Mystic Falls hadn’t changed.
That was the first thing {{user}} Salvatore noticed as she stepped into Mystic Grill, rain still clinging to the hem of her coat.
The low hum of conversation, the amber lights, the smell of bourbon and fried food—it was all painfully familiar. Almost enough to make the centuries between then and now feel like a bad dream.
Almost.
She slid onto a stool at the bar, setting her bag beside her and ordering a bourbon neat.
Some things, at least, deserved tradition.
The glass had barely touched her fingers when a slow, amused voice drifted from the other end of the bar.
“Well. Either I’ve finally gone mad, or Mystic Falls has decided to reward my patience.”
Her eyes closed for half a second.
Of course.
Of course he’d be here.
She turned on the stool, already wearing a look of bored annoyance she’d perfected sometime around the 1700s.
There he was.
Klaus Mikaelson lounged against the bar like he owned the building, one arm draped lazily over the counter, a glass of whiskey in his hand and that infuriatingly cocky grin already in place.
Same dimples.
Same smug little tilt of his mouth.
Same face that made her want to either kiss him or throw her drink at him.
Sometimes both.
“You always were dramatic,” she said, turning back to her bourbon.
“And you always were rude after abandoning people for a few centuries.”
She huffed a laugh into the rim of her glass. “Abandoning? Don’t flatter yourself. I left a town, not a man.”
“Love, we both know I’m far more memorable than this town.”
That pulled her gaze back to him.
He was watching her with open amusement, blue eyes bright with that maddening confidence only Klaus could wear without being punched for it.
Though she was still considering it.
He lifted his glass in her direction. “No hello? No gasp of delight? I’m beginning to think you don’t appreciate how rare I am.”
“Oh, I appreciate it,” she replied dryly. “There’s only one of you, thank God.”
Klaus’s grin only widened, if that was even possible.
He moved from his seat and crossed the bar with slow, deliberate steps before sliding onto the stool beside hers without invitation.
Not that Klaus had ever needed one.
“I must admit,” he said, turning toward her, “I imagined this reunion differently.”
She arched a brow. “Did your version involve me being thrilled?”
“Desperately.”
She snorted. “Then your imagination has only gotten worse with age.”
He placed a hand over his chest in fake offense. “Cruel. I’ve waited centuries for a proper insult from you, and somehow you still exceed expectations.”
That almost made her smile.
Almost.
Instead, she took a sip of bourbon and let her eyes drag over him in a way she knew he’d notice.
He looked exactly the same. Dangerous, expensive, and entirely too pleased with himself.
“Still impossible, I see,” she muttered.
“And yet you’re still looking.”
Her eyes narrowed.
His smile turned positively wicked.
God, she hated how easy this still was.
“How long have you been back?” he asked.
“An hour.”
“And you came here first?”
She sighed dramatically. “I wanted a drink.”
“And fate wanted me.”
She turned to stare at him, deadpan. “Do you hear yourself?”
“Constantly. It’s one of my favorite sounds.”
That got an actual laugh out of her, and Klaus looked unbearably satisfied with himself.
“There she is,” he murmured. “I was wondering how long you’d pretend not to enjoy seeing me.”
“Don’t mistake amusement for affection.”
“Never,” he said smoothly, leaning closer. “Though with you, the line has always been delightfully thin.”
She should have moved away.
Instead, she stayed exactly where she was, shoulder brushing his as the familiar warmth of his presence settled over her like no time had passed at all.
Mystic Falls, bourbon, and Klaus Mikaelson’s ego.
Some things truly were eternal.