I've wanted to write this since the song came out but, what can I say, I'm a pro at procrastination. I've been working on it, on and off, for probably over six months now. It's still not perfect but here it is anyway.

Enjoy :)

"Let's get out of this town."

He says it with his thumb gently on her chin, milliseconds before he's about to kiss her. Before she's about to let him kiss her.

It takes restraint but it's worth it, just for the way her eyes flick up to his uncertainly.

She's considering it, is the incredible part.

And when she agrees, it's not a yes or a nod but a look in her eyes.

Like she knows she's going to regret it, but she doesn't care.

Caroline's eyes stutter open.

They take in the hotel room; his Henley tangled with her bra at her feet.

There's a whoosh and then his head is on the pillow beside hers, a sly smile set on his face. She takes her bottom lip into her mouth insecurely as she reaches for him; urges him closer.

"Breakfast awaits," he says smoothly, his breath cool and teasing.

She blinks, long and slow, wondering if this is real.

But he doesn't go anywhere.

She, Caroline Forbes, is entangled in Klaus Mikaelson in a penthouse suite in Spain.

His hand goes to her hair and she curls in closer to him.

"What's on the menu?" she wonders, just to hear his voice.

Nothing lasts forever. She has to memorise this.

"Eggs, bacon, croissants, O positive from the concierge…"

No wonder he's so smug. He'd had the hotel staff bleeding for her while she'd been asleep.

God, he's so bad. But, with his gleaming eyes and little smirk, she can't deny that he wears it as well as his Henleys and jeans.

Her hands slide over his taut chest as he watches her, rapt. They go to his half-undone buckle as her lips land on his throat.

"What about this?"

His hands help hers and he's on top of her as soon as the jeans clear his hips; his smile against her ear.

She closes her eyes as he pulls away the sheet, wondering how they hell she'd let it go this far. Why the hell she'd let him know she wants him just as much. What in the hell comes after this.

Nothing good, she knows. Which means she should push him away; resist the devil. But it's too late.

Not even heaven can help her now.

"Did you see it coming?"

He looks at her. She's radiant in the sunlight, topless as she tans in reflective sunglasses. It makes it even more difficult to meet her eyes.

But now he attempts it.

"I suppose. Humans are predictable. All oppression leads to a revolt. The only variable is how long it takes."

"Hmm," she responds.

He wishes he could let his mind wander to the curvature of her perfect breasts – it's only been a week and god is it a struggle to keep his skin off hers for more than a minute – but there's something about the way she'd said that.

"You think that too pessimistic?"

He thinks it rather positive, but perhaps she opines that he should've done more; gotten personally involved.

It takes her too long to reply – the blonde is usually quick as a whip to retort.

"No, actually I agree," she says carefully, throwing him for a loop. Then, the reason for her marination: "…Sometimes you see the end of something before it even begins."

He swallows. The silence after her words is deafening; the way she turns her head away almost searing.

"Do you mean us?"

It was her tone. He shouldn't ask, but he has to know. He's become obsessed, recently.

She's sent him mixed signals before, but it's different now. The way she'll draw nearer and nearer and brush her lips against his neck or moan for him to kiss her. But also, the way she'll turn away from him afterward or meet his eyes with hurt and guilt when he has no idea what he's done wrong.

She hesitates, then: "Of course not." She smiles and sits up. "We should go back, I wanna have a shower before we go into Honolulu."

"We're doomed."

"If you thought that, sweetheart," he smirks, "why did you bet half a million pounds on black?"

"Because it always looks so cool in the movies!" she points out, her eyes huge and earnest.

"No more bets," comes the announcement as he chuckles, and the blonde groans.

He's watching her, not the roulette, and her pout comes with a soundtrack of a room full of empathetic moans when the ball lands on 21 red.

She turns to him with even bigger eyes.

"I'm sorry I lost all your money."

He shrugs, nearly breathless with relief.

"I have to confess," he whispers into her ear, ignoring all the eyes on them, "I won. I was praying for red." He feels the confusion in the straightening of her spine. He moves his hand so it's fingering the delicate part of her perfect skeleton. "If it had landed on black, that would've meant an entire night here. Instead now I get to take you up to our room and do my best to cheer you up."

