Hello, all!

Thank you for the support! If you haven't seen the 1947 black and white movie, it's worth watching! This fic won't be very long. I'm thinking four or five chapters, to wrap it up. I have other completed and in-process stories, if you'd like to check those out, too.

Happy reading,
Jenn

The morning sun streamed through the French doors that led to the balcony. The one thing Caroline disliked about how the house was situated was having the sun's rays flood through the room at the crack of dawn. She sat up and stretched, taking in the pastel colors of the clouds, then went downstairs to brew coffee.

A little later in the morning, after she'd dressed, she was emailing Elena on her laptop, when there was a knock at the door.

Who knows I'm here? Besides Mr. Dono- er, Matt?

Cautiously, she made her way to the front door and looked through the peephole. When she saw the person on the other side, she breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door without reservation.

A woman about her same age was there, with thick, curly, brunette hair and a complexion that was darker than Caroline's. She had on casual attire, jeans and a tank top with a loose cardigan that hung off her thin frame. Her jewelry was dainty and blended perfectly with her bohemian chic style. Both of her hands were in her back pockets.

"Hello," Caroline politely greeted the young woman.

"Hi, there! I'm Bonnie. I'm sorry to intrude on your morning, but I wanted to come by and see the person who took over for my grams!"

"I'm sorry, I- your grams? Who- oh, wait," Caroline said with sudden comprehension. "Was your grandmother the person who turned in the keys? Was she the caretaker?"

"Oh yeah. For, like, most of her life! We're thrilled she's retiring. None of us knew why she didn't quit years ago, but she insisted that her job wasn't done! And then, poof! She's told that her services are no longer needed and she happily abandons the position that she obsessed over for years!"

It was all a little much to absorb, so Caroline smiled and invited the pretty brunette to enter.

"Can I?" the girl paused at the doorway, clearly uncertain about stepping inside. "My Grams was always so strict, when it came to her work. No one, besides her, was allowed to visit this place, much less go inside."

"Yeah, of course you can come in! I'm the caretaker, now," the blonde shrugged and walked further into the house. "She left the door unlocked, you know."

"What?" Now it was Bonnie's turn to be confused.

"Your grandmother? Grams?" Caroline walked back to the kitchen, needing some water and preparing to play the good hostess. "She left the door unlocked. It's how Matt Donovan was able to show me the house. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? Tea?"

Bonnie was quiet, so Caroline turned back to see her. The poor girl looked upset.

"No, thanks," she finally replied. "I'd like to sit down, though, if that's okay."

"Of course! Let's sit in the living room. Really comfortable chairs."

The two backtracked and each took a seat in the forest green wingbacks.

"Grams had kind of a weird love-hate thing going on with this place," Bonnie started. "She never missed a shift. Never. No vacations, no sick days, nothing. There was one time she was hospitalized, but she checked herself out and came here to do her weekly cleaning. You'd think that she was either terrified of the consequences or obsessed with doing her job. She seemed scared of one of us finding our way here, but she wasn't worried about herself. Her mind isn't as sharp as it used to be – we think it may be the beginnings of dementia – but, in some ways, she's more…focused? I asked her, once, if anyone was going to come back and live here, and she said that the home was protected. Whatever that meant."

"Protected?"

"That's the word she used, yeah. Maybe that's why she felt she could leave the door unlocked? I don't know."

Caroline noticed the engagement ring on Bonnie's finger. And the symbolic item somehow reminded her of an important part of their introduction.

"I'm Caroline, by the way," she supplied.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" the young brunette placed her right hand against her chest in embarrassment. "I was so excited to meet whoever it was that moved in, and then I was excited to be invited in, and I completely forgot to ask!"

"No, I should have introduced myself sooner. Are you married?"

Bonnie looked down at her left hand, sitting in her lap, and she rolled the band between her thumb and pinky finger of the same hand.

"I'm engaged. Enzo and I met in college," she smiled. "We'll be getting married in March of next year."

"That's sweet. Enzo? That's an unusual name."

"It's short for Lorenzo."

"Italian?" Caroline guessed.

