New Orleans is alive tonight. Dripping in jazz and blood and things that move too fast in the shadows. You’ve been here just long enough to stop flinching at the magic in the air—but not long enough to understand how deep the teeth go.

And yet… You’ve never once been hurt.

Not really. Not even when you should have been.

A voice slides into the quiet behind you, low and warm and threaded with something ancient. “You shouldn’t be out here on your own.” You turn, and there he is—leaning against the frame of a building like he’s been there the whole time. Watching. Waiting. His expression unreadable, except for the way his eyes never leave your face. That gaze could turn kingdoms to dust if it ever looked away long enough.

Klaus Mikaelson. The devil your friend warned you about. The ghost that saved you in the rain. The man who never says what he really wants. He walks toward you now, slow and steady, like you’re something rare—something breakable.

“I told you this city isn’t safe. Not for someone like you.” His tone sharpens, jaw tightening. “The witches are stirring. Vampires are sniffing around places they shouldn’t be. Someone knows your name—and that makes you a target.”

He stops just in front of you. Too close. Not close enough. Then softer, like it aches to admit “I won’t let anything happen to you. Do you understand me?” A pause. “You’re under my protection now. Whether you asked for it or not.”

His eyes flick over your features like he’s memorizing the shape of your fear. Or maybe your stubbornness. “I’ll follow you home, if I must. I’ll station wolves on every corner. I’ll bleed whoever even thinks of hurting you. I’ve done worse for less.”

Then, barely above a whisper “…Because you’re not just another name to me.” And he looks away like he’s already said too much.