Her breath hitches and it sends a thrill through his body. Each time he wants her afresh; as if he'd never had her before, except now there is the added benefit of knowing it's not one-sided, not anymore.

Her jaw squares stubbornly, though.

"You don't pray."

He's addicted to her; the way she can cut him down in a second.

"I do for you," he breathes.

The crowd has grown tired of waiting now and they're yelling encouragement at her to continue playing but her eyes round, stuck on him. They may as well be in an empty room.

Except, when she grabs his hand and pulls him away, it's undoubtedly from something. She doesn't spare the room a glance or a thought as she tugs and leads; draws him to her.

She doesn't spare the room a glance but he knows. Choosing him, she's choosing him.

They're upstairs in a flash and she's pulling him to her, up against the door to their hotel room.

His hands are everywhere; his mouth at her throat. Never in his life has he felt more desperation than that of wanting the taste of her skin; craving her pulsing heat.

"Klaus," she measures out, a hand to his chest.

It takes a second to process, his mind is spinning. But then he stops and draws back. He's always ready; always waiting. For the moment she will decide she has had enough of him.

But that's not what she says.

"Promise me something."

He blinks. "Anything."

"Say you'll remember me."

"What?"

She could've quoted scripture to him and it would've surprised him less.

"Just do it. Promise. Say you'll remember me."

He wants to ask better follow-up questions but suddenly she's pressed herself to him, her arms wrapped around his neck as she looks up at him expectantly, like these two words will fix everything.

He'd had no idea anything was broken.

"I promise," he says to calm her; a tunnel, he hopes, to more.

But then she's kissing him and pulling him into the room and he's lost to her; lost.

She would hate herself.

But the thing about hating yourself is that you have to know who that is, and she genuinely has no idea who Caroline Forbes is anymore.

Caroline Forbes falling for – falling for the bad guy. The worst guy. God, if her friends could see her now.

She would hate herself, for saying that to him. For, god, the way his eyes had gone wide and he'd lost his breath and she'd felt like an insecure little girl; an absolute maniac. She would hate herself, but she can't. Despite the shame at having asked, his promise is what rings louder in her head. Two little words that make all of this better.

She's falling for him. But he won't forget her.

She closes her eyes and repeats it to herself.

She's knocking back a margarita.

Her manicurist just left and now she heads toward where he's perched, skipping a little for her drying toenails. A Vogue magazine hangs limply from her hand.

"Know where I've always wanted to go?"

He shakes his head. "Tell me."

"Milan," she grins, the sun behind her teeth.

He winces.

"…Then we'll go."

She looks at him strangely for a moment before resuming the mega wattage.

"Yay!"

She's moving back away but he grabs her. A little too roughly – the magazine flutters to the terrace floor.

"Not just yet."

She frowns. It's not just the contact. They'd been jetting off on less than a whim for days now. He'd never stopped her before – usually he got too high on her enthusiasm.

But… if he'd thought he was obsessed before, he was wrong.

He keeps thinking about it; playing it through his mind. He'd even asked his sister, but she'd been of even less help than usual.

Blood hell, Nik, just ask her. do you really think just because I don't have plumbing between my legs, I know what every woman means when she opens her mouth?

"Tell me."

Her tanned skin sets off her freshly pastel pink nails in his grasp and it's where her eyes go before returning to him.

"Klaus – "

"Don't," he warns.

She turns her head away, swears into the ether, before ripping her hand away from him. She moves but it's just to the balcony.

He stands; nears.

"I'm not under any delusions," she starts, her tone all jagged edges.

If this is supposed to mean something, it's lost on him.

She seems to read this from his silence and struggles with herself for a moment.

"…God, I don't know what you want."

"I want you to explain."

"What?"

"What you said!"

At his raised voice, she finally makes eye contact with him; finally really looks at him, with that fire behind her eyes he's addicted to.

"I thought it was pretty self-explanatory."