"Originally, but he grew up in London, so he just sounds British."

"Nice," the blonde smirked.

"And you?"

Caroline tilted her head.

"You're married?" Bonnie clarified, pointing towards the rings on the other woman's finger.

"Oh…yes," Caroline answered, while looking at the very rings in question. "I mean, I was. My husband died a little over a year ago."

"I'm so sorry, Caroline." There was an awkward pause, a situation that Caroline had faced many, many times. It was the moment when the other person in the conversation wanted to ask more questions – what happened? How old was he? Was it sudden? – or move onto another topic. Bonnie stood and walked around the room, clearly choosing to move away from the sensitive subject. "So, these paintings… there's so many!"

"Yep," the pale-skinned woman agreed. "They're all over. I can't tell if this house was owned by an artist or by an art collector. Most of them have one of two names at the bottom. Do you want a tour?"

"Sure!"

The rest of the morning was spent visiting and wandering the rooms, taking in the paintings and each giving their opinions about them. Bonnie offered to take Caroline to lunch in town, and Caroline happily agreed.

This is nice, to have a friend that only knows me.

Caroline sat in Bonnie's red coupe, listening to music that topped the charts decades ago.

"My mom loved Whitney Houston," the driver explained. "It's what I grew up listening to, and now I love it, too!"

"I love your car, Bonnie! This is nice!"

"Thanks! It was a college graduation present from Grams!"

They arrived at the quaint bistro that Bonnie raved about and were seated. As they perused the menu, Caroline tried to subtly probe about what was plaguing her mind.

"Did your grandmother have two jobs?" she casually brought up.

"Hmm?" Bonnie replied, not glancing up from the menu. "Uh, nope. Just the caretaker gig."

"Was she at the house every day?"

"Oh no," she laughed, looking up. "Not even close. She was there once a week. Tuesdays." The surprise in Caroline's face must've registered with Bonnie, because she continued. "I know, right? She was paid a boatload to clean a house once a week and be on-call for emergencies. But, hey, it paid for me and mom to go to college, for my car, and a pretty sweet life. Where can I find a job like that?"

The lunch eventually concluded, and Bonnie graciously suggested that Caroline do any shopping that she needed to do, before they set off for home. After purchasing some groceries and a few other items, they headed back to the cliffs.

"Where do you live?" Caroline asked.

"I live with my mom and Grams off Meadowlark Lane. It's the last turn-off, before Summit Road winds up to your house."

"The Michaelsons' house, actually," Caroline corrected. "But I wish it was mine!"

"No option to buy? Like, ever?"

The blonde shook her head. "No, not as far as Matt heard."

"But it's just… sitting there! There hasn't been anyone there for decades! Why would anyone hold onto a home through generations and not use it for any purpose?"

"Did your grams ever mention someone living there, in her lifetime?"

Bonnie pursed her lips and thought about Caroline's question for a moment. "Yeah, when she was quite a bit younger, there were a couple of renters, I think."

"Yeah, Matt mentioned that, too. I think his grandfather helped lease out the house."

"None of them lasted long, though," the doe-eyed driver added. "Mom said that Grams went up to the house, to check and see what was going on. When she came back home that day, Mom said Grams told her that she'd met the owner and was offered a job. She accepted, and the rest is history."

"She met the owner?" Caroline excitedly turned toward Bonnie, who kept her eyes on the weaving road.

"That's what she told Mom."

"So, who was it? Was it a man or woman, and was their last name Michaelson? Did she say what he or she looked like?"

Bonnie swallowed. That uncomfortable look fell upon her face, once more. "Grams couldn't say. She only said it was some man who claimed to be the owner. She didn't question it, and I guess my mom was too young to probe about it. And, once she was older, Grams shut her down. She said the money was good and Mom didn't need to go poking her nose in such a way that might lose her the job." Her eyes darted over to her passenger. "I got the same talk, when I asked some questions about it," she finished quietly.

