Set after episode 5x11. The plot of 'The Originals'? I don't claim it.

She doesn't know it's happened, she doesn't know how it's started. She honestly wouldn't be able to explain it for the life of hers. But, somehow, it has.

One day, she was feeling watched and followed, and, the next, she had hybrid minions helping her redecorate her dorm room.

(Because, seriously—she's Caroline Forbes, and if you think you can put people to guard her without her noticing and turning them on you then you are so wrong.)

So, of course, she had to call him.

Part of her was simply annoyed that he hadn't completely made good on his promise to leave her alone (well, those weren't exactly his words... but, you know), but, if she had to be completely honest with herself, she knew that she was mostly just glad—and, ugh, how even more annoyed at him she felt because of that—to have an excuse to talk to him again.

Maybe—just freaking maybe—she wasn't so ready to say goodbye to him just yet, okay?

Humph. Whatever.

"Sweetheart,"—and oh, how she wanted to phone-punch (was that even a thing?) that smug, little smirk that she knew he had on as he spoke off that unfairly gorgeous face of his—"to what do I owe–"

"I have to say," she interrupted him with a casual, uncaring lilt to her tone, checking over her fingernails as her voice traveled through the phone line, "choosing to only send me gay bodyguards is low even for you, Klaus."

He laughed, freely and genuinely, and she couldn't suppress the smile that curved her lips at the privilege of hearing what was probably such a rare sound.

"Well, love," he sighed, almost contentedly, "I couldn't have them getting any wrong ideas, now, could I?"

She scoffed. "Of course not. I think Mark and Ray make quite the cute couple, actually. I helped them get together, you know? It only took me, like, three days, I think it's a new record."

"Caroline," he immediately stressed, sighing and sounding slightly troubled. "They are there to protect you. If they are coupling tog–"

Again, she interrupted him. With a resounding laughter, this time.

"Coupling? Is that what you call it? God, you are such an oldie."

"You did not seem to mind my experience," he teased, "when we were the ones coupling."

(Yup, he had successfully rendered her face the color of a tomato. No big deal. Ugggh.)

"Klaus! Ew."

"'Ew'?" he chuckled over the phone. "That is the impression that I have left?"

Caroline scrunched her nose up in annoyance, knowing that ew was the faaaarthest impression that he had left of himself with her that day.

(Ugh. Damn him.)

"I'm hanging up right now."

"You're the one who called."

If only looks could kill. (And if they could do so over the phone, as well.)

A grumbled, "I hate you", and then the line went dead.

–but, but, but.

She called him again a week after that first phone call, complaining about some Ikea vase that she apparently loved so much and that one of the hybrids had involuntarily knocked down to the ground, irreparably breaking it into a million tiny pieces.

("No—seriously, Klaus. How are they supposed to watch over me," she mocked, scoffed, "if they can barely walk a straight line?")

Two days later, she found a new, identical vase waiting for her inside of a fancy, brown box in front of her dorm room's door.

Cue to a roll eye.

(No. She did not smile at the sight, by the way. Nope.)

Of course, she had to call him again to say thank you—as if Caroline Forbes actually ever thanked anybody.

("You're welcome, sweetheart."

She snorted. "It was actually the least you could do.")

Day after day, call after call–

–because he was just too damn tempting, and it was so not her fault–

–she kind of just slowly stopped trying to look for excuses to talk to him altogether. She didn't need them, anyway. Her pride be damned.

Sigh.

Of course, when you give the Devil one finger, he's just going to take the whole goddamn arm of yours if he pleases.

So—

"Klaus! What the hell are you doing here?" she screeches, finding him comfortably lying down on the yellow bed placed right in the middle of her dorm room.

"You can call me every day as you wish, but I cannot even come and say hi once? I'm hurt, Caroline."

She narrows her eyes, slamming the door closed behind her with a huff.

"You promised."

"Not to come back to Mystic Falls. The sign on my way in said 'Welcome to Whitmore College'."

"Oh, aren't you clever?"

"Come on!" he laughs, leaving the bed and stealthily moving towards her. "You cannot be that disappointed to see me, sweetheart."

She rolls her eyes, walking right past him with her typical attitude.

"Whatever. But I don't have time for you, I have to study."

"Mmh. Do you, really? Mark told me your last exam of the current session was this morning."

She curses under her breath, squeezing her eyes shut. "Traitor."

He chuckles, amused.

"Do not take it personal, love. He is compelled to tell me everything that he knows about you. Unless he desires to have to tear his own heart out, that is."

"You're disgusting," she spits out, only half believing her own words.

She's trying to make sense of the mess of books currently occupying her desk, her back turned to him. His voice and his smell enveloping her, and her mind torturing her with sudden memories of that one fateful day, are already too much, without having to look at him as well right now.

Why does he have to be goddamn gorgeous, again? Because, two words: not—fair.

Too bad that they obviously have veeeery different ideas on what personal space actually means.

His breath caresses her neck as he speaks again, the warmth of his chest caging her in.

"Am I?"

"Yes," her voice shakes pathetically.

"Something tells me that you do not quite believe that," he retorts, his fingers now trailing down one of her arms, covered by the soft, hot pink material of the Christmas turtleneck sweater she's proudly donning today.

Regaining some of her self control, she suddenly turns around.

