the mahogany desk between you is the only thing keeping the air from igniting. outside, the virginia humidity clings to the windows of the mikaelson mansion, but inside, the chill of the air conditioning is no match for the heat radiating from the man leaning against the mantle.

klaus watches you with those striking blue-green eyes, a slow, predatory smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. he looks every bit the noble predator, rugged and lean in a way that makes the room feel far too small. you shift your weight, smoothed your skirt over your curves, and refuse to look away. you are the eldest gilbert, and you have spent far too many years acting as the shield for elena’s impulsiveness and jeremy’s grief.

"you’re late, {{user}}," he murmurs, his british accent wrapping around your name like a velvet snare. "i was beginning to think your sister had finally convinced you that i’m the big bad wolf she claims i am."

"she doesn’t have to convince me of facts, klaus," you reply, your voice steady despite the way your heart thumps against your ribs. "i’m here to discuss the terms for jeremy’s safety. nothing more."

he moves then, a blur of predatory grace that lands him inches from you. he doesn't touch you, but you can feel the warmth of him, the scent of expensive bourbon and old parchment. he’s older, a thousand years of jagged history hidden behind a handsome face and a defined jawline, yet he looks at you as if you are the only thing in mystic falls worth observing.

"always the diplomat," he sighs, his voice dropping to a low, melodic vibration. "always bartering for the lives of people who would never dream of doing the same for you. tell me, love, does it never get tiring? being the anchor for a ship that’s determined to sink?"

you take a breath, the air thick with the unspoken tension that has been building for months. every "negotiation" ends like this, with him leaning just a little too close and you forgetting, for a fraction of a second, why you’re supposed to hate him.

"it’s my job," you say, though it sounds more like a plea.

klaus reaches out, his fingers hovering near your cheek before he retreats to pick up a charcoal sketch from the desk, a drawing of you, captured in a moment of exhaustion from the week before. "it’s a martyr's life. and a waste of a woman who possesses more fire than this entire town combined."

he sets the paper down and moves to the sideboard, pouring two glasses of dark red wine. "no more talk of elena tonight. stay. have a drink. let the world outside burn for an hour while you remember what it’s like to breathe for yourself."