Caroline bit her lip and fell silent. There was still plenty of day to enjoy, but she was uncertain how she would spend it. She wanted to ask Bonnie to stay, but she'd already taken up half of the generous woman's day. Burning out a friendship before it had time to mature was not what Caroline wished to do.

When they arrived at the Michaelson house, Bonnie remained in the car. Caroline scooted out of the passenger seat, using one graceful movement to exit with her belongings, and held open the door.

"Thank you so much, Bonnie," she gushed, "for the ride, for lunch, for letting me shop…I had such a fun time! I hope that you'll visit me, again, soon!"

Bonnie smiled and nodded, the voluminous curls bouncing attractively. "I look forward to it! Goodbye, Caroline! Be safe!"

The young widow closed the car door and stood straight, waving as Bonnie backed out and turned around to go home.

Still a few hours until sunset, Caroline thought, glancing at her wristwatch.

The pathway did, indeed, lead down to the beach, and it was a favorite pastime of the cliffside tenant to wander down and wade in the ocean. After putting away all the purchases she'd made in town, she went upstairs to change into beach-friendly attire. A taupe maxi skirt that would stretch as she walked, simple flip-flops, a white tank top, and a thin white sweater that usually fell off one shoulder. It was too windy for a wide-brimmed hat, but she wanted her hair to be restrained from blowing around her face, so she opted to secure it in a bun high on her head.

The engagement and wedding rings on her hand suddenly felt heavy. She brought her left hand up to her face and stared at the bands. One week. I only had him for one week. The deep breath she took released something within her. She removed both rings and placed them in the jewelry box on top of the dresser.

It was like feeling naked and free, simultaneously. It was shame and victory, not wearing the rings. She'd worn them as a duty, to be the virtuous grieving widow, while staying with her late husband's brother. And then it became a part of her. Wake up, brush teeth, put on rings.

Not anymore. Move on, Caroline.

"Is this what Stefan would've wanted?" Damon had asked her. Even if it was disingenuous and meant only to slight her… she couldn't help but wonder.

Yes, Damon. This is exactly what Stefan would've wanted. Because, if the situation was reversed, I hope that Stefan would be able to find happiness without me.

She made her way out of the house, locking everything up behind her, and carefully walked down each stone and wooden step that led to sea level. The shoreline was mercifully quiet and empty. Sunset was upon the little town of Rebecca Bay, so most of the excitement was done for the day. There were a few other solitary figures. Some sitting in the sand, some also walking near the water. About two hundred paces or so ahead of her was a middle-aged couple. She stopped walking, at that point, and stepped into the salty Atlantic, to feel the cold water splash against her ankles. The hem of the long skirt would dampen, as well, but it was worth the sandy mess it would be come nightfall.

The sun took its time to set, and the surf began to ebb further from where she'd originally stood. When the water barely touched her toes, she'd step forward to once again immerse her feet in the ocean. It was chilly, with the wind whipping her loose top and seeping through the knit fabric.

Deep breaths. It was her meditation, staring out onto the glistening waters. Can Stefan see me like this, wherever he is?

At the first sign of starlight, she began her journey home. Her sandals and skirt held onto as much wet sand as possible, and the trek back up the cliff was a workout on its own. And Caroline loved every minute.

It was as if the house and its location were made specifically for her.

Or someone like her.

She kicked the crusted flip-flops onto the porch and unlocked the front door. Before she walked through, she gathered the bottom of her skirt into one hand. It was still slightly damp, but most of the sand had brushed off from the friction of hitting her legs. She locked the door behind her, as normal, and climbed the stairs to the second story.

The master bedroom felt particularly inviting, after a turn on the beach. She methodically removed the skirt without letting any of the soiled hem touch the ground and it was thrown in the hamper, to be dealt with later. She took off the sweater and threw it in the laundry bin, as well. The white tank top, with the built-in shelf bra, was comfortable enough to wear to bed, although it would be a little cold. She chose a pair of cotton pajama pants to add some warmth, even though the comforter would more than make up for the tank top. A pair of fuzzy socks completed her ensemble, and she headed back downstairs.

