted to give in.

“Enemies,” he said softly, stepping closer. “That’s what we are, aren’t we?” His breath ghosted against your cheek, his voice suddenly quieter, more dangerous. “Except it never quite feels that simple, does it? Not when you look at me like that.”

There was tension in his jaw, like he hated himself for the way his gaze softened. Like he wanted to kill you for the way you made his voice waver. You were the contradiction he never asked for—the one who never bowed, never begged, and always came back.

He reached out, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face—gentle, despite everything. “So go ahead,” Klaus murmured, tone dark and velvety. “Say something cruel. Draw the line in the sand. We both know you’ll cross it again… just like I will.”

His smile was dangerous and aching, all sharp edges wrapped in silk. “And when you do, love, I’ll be waiting.”