"Look, Klaus. You can't just come–"

"I know," he cuts in, his eyes so sad and dejected that the sight very nearly breaks her since long dead, unbeating heart.

(Why—oh, why—does he have to have dimples and such adorable puppy eyes? She was always meant to lose this thing that they have going on between them, let's be real.)

"I just suppose that listening to your voice on a daily basis made me realize that I was not going to be able to stay away quite as long as I probably will have to."

Her features soften at the honest admission, at the raw display of just how much he truly loves her. So much that it physically pains him to stay away from her. And doesn't she feel the same way, after all? On a lesser level, most likely, but still. Isn't it because she misses him—so very much, for God's sake—that she keeps on calling him day after day, counting down the hours to their next conversation?

Something snaps inside of her then, and, in less than a second, her soft body is crashing up against his harder one and her lips are claiming his.

He responds immediately, eagerly, his arms going around her waist and bringing her closer as his tongue makes its way past her parted lips to meet with hers.

After a few moments, she starts to drag him towards the bed, her intentions clear as her hands pull at the hem of his dark gray henley.

With a gasp, he withdraws slightly, his hands going to cover hers as they move upwards with the material of his shirt between her trembling fingers.

"Wait, Caroline. We can't do this again."

She frowns, confused and feeling the way too familiar sting of rejection settling in in the pit of her stomach.

"Why not?"

He smiles, framing her face in between his hands, his touch tender and loving.

"Because I love what we have now. I love being able to hear your voice every day, I love knowing that you feel comfortable enough to share your thoughts and emotions with me. You have no idea how much I crave to make love to you again, to feel as if you are really mine, but I would rather have things go slow than have to go back to the start afterwards. I have already made that mistake once, and I will not walk away from you again. I can't."

If she had still been human, she would have, like, one-hundred-percent fainted right then and there. Because, you know, she hasn't been breathing at all for the past few minutes or so, and her heart is beating so frantically against her ribcage that she's feeling more dizzy and lightheaded than she has in a long, long while.

But—oh, silly him.

Her fingers dig into the covered skin of his forearms, slightly bringing him closer.

"Nothing has to change," she whispers, her eyes shining into his own.

He looks taken aback, his breath hitching in his throat.

"Caroline–"

She gulps. "I care about you, too. Or I wouldn't feel the need to call you, to hear your stupid accent,"—they share a smile (but no, really, his accent is stupid, okay? Ugggh)—"every day. Or I would have probably already kicked you out. I just–" she sighs, fumbling with her own words, unsure of what it is that she's actually even trying to say right now. "I just want this," her grip on him tightens, "all the same, right now."

It's all that he needs to hear, and too much to hear, all at the same time.

She's everything—literally everything to him—and he needs her like he has never needed anything or anybody before in his centuries-long life. She needs him too, right now. And he will never really be able to deny her anything, after all, will he?

He takes her into his arms in a millisecond, her legs wrapping around his torso and locking behind his back as he swallows her high, excited squeal of surprise with his lips on hers.

Only a moment later, he's gently laying her down on her own bed, hovering over her body and looking down at her with pure, unadulterated adoration shining in his bright blue eyes, the intensity of it all leaving her paralyzed underneath him.

Her blond locks are forming a halo around her flustered face, her cheeks red and heated, her lips swollen and curved upwards in the most beautiful, most breathtaking of smiles.

Yes. She is everything.

His hands start to fumble with the hem of her sweater, impatient. He doesn't understand (yes, he does) why she insists on covering herself with such heavy clothes when vampires are unable to feel the chilly cold of December, but freeing her of her fancy garments right now is proving to be quite the challenge and he's growing frustrated.

He huffs and she laughs.

A smirk suddenly takes over his lips as he remembers just how he got rid of the problem the first time.

"For future reference, love,"—she looks up at him with a bit of confusion written over her face, too caught up in the moment (too caught up in him) to realize that he's assuming like the cocky alpha male that he is, again—"I much prefer shirts with easier access," he comments with a grin, his hands reaching up towards the long neck of her oh-so-annoying, woolen sweater.

She quickly catches up on his intentions and frowns, adorable creases marring the otherwise perfect, pale skin of her forehead.

"Don't you dare, my grandmother made this!" she chastises, cutely swatting his hands away and narrowing her eyes up at him.

His eyes widen as they meet hers, amusement and tenderness swirling brightly around his blue orbs at the seriousness of her scolding look. He looks down at her covered chest once again, for a moment, taking notice of the carefully knitted reindeer adorning the center of the sweater, and his heart can't help but swell with love towards the young blonde.

She is so completely everything that he is not, that he will never be. She is just so perfectly Caroline. It hits him then, and leaves him breathless.

He doesn't deserve her—he knows—but he's not going to question his luck. Not now, not ever. (Because he intends to keep her up until the stars die out and the sun explodes, taking the whole damn universe away with them.)

He shakes his head, his lips lowering onto hers once again as his hands trail back down her sides to the hem of her homemade, adorable piece of clothing.

"Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs against her soft, sweet mouth as she giggles lightly, the vibrations trickling off her lips and onto his own, spreading happiness throughout his whole, aching body.

The sweater ends up on the floor a moment later, still intact but now utterly forgotten, as moans start to fill up the room instead.

He is going to enjoy the holidays this year.