His jaw hardens. This is why he'd rather gone to his sister – he'd known this wouldn't go well. Each time he attempted getting into Caroline's mind, she pushed him further away than ever.

"Remembering someone implies that at some point they will be gone," he growls through his teeth.

Her glance skates over him and there is that hurt expression again, the one he has no idea how he causes.

She walks away but stops shy of re-entering the house. Like she'd just wanted not to be looking at him anymore.

"Like I said, I'm not under any delusions."

He approaches. "You don't know what you're saying."

She scoffs. "Seriously, Klaus? You've lived a thousand years. You really expect me to believe I'm different to all the other women? I know what this is, I know it isn't built to l–"

"Don't," he growls into her neck, his hand on her hip. "Don't."

He listens. To the silence and the beat of her heart and the little breath she exhales, empty of the word, the lie, she'd been about to utter.

They stand like that, for a few seconds, and then she moves away again.

"I'm gonna pack."

He watches her through the terrace doors as she methodically places their things into suitcases and forces himself not to break down. Forces himself to believe that this is good. It's good.

If her fear is him leaving her, that he can do something about. That he can prevent.

He's in control.

Everything is fine.

The levee had broken.

She'd begged him not to push but he had, and now the parasite is outside as well as within. It's no longer just eating at her brain – now it chews at her skin and she's infected him with it, too.

She'd ruined the perfect illusion. Now he looks at her like can see right through her. She hates it. She hates that he knows.

She pours both drinks then heads out to the garden.

He's on the antique-looking swing, stoic in the moonlight. She holds the scotch out to him and his smile is so surprised and genuine, god, it breaks her heart. He's touched she would bring him a drink.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," she smiles quickly, immediately breaking eye contact and sitting down.

The quiet of the night is a blanket around their shoulders, so heavy she can barely move.

"I wish I understood you," he says after too long, his voice low yet light.

"That's funny," she says, taking a gulp of her vodka, "I feel like you understand me too well."

He's silent again and she sneaks a peek, catching the side of a sad smirk.

"This is the first real conversation we've had since leaving Mystic Falls three weeks ago and I have no idea what you just said."

She'd smile if she weren't so fearful of being forced to explain what she meant. Instead she places down her glass then cautiously moves over to him. The swing moves a little but she manages to get right up against him.

He's receptive. He puts his arm around her and pulls her closer and she feels relief as she moves to settle her lips in his neck, but he cranes away.

"No."

For a moment she forgets how to breathe. He's never rejected her before.

But his hand comes up to caress her face.

"I just want to hold you," he explains, his cool breath reminding her how to breathe. "You never let me hold you," he whispers with a frown.

It's true. She always pulls away; always says she has to pee; always forgot her phone or has to re-apply her lipstick.

But now she settles beneath his arm then decides it's not enough and lays on his chest. He wraps an arm around her, bringing her impossibly closer, and she brings her knees and feet up onto the swing too.

She listens to his heartbeat as he lays kisses in her hair.

God, it feels good. It feels way too good.

God, this is going to crash and burn. Crash so hard and burn way too fast.

She thinks of his words.

I wish I understood you.

"Klaus, we aren't going to last."

He heaves a sigh and she's not exactly thrilled she'd interrupted the perfect moment either. But the parasite is there and he has to understand that. He has to understand that their days are numbered.

"I thought you were supposed to be the optimist?"

She can't help it, that makes her smile.

"Guess you're rubbing off on me."

There's another silence and then he's rubbing at the bare part of her shoulder with his thumb. It's so comforting it almost makes her forget.

"Why are you so sure?"

She closes her eyes, terrified to admit the truth.

"Because I have to be," she whispers.

If she lets herself believe in anything else for even a second, she's doomed. Doomed to believing in them. Doomed to having her heart shattered. God, he'd made her stop breathing with just a word – how much harder would it be to pick herself up if she actually let herself believe?

She refuses to be that girl. The stupid girl who believed the big bad really loved her.

She waits for him to reply but he only wraps her up in himself tighter and she keeps her eyes closed, breathing; taking it in.

Nothing lasts forever. She has to memorise it all.

