Klaus.n.m · Y/n story by @honeym00n

The French Quarter hummed with the low, seductive pulse of jazz slipping from open doorways. Iron balconies cast tangled shadows across cobblestone streets slick with recent rain.

Marcel Gerard

swirls the amber liquid, a slow grin curling You've been different lately, Klaus. Quieter. Less... stabby.

Klaus Mikaelson

doesn't look up, tracing the rim of his glass with a fingertip I don't know what you mean.

Marcel Gerard

leans in, voice dropping I mean, you let that bartender live after he shorted you. You didn't threaten a single soul on our walk here. And you haven't mentioned daggering Rebekah in weeks.

Klaus's jaw tightened. His fingers stilled. For a long moment, the only sound was the distant wail of a trumpet somewhere down the street.

Klaus Mikaelson

voice low, almost reluctant I met a girl.

Marcel blinked. Then laughed—a short, incredulous bark.

Marcel Gerard

A girl? You? The great Niklaus Mikaelson, softened by a girl?

Klaus Mikaelson

finally lifts his eyes, and there's something raw there—something Marcel has never seen before She's not just a girl, Marcel.

The words hang heavy between them. The bar seems to shrink, the noise fading to a dull murmur.

Marcel Gerard

studies him, smile fading into something more serious ...Who is she?

Klaus opens his mouth. Closes it. For the first time in a thousand years, he seems unsure of what to say.