It was the kind of autumn night that called for ramen and a glass of white wine. Caroline lamented, for the hundredth time, that there was no television in the home. Luckily, she had her laptop. She watched a favorite of hers, a classical Broadway musical, and then she finished the email to Elena that had been unexpectedly interrupted by the arrival of a new friend.

She smiled, thinking of Bonnie. The conversation between them was almost effortless. She hoped that they would become closer in the years to come, assuming she and Enzo remained in Rebecca Bay.

After her typical nightly routine of washing her face and brushing her teeth, she removed the scrunchie from her hair and let the salty wind-blown curls fall around her shoulders. She stopped at the painting on the wall of the unnamed dapper gentleman and blew him a kiss.

"See you in my dreams!"

The house was locked, the lights were out, and it was only the half-moon that lit the quiet bedroom. Caroline tucked herself into the giant bed, pulling the comforter up to her chin, as the reflection of the painting stared in her direction. She stared back into the full-length mirror, too, and wondered what the mystery man would look like in the throes of laughter. Her eyelids drooped and she felt herself float away. She knew what to expect next.

Why am I always outside the club? Why can't I ever just find myself already inside and past the bouncer?

Her dress had no fringe this time, but it was a lovely shade of rosy pink. The satin gown had the typical drop waist seen in the flapper era, and she reveled in how comfortable this particular ensemble was. The sleeves barely covered her shoulders, and the hemline was weighted by crystal beads that clinked lightly against each other with every small movement she made. The white gloves were back, as were the black stockings and shoes. She placed a hand to her hair and found that it was short and straight…and…cut?! Her eyes widened, but she confirmed that her dream self apparently chose to dispense of her long locks. When her head moved, she felt a light resistance, like something above her was waving through the air.

Is that…am I wearing a feather? Oh geez…

The door waited for her to knock. For the first time, she contemplated leaving altogether. What would the consequences be? What if she turned on her heel and sought to explore a different area? But if she turned away, would her two friends follow? And, if she stood them up, would her imagination punish her by taking them away? She took a breath and knocked.

The dutiful doorman slid the mechanism to peep through and ask her the same question as before. She went through the motions and gained access. As always. She touched her hair nervously, as she walked into the club and straight toward the booth where her dream companions would be.

It was so similar, each time, that she was thrown off to see Rebecca dancing to the quick tempo of a familiar tune. Caroline had heard it before, but she couldn't think of where. Rebecca was back to wearing the lavender dress from the first time they'd "met." The man she danced with was no one that Caroline recognized. Just another mannequin…a fixture in the dreamscape.

She passed the dance floor without hesitation and made her way to where he sat. This time, solo. And wearing a cream-colored suit with a dark brown tie. He watched Rebecca with amusement. His flickered over to Caroline, as if he could sense her. He smirked and held her gaze, as unbothered as ever.

Did she feel a breeze? Indoors?

Rebecca must have been clued into her arrival as well, because she yelled her name above the raucous band…playing the Charleston. That was the name of it. Caroline shyly waved and then continued toward her date.

"Hello," she started. The music still swelled behind her, drowning out her voice.

The gentleman nodded, as if he'd actually heard her greeting. He then motioned for her to sit. Caroline obeyed and slid into the booth with graceful movement. Her nerves bundled up inside her, and the result was that she ended up chattering away about everything and anything.

"I can't believe it took me so long to remember the name of this song! I mean, the Charleston! I think pretty much everyone knows it. I learned it for a high school dance. We did this decades theme. And I was a pretty good dancer, in my time, too. I started when I was three, with tap and ballet at a local studio. The Charleston's not that hard," she blabbed. Her companion placed an arm around her and cocked an eyebrow at her lack of restraint. "I swear, I'm so thankful this is a dream. I'm not usually this ridiculous. But this is all so strange! I'm in a decade I never lived in, with people I only know from pictures on the wall, and wishing that-" her prattle was halted by a sudden, gentle finger to her lips. When he pulled the pointer finger away, his hand moved to cup her chin.

Her eyes closed, then they opened to see that he was now looming over her. Staring down at her. But that wasn't right…and the room was darker… She closed her eyes, again, and she was back in the booth. He no longer held her chin; instead, he was completely focused on the dance floor.