He stops breathing.

She's staring out over Paris, the breeze drifting through the tendrils of her hair as the setting sun's rays stain her fanned dress.

She's perfection, she truly is.

She catches sight of him and turns a little, her red lips twisting into a smile. It's earnest yet her eyes tell of something else. She's keeping something from him, has been for a while, and it has him most obsessed of all.

"You're stunning," he whispers into her neck after he's sped up to her.

She turns so she's facing him. She's glowing and he thinks he's the luckiest man in the world.

"Paris is stunning."

"You're supposed to say, 'You're dashing too, Klaus'," he teases and she giggles.

He adores the sound. It moves his hand to her rosy cheek, brushing lightly as her smile falls away.

"…I want you to know I don't regret it."

"Regret what?"

"Any of it," she breathes, her tone wistful in a way that darts fear into his heart. "The past month has been the best month of my life." Her hand wraps into his. "No matter what happens, I don't regret it."

He doesn't know how to respond.

He may be in control of the situation but he's never been able to control her. That used to be what drew him to her. Now it's causing dread because it means she can draw herself away from him.

"Klaus," she says, small and soft.

An icy hand grips his heart – he's certain and terrified she's going to say those four words again, but it's a different set of them she mouths.

And, for a quick petrifying second, he thinks it's Do you love me? but when she comes closer he realises it was Make love to me.

His heart quickens but their tongues collide too quickly for him to fall into a flat-out panic. It's good she makes him stop thinking, otherwise he'd be too caught up to pull apart her dress the way he does. Or drop her garters and underwear, followed shortly by her heels.

The way she moans draws his mind away and her skin on his makes him forget, for a few moments. She has him bare and vulnerable too quickly – how typical of her – and then she's pulling him closer and all the way inside her. He's not thinking when they groan together and her neck falls back as he sucks her ample breasts into his mouth.

He's thinking about her and this – only this – when her hips quicken and she's panting words into his ears that make no sense. If she tells him to remember her, he's too far gone to make it out.

Flawless, she's flawless. That's what he's thinking when she brings her mouth back to his and sucks his lower lip into her mouth. When she flirts her tongue beneath his fangs and whimpers as he pushes deeper into her, so damn close. He's not thinking about what she said; what he'd thought she'd said. He's not thinking about what any of it means.

Because as he lets go, releases, his mind is too filled up with yes.

Yes, he loves her.

Caroline swallows.

She's looked at this every which way; tried to make every excuse.

Just another day.

It's just your paranoia because your dad left your mom.

Maybe it won't hurt as much as you think it will.

But then her fingers release, letting the card land on the bed. Remember me, it says in her angular handwriting. She remembers seeing his for the first time. Save me a dance, it had said. A promise of more. Hers is a promise, too. A promise that their happiness can stay – preserved, untouched.

If she walks away, she never has to lose it. She never has to be walked away from.

She swallows again when her hand is on the doorknob. He's out collecting tickets to the opera. It's a show she wants to see. With him.

That's the problem. She wants to see everything with him.

But this one. Just this one.

Just another day.

She hesitates.

Klaus wakes up wincing.

The sunlight coming in through the window is too harsh, reflecting off the blond tresses beside him.

He stares at her naked form for a few seconds before rolling over and checking his phone.

He throws his feet off the bed; sits up. Rubs his face.

"It's time to go," he mutters.

She's off the bed in seconds; dressed in another two. She doesn't make eye contact before she leaves, just bows her head a little, blond hair swinging. He winces and reaches for the bottle of scotch on the bedside table.

He takes a long swig before, for the thousandth time, scrolling to her name in his contacts list. Caroline, it glows, and he clicks dial.

But hope can't make a number come back into connection.

He goes to his picture library. There she is, in a bikini at the water's edge, smiling back at him over her shoulder. The periwinkle of her eyes gleam at him, brighter than the ocean, and he presses his eyes shut.

Say you'll remember me.

Fuck, there's no way he could forget. There's no way he'll let himself. But she'd run; she was still running.

Until he finds her, for now, he'll make do. For now he'll pretend.