Lucien feels it for just the briefest of moments, as he stands near the bed looking at her figure all wrapped up in a white sheet.
(It's probably Niklaus' influence he's under and nothing else. No matter how much Klaus boasts about his own ruthlessness, it's Lucien who has the capacity to be extremely cruel. The problem is Klaus cares too much about his family, not so much for himself. Lucien can love just as passionately, but the object of his affections will always be himself.)
Her blonde hair falls in subtle waves over her face, just touching her exposed shoulder. The sharp -tongued witch (in both words and action) is so peaceful now. He is aware of how much trouble he's going to be in.
(He tells her this, 'Klaus is most definitely going to kill me.' She laughs, nodding.
'He's always been overprotective of course, especially of Cami.'
'Well we weren't always like that. He despised me for quite a while.' She reveals.
'Really?' He senses a story. An interesting one.
'Yes.'
'...Go ahead,' he urges.
'You first, ' she smirks, 'What's the worst thing - no, stupidest thing, Klaus Mikaelson has done in relation to you?'
She would obviously never be easy, so he starts, 'There was this one time...')
He traces her cheek with the knuckle of his index finger, so lightly he might be stroking the air. He can see it in that moment, see himself doing this thirty years from now.
(His relationship with her will be passionate and exciting. They'll fight and make up, but be fiercely loyal to each other. She'll keep them grounded, and he'll keep them light. They'll keep each other young.)
He feels his instinctive self preservation melt away in the possibility of loving her. Of doing absolutely anything to keep her safe. He feels it for the briefest of moments, before he snaps back to reality. He does not think like that. Lucien Castle does not think like that.
(But the sudden emotion rattles him more than he likes.)
There's only one thing left to do. He quickly slips back into his clothes and makes sure he hasn't left anything else behind. She's still sleeping. He pulls a piece of paper from a pad lying on the bedside table and scrawls out, 'Goodbye, Freya Mikaelson. Hope my stamina did not disappoint.'
She'll smile at that hopefully. He wants to write 'until next time,' but he doesn't, knowing that next time could be a very long time. Maybe forever. She wouldn't care.
(And neither does he.)
He looks around one last time at her and leaves.
(This couldn't have ended any other way.)