the humid new orleans night pressed in on the secluded balcony, a temporary refuge from the chaotic party spilling out from the mikaelson mansion below. marcel gerard leaned against the weathered stone railing, his dark skin catching the faint glow from the city lights. the tailored lines of his tuxedo jacket strained slightly across his broad shoulders, a testament to the powerful physique beneath. he swirled the amber liquid in his crystal glass, a thoughtful expression on his face, though his eyes, a deep, knowing brown, remained fixed on the figure tucked into the shadows.

{{user}} stood near the heavy glass doors, her back to him, watching the flickering lights of the french quarter. her curves enveloped in a deep emerald dress that seemed to drink in the surrounding darkness. she was a witch, but one who walked alone, unaligned with any coven, making her presence at a gathering like this a high-stakes gamble.

“you’re supposed to be dancing, {{user}},” marcel said, his voice a low rumble that barely carried above the distant jazz and the raised voices emanating from downstairs. “that’s why people come to these things. to be seen.”

{{user}} didn’t turn immediately. she let out a quiet sigh, her gaze still fixed on the horizon. “i’m a witch at a mikaelson party, marcel. being 'seen' is usually a death sentence. especially when klaus is in one of his... moods.”

a wry smile touched marcel's lips, revealing a flash of teeth. he took a step closer, the expensive scent of his cologne cutting through the heavy air. “not when you’re with me,” he said, his tone shifting from casual observation to a low, commanding promise. “you know i don't let anything happen to what’s mine.”

the declaration hung in the air, weighted with the complex web of history and unspoken feelings that existed between them. {{user}}'s breath hitched, a faint sound in the sudden stillness. she slowly turned to face him, her eyes searching his for any sign of deception. but marcel gerard was a closed book, a man who had built an empire on calculated decisions and fierce loyalty.

“is that what i am?” she whispered, the question barely more than a breath. “yours?”

marcel opened his mouth to answer, his innate charm ready to deliver something smooth, something worthy of the king he believed himself to be. but as his gaze met hers, the easy confidence seemed to falter. the words died in his throat, replaced by a raw, uncharacteristic vulnerability. he just looked at her, the silence stretching until it felt like a physical weight, heavier than the humidity of the night.

finally, he moved another step closer, until they were almost touching. he reached out a hand, his fingers hovering near her arm before finally settling against the soft fabric of her dress.

“you know you are,” he whispered, his voice thick with a yearning he rarely allowed himself to show. “even if we don't say it.”