There was silence in the speakeasy, and Caroline looked toward the bandstand, too. Rebecca was there, whispering to the pianist and winking towards the occupied booth. Then, the strains of "It Had to Be You" began to play.

He smiled triumphantly and immediately set out to escort Caroline to the floor.

They danced and she let herself pretend that it was more than a dream. She hummed along with the movement, enjoying the feel of his warm, strong body against her thinner frame.

The club shimmered and then blurred around her. Her partner, too, disappeared from sight. She closed her eyes and shivered. There was a chill in the air. When she opened them, she was in bed, lying down. She sat up and noticed that the double doors to the balcony were open.

That wasn't possible. She never left them open. When she looked to her left, toward the door that led to the hallway, there was a man. Not any man, but him. He was in her home!

He looked quite serious, and he no longer had on the cream-colored suit. His attire was casual. It was hard to see in the dark, even with the sliver of moonlight that did its best to illuminate the room, but it looked like he had on a long-sleeved shirt of some kind and jeans. Very unexpected.

"Hello," she said into the void.

He paused, hesitating. But he did take a step toward her, as she sat in bed. He wouldn't answer, of course. He never-

"Hello," he said back, with a British accent. London, perhaps? She wasn't sure.

"So, he finally speaks," Caroline teased. "And of course you'd have an accent. My weakness! I was talking to Bonnie, and she told me her fiancé had one. It's not surprising I'd imagine you with one, as well!" He looked amused, and, not having to be fearful of a figment of her imagination, she continued. "I think I prefer you in a suit. Sorry, now that you can speak, what's your name?"

He knelt down to look her in the eye. She glanced down to his jaw, where she could see the faintest trace of stubble. Odd…he was always clean-shaven, before…

"You may call me Klaus," he slyly smiled.

The scent of him enveloped her. He smelled like the woods, a unique musk that was heady and arousing. It was too real…it was too real…

"I guessed right," she smiled back.

"Sleep now," he ordered. His eyes stared deep into hers. For the briefest moment, his pupils seemed to constrict. "We'll speak, again, soon."

But she was already asleep. She was dreaming…

Her eyelids became heavy, and she leaned back to fall upon the mattress. A single hand came to cradle her neck and soften her descent. Her head soon rested back against the pillow. Then, there was nothing.

Niklaus stared down at the stranger in his home. In his room. In his bed. Coming home to Rebecca Bay was usually an uneventful affair. His caretaker often left the front door open. The house was isolated enough. And, if someone did happen to find their way to his abode, the woman he'd compelled was under strict instructions to contact him and let him deal with the matter.

There were the odd occasions, over the decades, where the property manager or lawyer suddenly felt the need to rent out his favorite home. Compulsion was a necessary evil. It was how he'd met the woman whom he'd compelled to become his caretaker. It was almost half a century ago, when he'd arrived to find that the local property manager had, once again, rented out his cliffside manor. Clearly, his orders had been muddled enough to allow for Mr. Donovan to act within the loopholes. The renter was an older man, and he'd easily convinced him to abandon the property immediately. However, mere minutes later, a young woman had driven up the cliff to check up on what had transpired. When she divulged that she, too, lived off the road that let to Rebecca Cliff, he had the sudden idea to keep her under his employ.

He was very, very careful, in compelling Sheila Bennett. From her weekly cleaning routine to how to contact him in case of emergency, he slowly went over everything that he would require her to do. It wasn't strenuous. And she would be paid generously for what little he asked of her, he would see to it.

There was the problem about keeping her healthy.

His blood could heal most injuries and illnesses, which was how he remained young and flawless; but too much would overpower the human's system and turn them into what he was…a vampire.

He gave Ms. Bennett a flask of his life-giving blood that was large enough to ensure she could have a drop a day. When he was back in town, he would stealthily sneak into her home and replace what had been depleted.

The arrangement seemed to be solid. The caretaker did her job respectfully, and, when she did lock the front door, Niklaus would use his superior strength and speed to quickly climb to the second-story balcony. There was no lock on the French doors, by his own design.

