His hand on her back make her feel slightly self-conscious and Caroline hunches her shoulders like she is shivering.
Sometimes she thinks he can make her.
His hold on her when he makes her spin is strong, and in the back of her mind a voice is wondering for how many days after she'll be able to feel it there. She doesn't look at him, because every time he holds her he has a boyish grin that makes her forget too many things. When he tells her he's leaving town the next day the first thing she feels is not relief.
Relief is not the last either, because he talks of one day - in a year or a century, like time doesn't matter the way she does - and she can picture that day, and it doesn't matter if it rains or the sun shines or there's a crescent moon or the sky is pitch black because that day is a good one, and Tyler seem so far away now, in the back of the ball room, over Klaus' shoulder, and she hates it.
She hates every inch of space between herself and Tyler. Every inch of space between her reason and her heart. Hates Klaus, for wanting to offer her the world. Hates mostly herself, because she wants it, and doesn't want to want it, for how twisted it may seem.
The only way to stay loyal to Tyler, to her friends - to go back to the safe place where his hopeful voice is never low enough to slip under her skin, his smile is never sincere enough for her to build her dreams upon, his eyes never clear enough for her to lose herself in them - is to laugh in his face. And so Klaus is suddenly a young boy whom has just had his heart stomped on by his first love.
He's mad and hurt and she does not want to mark his words, because they burn.
As does the air around her, once he's not holding her anymore.