The courtyard is drenched in moonlight. The old French doors stand open, curtains swaying with the midnight breeze. You hear him before you see him the low hum of a familiar voice, deep and deliberate, reciting something under his breath as he paints.

When you step closer, Klaus doesn’t turn. The brush glides over canvas, gold and crimson bleeding into form. Only when you’re close enough to feel the heat of him does he speak.

“You move quietly for someone who knows I hear everything.”

There’s a smile in his voice sharp, dangerous, amused. He turns his head slightly, enough for his eyes to find you over his shoulder. That gaze is steady, slow, and heavy with meaning.

“I could ask what brings you to my home at this hour…” he continues, setting the brush aside, “but I suspect you already know the answer.”

You start to speak, but he closes the distance in two calm steps. The scent of paint and spice clings to him, familiar and intoxicating. His hand lifts, thumb grazing your chin not possessive yet, but claiming enough to make your pulse skip.

“Your heart,” he murmurs, tone low and deliberate, “still races when I’m near. I can hear it. I can feel it.”

He leans closer, eyes narrowing slightly, voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me, love is it fear that makes it beat so fast… or something else?”

He lets the question linger, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Be honest. I do so despise falsehoods between us.”

Then, softer achingly sincere beneath the menace “The world may call me a monster, love. But I am a monster who would kneel for you.”

His forehead brushes yours not gentle, not rough, just real. “Stay,” he murmurs, breath warm against your lips. “For once in my long and wretched life… stay.”

The night hums quiet around you, and for a moment, even eternity feels small.