And then, he would be home.

It was one of many estates. The smallest, actually. But it was filled with memories of her, which was why he returned as often as he did. Why he loved the humble house as much as he did.

A vampire's life was rife with loneliness. Decades and centuries passed, humans died, cities crumbled, culture changed, and a vampire was forced to watch it all. To watch people and things and places they enjoyed disappear. There was always a period of time, where a vampire would set out to use their powers to sway things in their favor. But, as the eternal being soon discovered, there was nothing that they could truly hold onto.

Which was why Niklaus was a shadow in the world. He traveled and fed and had moments of fleeting happiness that would make him feel alive for a time.

The home on Rebecca Cliff was his refuge, then, when he needed it to be. He couldn't stay long, before questions would arise and the general population of Rebecca Bay would spread the word that the house was suddenly occupied. He loathed having to use his powers of compulsion to conceal himself from the temporary world around him.

But, after compelling the young Ms. Bennett and the aging Mr. Donovan, there had been no more incidents. His caretaker had dutifully carried out her work, and the property manager had respected the owner's wishes to leave the home empty.

There was no warning, then, when he'd arrived at his beloved residence to find it already occupied. No car in the driveway, when he'd driven up in his sleek black sports car. No lights on, as he'd exited the vehicle and walked up his porch. The door was locked, but that was not completely unheard of. It was when he'd alit on the balcony that it hit him: there was a new scent that permeated the air, mingling with the familiar ocean breeze.

His eyes narrowed and he prowled like a cat to the double doors. Someone was in his bed. He opened wide the doors, to let the crashing waves fully mask the sound of his boots sinking into the carpet. Not that the intruder would wake, as she seemed to be dreaming contentedly.

He stood over her, watching. She was attractive, with her long blonde hair that was tousled on the pillow. Her features were dainty, and she seemed to be rather young. She couldn't be older than her mid-twenties.

What on earth was a young woman doing, living in his house, alone?

The temptation was immediately there, at the back of his throat, to bend down and bite into her neck. He didn't need much blood to survive, as a vampire, but this was like having a gourmet meal delivered to his home. He contemplated it. He'd bite her, while keeping one hand over her mouth to muffle her scream and the other arm over her waist to keep her from moving. He wouldn't kill her. That was unnecessary. He'd compel her to calm down, then he'd order her to leave his home and find a new place to live.

She smiled in her sleep, as he organized his plan.

She is rather stunning, isn't she?

He froze, as her eyes slowly opened. Everything about a vampire's senses was heightened, and he could see her bright blue eyes as if the room was lit. She seemed to focus on him, for the briefest moment, and he stared back, awaiting her panic at seeing a strange man in her room to wake her fully.

But her eyes closed, as if she was unperturbed to have a nightly visitor.

His couldn't fathom why he was hesitating to carry out his plan to rid his home of the mortal pest.

And then she started humming. Not well, as she was still fast asleep, but it was happening. The tune was slow, disjointed to allow for her deep breaths, and none of the notes were sustained. It was a peppering of notes that Niklaus eventually recognized.

"It Had to Be You," he confirmed to himself. I haven't heard that song in ages. When was it released? 1920-something? Long before she was alive.

The humming ceased and the young woman opened her eyes and slowly sat up in bed. He froze, again, waiting for more of a reaction to gauge what to do next. She looked to her right and stared at the open doors that led to the balcony. Then she looked to her left and directly at the vampire.

Now she would react. Now she would scream.

And he waited for it, while she took him in. She looked dazed, he realized. She wasn't yet awake, after all.

My, my, what an active sleeper you are, little Goldilocks.

"Hello," she unexpectedly called out.

Intrigued, he took a step toward her.

"Hello," was all he replied with, testing her lucidity.

And then she'd let loose with a small flurry of information. He caught bits and pieces, to be mulled over later, and, despite the fact that he'd intended to intimidate her, he couldn't help but smile in amusement.

She asked for his name, and he knelt to be even closer to her.

