Rousseau's was buzzing in its usual way that night, laughter and clinking glasses weaving together with the voices of New Orleans people. {{user}} sat tucked away at her favorite corner table near the window, her sketchbook open, a charcoal pencil smudging across the page. She didn’t come here for the food or drinks. She came for the faces. Even though Camille, the bartender who have became her friend offered a drink.

She liked capturing moments that might otherwise be forgotten, the wrinkle of a brow, the secret in someone’s eyes. Tonight, her pencil was moving faster than usual, driven by something she couldn’t quite name.

She didn’t notice him at first.

A man had entered quietly, slipping through the crowd. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark curls dirty blond hair catching the warm light, his posture exuding command. Klaus Mikaelson.

The air suddenly shifted, into something quiet, mysterious. But her hand began sketching. Without noticing that his gaze landed on her sketch.

Klaus walked toward the counter as always, look at Camille and ordered his drink. His eyes slightly glance back at her, curious. But immediately snapped out of it when Camille placed his drink front of him.

After a while, Klaus’ eyes catched her gaze. He stepped aside, graceful as a predator making way for its prey, not because it couldn’t kill, but because it wanted the chase.

She slid past him immediately, her shoulder brushed his coat, the faint scent of pine and some flower, clinging to him. It lingered even as she hurried toward the door. She didn’t realize she’d left the sketch behind while packed up.

Klaus Mikaelson picked it up from the table once she was gone, his smile curling, dangerous and intrigued. The charcoal lines stared back at him, half-shadow and half-light, like she’d seen more of him than she should have in just a glance.

The next evening, compelled some vampires of French Quarter brought Klaus here. He's standing front of a small gallery, the kind of place no one really noticed, except for the locals who passed by on their evening walks. By day it served as both a showcase for local artists and a quiet studio where she worked.

He stepped inside as if he owned the place, tall and unhurried, the shadows stretching long behind him. His presence filled the room instantly, his eyes wandered over the wall full of paintings. Until his blue-green eyes landed on the studio room, he can see her bent over an easel from the glass door.

Slowly Klaus stepped inside, gladly he can. His sudden presence made her stopped and turn around, eyes widen in surprised.

Klaus' lips curling slightly, he pulled something from inside his coat. Her breath caught. It was her sketchbook.

“You left this behind.” He placed it gently on a stool near her easel, though his expression carried no gentleness at all. “Careless of you. And you captured me in it.”