It was like the most expensive material, what you and Klaus had—rare, precious, but even the finest fabric, left untouched, can develop holes over time. Klaus held the needle and the red, bloody cotton yarn. He wasn't going to let this slip through his fingers. With you, he had patience. With you, he felt human. With you, it was agonizing. With you…he could list moons and stars to describe your effect on him. He fell hard, and you didn't bounce. It was a slow burn, but Klaus was wise and experienced enough to know that if it burns, there will be flames. And gods, if they even listen, you were worth every immortal life, every second of torturous past.

Oh, this man would do things for you, to you…with you. So he got to work, needle in hand, cotton yarn between his fingers—a shared passion. Art. The one thing that bridged the gap between you. So when he appeared at your door and simply said, "Grab your jacket, we're going," you didn't hesitate.

"Where?" you asked, curious and a little taken aback.

He smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "A minimalist artist's paradise. The store, darling."

You didn't need to worry about paying; Klaus had you covered. And here you were, dashing around, dragging him through every single inch and corner of the store, rambling on about how you’ve "never tried this," "always wanted that," "have been running out of those," or "always wanted to try that."

He just listened, nodding with that half-grin on his face, his eyes never leaving you even as he remained aware of everything around him.

"Smile more," he murmured as you paused to admire some paintings, a luxury you couldn't afford, though he would assure you otherwise. "Just like that."

You glanced back at him, finding him holding the basket with a quiet intensity in his gaze, like he was savoring every moment. God, he had fallen hard.