"You may call me Klaus," he stated. He had his reasons for choosing that particular nickname.

Again, she was cheeky, telling him that she basically guessed his name. He supposed it was littered all over the home, in his various paintings.

Enough, for now, he thought. He needed time to think. He compelled her to go back to sleep, then, mostly out of some feral instinct, he'd helped her lie back down and drawn the covers over her. Her breathing indicated that she was, once again, asleep.

He stood and stared down at her, then he crossed the room to close the French doors. There were still at least a couple hours until daylight. He wanted a bed to lie on, and his was already in use. Begrudgingly, he quietly made his way to the downstairs bedroom. The one that had belonged to his sister.

Her likeness smiled at him, from the canvas that faced the bed. He hated this room. And yet, he never left the home without visiting it… to stare at the painting and remember the happy memories that it represented.

The bed was comfortable enough, and it was isolated from the problem that awaited him upstairs. He didn't need to sleep, but he appreciated the time to rest and reflect on what had just happened.

The name Bonnie… Sheila Bennett's granddaughter was also called Bonnie, wasn't she? It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility for the caretaker's family member to drive the short distance up the cliff and for her and this random woman to become acquainted.

The other nuggets of information that she'd sleepily dropped were intriguing, as well. The humming of a 1920s ballad, her comment that she preferred him in a suit, and her surprise at hearing him reply to her… he stared at the picture of his sister and found the logical conclusion.

She dreamt of me, with nothing more than my self-portrait to reference.

It told of her romantic nature, banal as the concept was to a centuries-old vampire.

Still, he didn't want to hurt her or frighten her unnecessarily. But he did want his solitude and sanctuary to be restored.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine being inside the young human's dream.

It would take place in a speakeasy. A high-profile joint with plenty of inebriated patrons throwing away inhibitions. He'd be sitting in booth where he could survey the room. The band would play music of all tempos, and his sister would be on the dance floor, enjoying each and every song with abandon. He'd sip on an expensive scotch, although moonshine and gin were much more common in the Prohibition Era.

And, as he scanned the dance hall, he'd see her.

Her long blonde locks would be cut and curled around her head to fit the times. The blue eyes that he'd only been able to catch a glimpse of would light up in excitement. An illicit club in a hideout in the middle of the city could never be dull or ordinary. Her flapper dress could be any assortment of colors. He imagined her in a crimson ensemble, with black beading that created an art deco-style design that ended with a hem of long black fringe. Her elbow-length black gloves and other accessories would be so perfectly suited to the attractiveness of the young lady that wore them.

And speaking of suits… he usually wore brown, tan, or cream, in those days. It was what he favored. But he supposed, in this instance, he could wear something that complimented the woman he currently studied. His sport coat, slacks, and vest would all be black. Light pinstriping, but nothing too pronounced. He did like to show off, but not in an ostentatious way. His shirt and tie would be white and crimson, respectively, and the last little flourish would be the golden accents of his tie pin and pocket watch chain. He could almost feel the pomade in his hair, although, like the clothing, he hadn't used it in ages.

Lucky that she had only just entered, because she wasn't yet involved in conversation with anyone.

He'd quickly make his way across the room, until he stood in front of her. She'd be a little shy, at first, but they were apparently already familiar enough in her dreams for her to speak so informally with him. Who knows what else she'd imagined them doing. Surely a dance wasn't out of the question.

"Hello, love," he said, being reminded that he didn't know her true name.

"Hello, Klaus," she replied with an open and tender expression. Perhaps he should have let her call him-

The music changed and "It Had to Be You" began to play. Not by coincidence. It wasn't a song that held any significance to him. Just a ditty from that era. Short, sweet, and easily forgotten. Now, he wanted to hear it again. He wordlessly led her to the dance floor, and she let him.

As they swayed, she hummed. He listened to words that he had memorized but never dwelled upon.

