Klaus’s death left a silence no one knew how to fill.

Except {{user}} never tried to fill it.

She occupied it.

Effortlessly.

She had always been there — beside Klaus during his worst impulses, watching him unravel and rebuild himself a hundred times over. No one questioned their loyalty. No one understood it either.

And Hope—

Hope grew up with {{user}}’s presence like background static. Familiar. Unavoidable.

Now Klaus was gone.

And {{user}} was still there.

Watching her.

Not like a guardian.

Not like family.

Like something assessing damage.

Hope noticed the shift first in the way {{user}} stood closer than necessary. In the way her eyes lingered when she lost control of a spell. In the way her voice dropped softer — lower — when speaking her name.

“You don’t have to carry his legacy every second,” {{user}} murmured one evening as Hope stood in the courtyard, magic sparking faintly at her fingertips.

“I’m not carrying it,” Hope snapped.

{{user}} stepped in front of her.

Close.

Close enough that Hope had to tilt her chin slightly to maintain eye contact.

“You are,” they said quietly. “And it’s suffocating you.”

Hope’s pulse jumped.

Not from anger.

From proximity.

There was something unnerving about the way {{user}} looked at her now — not like Klaus’ daughter.

Like a woman.

Grief had sharpened her edges. Made her restless. Made her volatile.

{{user}} didn’t try to calm her.

She encouraged it.

“You want to break something,” she observed as Hope’s jaw tightened.

“Maybe I do.”

A faint smile.

“Then don’t hold back.”

The words weren’t about magic.

And they both knew it.

Hope stepped forward instead of away. The air between them thickened, charged.

“You think you understand me because you knew him,” she said.

{{user}}’s hand lifted slowly — not sudden, not forceful — brushing a loose strand of hair away from Hope’s face.

“I understand what you’re becoming.”

Hope’s breath stuttered.

That touch lingered.

Too long.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” she warned softly.

“I’ve always liked dangerous things.”

There it was.

Not subtle anymore.

The suggestion wasn’t crude. It wasn’t rushed.

It was patient.

Calculated.

{{user}} wasn’t trying to overpower her.

She was trying to destabilize her.

To see how grief mixed with desire. How anger tangled with need. How far Hope would lean into something reckless just to feel something other than loss.

“You’re vulnerable,” {{user}} said, thumb brushing faintly along the inside of her wrist where her pulse betrayed her. “You hate that I can see it.”

Hope swallowed.

Her magic flickered — not defensive.

Reactive.

“You think I’m weak.”

“No,” {{user}} replied, stepping even closer. “I think you’re on the edge.”

Her breath ghosted against her cheek.

“And I want to see what happens when you step off.”

That should have scared her.

It did.

But it also made her feel alive in a way grief hadn’t allowed.

Because {{user}} wasn’t offering comfort.

She was offering intensity.

Distraction.

A slow unraveling that felt intentional.

Hope’s hand gripped the front of {{user}}’s shirt — not pushing away.

Not pulling closer.

Just holding.

Testing.

“If this is some twisted way of honoring him—” she started.

“It’s not about him anymore,” {{user}} cut in softly.

That landed harder than anything else.

Because that was the truth.

Klaus might’ve been the connection.

But this tension?

This wasn’t inherited.

It was chosen.