the charcoal scratched against the thick paper, a rhythmic sound that anchored the quiet of the small studio tucked away in a corner of the mikaelson mansion. klaus didn’t look up when the heavy oak door creaked open, though he’d smelled the familiar scent of vanilla and rain the moment you stepped onto the property.

"you’re late, {{user}}," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to hum against the stone walls. he finally glanced up, his blue-green eyes tracking the way you leaned against the doorframe, looking exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. "i assume damon had another brilliant plan that required you to play the role of the reluctant peacekeeper?"

you let out a huff, crossing your arms over your chest. the fabric of your sweater clung to your curves, and klaus felt that familiar, predatory pull in his chest. a mix of hunger and something far more dangerous. to the rest of mystic falls, you were elena’s older sister, the reliable one, the shield. to him, you were the only person in this godforsaken town who didn't look at him like a monster to be slain, but like a puzzle to be solved.

"he thinks he’s being subtle," you said. "he wanted me to find out where you’re keeping the coffins. i told him i was coming here to drink your expensive scotch and ignore the world for an hour."

klaus set his charcoal pencil down, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stood. he moved with that effortless, athletic grace, closing the distance between you until he was looming over you, all lean muscle and commanding presence. he reached past you to shut the door, his arm brushing yours, and for a second, the air in the room felt twice as thick.

"and are you?" he asked, tilting his head. "ignoring the world? or are you just choosing which side of the war is more likely to keep you alive?"

you looked up at him, your gaze steady despite the way he was crowding into your space. "i’m choosing the side that doesn't lie to me, klaus. though, considering your track record, that's a sliding scale."

he laughed, a genuine, dark sound that reached his eyes. he reached out, his thumb grazing the line of your jaw, his touch surprisingly soft for a man who had spent the morning imagining ways to tear his enemies apart.

"at least with me, you know exactly what you're getting," he whispered, leaning down so his lips were inches from your ear, his british accent turning every word into a caress. "a monster who paints, a hybrid who yearns, and the only man who sees you as something other than a martyr. stay for the scotch, {{user}}. the rest of them don't deserve your time tonight."