Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, golden and soft. You stood barefoot in the kitchen, hair pulled back, sipping from a mug of coffee you’d made yourself — not trusting Klaus to get it right, not trusting anyone to, really.

The compound was still and unusually quiet. For once, there was no crisis. No guests. No siblings bickering in the background.

Just you.

Until Klaus walked in.

You didn’t look up at first — you heard him, of course, the way you always did. His presence moved through the room like a shift in gravity. He didn’t speak. Just crossed to the counter silently and poured himself a drink — something far stronger than coffee.

You lifted your cup. “It’s barely eleven.”

He arched an eyebrow without looking at you. “And yet I find the urge to start drinking entirely justified.”

You didn’t smile. Not quite. But the corner of your mouth twitched.

He sat down on the couch gently. “You’ve been avoiding the study.”

“I hate that room,” you said simply. “It smells like old ambition and vampire politics.”

That earned a faint scoff from him — almost a laugh. “You could have said that before I moved your things in.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Silence again. But not awkward. Just quiet.

You took another sip, then glanced at him. “Do you even notice the things I do anymore?”

Klaus looked at you, surprised by the question. “I notice everything, love. That’s part of the problem.”

Your breath caught in your throat, but you masked it with a sip of coffee.

Then, quieter, he added, “You fold your sleeves twice every time you wear that sweater. You read the last page of a book first. You hum when you think no one’s listening. And you never stay in a room longer than you have to… when I’m in it.”

A pause.

“And every morning,” he added, his voice low, “you put exactly two sugars in your coffee before adding the cream. You stir counterclockwise. Always. And if it doesn’t taste right, you start over — without saying a word.”

You said nothing, but your grip on the mug tightened slightly.

Klaus didn’t stand. He didn’t push. Just stared at the sunlight pooling across the marble countertops.

“Just because I don’t talk,” he said, “doesn’t mean I don’t see you.”