"Why do I do just as you say?
Why must I just give you your way?
Why do I sigh, why don't I try to forget?
It must have been that something lovers call fate
Kept on saying I had to wait
I saw them all, just couldn't fall, 'til we met…"

She smelled like the sea breeze that carried storms and sunshine, salt and sand. She drew him in and pushed him away, as if she was the moon and he was the tide. And when she looked into his eyes, he saw every shade of blue the ocean had to offer, from the shallow pools to the darkest depths. He held her and she held him back, quiet, secure, and comforting. And he was home.

When Caroline awoke, she immediately sat up and looked to the balcony doors. Of course, they were closed. As they were supposed to be. She stretched and moaned happily at how well-rested she felt. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. The fuzzy socks were enough to pad downstairs and make some coffee. She stopped at the painting and tried to remember what had happened in last night's dream.

We danced, as usual, but then he – Klaus? – spoke to me in this very room.

The details escaped her mind.

Perhaps we'll continue our conversation tonight, she thought, while her heart fluttered in her chest.

She grabbed the cream sweater she'd worn on the beach out of the laundry basket and threw it over the tank top she still wore. The room was chillier, than normal, but she shrugged off the discrepancy and made her way downstairs.

It took less than ten minutes for her to make a cup of joe and walk into the living room, where she would sit and listen to music on her laptop. But a strange sight greeted her. She placed the coffee on the side table between the wingback chairs and walked closer to the window. Parked out front was a black car – some sporty Audi model that looked incredibly expensive. The windows were tinted to the extent that she couldn't tell if someone was sitting inside.

Feeling exposed and unnerved, Caroline jumped back, out of view. She needed to get her phone.

When she turned around, she screamed.

A man was standing in the opposite corner of the room, close to the stairwell. He looked neither surprised nor ruffled, at her panicked outcry.

He was tall, around six feet or so. His sandy blond hair was darker than Caroline's, and the loose curls were cropped close to his head, without any product to tame them. The strong jaw was set in a serious expression and bore a shadow of a similarly colored beard. He wore a long-sleeved charcoal Henley shirt with all the buttons undone, dark denim jeans, and black boots. He looked very much like the kind of person who would drive the car that was currently parked outside. There were only two accessories that she could see: a ring with an opaque blue stone on his left hand and a brown leather band that held a pendant hidden underneath his shirt.

And the frightening part was…she recognized him. But every reasonable explanation for his being there was implausible. Unless…

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"I introduced myself last night, love," he answered. Despite the affectionate nickname, there was no warmth in his words. "It's your turn, now."

"Last night…" Caroline's brow furrowed, trying to remember, but nothing more than a dream surfaced. "Wait, you were in my room last night?!"

"My room, actually," he corrected. "My house." He brought a hand up and, with his pointer finger extended, flicked it around in a quick circle.

Caroline breathed a relieved sigh and blinked slowly. "You're the owner. Mr. Michaelson?"

"I believe I already told you to call me Klaus. And you are?"

"Caroline. Forbes."

He did smile, then, with dimples that gave him a deceivingly boyish look.

"Hello, Caroline," he said with a single nod. "May I ask, what are you doing in my home?"

"Your home?" she huffed. "You leased it out to me! I've been here for weeks!"

Klaus narrowed his eyes and folded his arms. "I did nothing of the sort, Miss Forbes."

"So, what, you want me to leave? Mr. Rich European Descendant dude needs to live in a two-bedroom house in a rural Delaware town? What, was Paris fully booked? Was London boring you? That you had to come here? Now?"

He smirked, at her tirade.

"What?" Caroline darted her eyes around the room, seeking a reason for his sudden silence. He brought his right hand up to lightly cup his chin. His finger tapped his closed lips. "WHAT?"

He chuckled. "Descendant?" he threw back at her, raising his eyebrows innocently.

"Yes," she said and stared at him in confusion. "You said your name is Klaus Michaelson. And there's a painting upstairs that looks like your twin. Your grandfather or great-grandfather, I assume?"

"Neither," he breathed out. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, as if his breath passed over the sensitive skin there. "My full name is Niklaus Mikaelson. And, although I'm pleased that you approve of the accuracy of my self-portrait, I'm afraid that we're going to have to revisit your lease."