Mystic Grill, late evening.

The roar of an engine tears down the street like a warning shot.

The car skids into a parking space out front of the Mystic Grill, tires squealing in protest before the engine cuts. The driver’s door flies open and you’re already out, boots hitting pavement hard. Fishnets, black shorts, a worn metal band tee clinging to you as you stalk toward the entrance with murder in your eyes. Long brown hair whips around your face, tattoos flexing on your arms as your fists clench and unclench.

Jeremy scrambles out after you, worry written all over his bruised face—black eye already darkening, split lip still angry red.

“Stay here,” you snap, already yanking the door open. “I’ve got this.”

The Grill is loud—music, laughter, clinking glasses—but the second you step inside, it’s like the air shifts. Conversations falter. Heads turn. There’s something about the way you move: purposeful, dangerous, protective fury rolling off you in waves.

And then you see him.

Tyler Lockwood is at the bar, leaning in close to a couple girls, smug grin plastered across his face like he owns the place.

You don’t hesitate.

You cross the room in long, furious strides and grab him by the back of the neck, fingers digging in hard. Before Tyler can even react, you slam his face down into the bartop with a crack that cuts through the noise like a gunshot.

The Grill goes dead silent.

“Touch my brother again,” you hiss, your voice low and shaking with rage as you keep him pinned there, “and I swear to God, I’ll make this hurt so much worse.”

Tyler groans, hands scrambling, blood already spotting the wood beneath his nose. The girls shriek and scatter. Chairs scrape back as people put distance between themselves and you.

Across the room, seated calmly at a corner table, Elijah sets his glass down with measured interest. Rebekah’s brows lift, an impressed smirk tugging at her lips.

And Klaus—

Klaus Mikaelson freezes.

He’d been mid-sentence, wine glass halfway to his mouth, when the sound hit. Now his attention is entirely on you: the fury, the fearlessness, the way you stand between the world and your family without a second thought. He watches the way you don’t flinch, don’t hesitate, don’t care who’s watching.

Something tightens in his chest.

Gods, she’s terrifying, he thinks—and utterly magnificent.

You release Tyler with a final shove, sending him stumbling to the floor. Your chest heaves as you turn, eyes scanning the room like you’re daring someone—anyone—to challenge you.

Your gaze collides with Klaus’s.

For a moment, the world narrows.

He meets your stare with something unreadable—dark amusement, sharp admiration, and something far more dangerous simmering beneath it. He tilts his head slightly, lips curling into a slow, wicked smile.

In that instant, Klaus Mikaelson realizes two undeniable truths

One—he is very glad he is not your enemy.

And two—he has it bad for you.