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CHAPTER FIVE YOU'RE A TEASE
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Atlas stepped out onto his porch a few weeks later, a full watering can in his left hand, and immediately felt the toe of his shoe hit something hard. Glancing down with a frown, his eyebrows shot up when he saw a small potted plant on his porch. It certainly wasn't one of his own, because it was bursting with blue dahlias, and a note was sticking out of it, attached to a small metal pole sticking into the soil. Adjusting the watering can, Atlas kneeled down and pulled the metal note holder out of the soil, flipping the note up to read it. On it, scrawled in fancy script, was an address and the word tonight, though a time hadn't been provided. The sender hadn't left a name, but Atlas didn't need one. There was only one person he'd planned a date with. Suddenly realizing those plans were very real, Atlas abandoned the thought of watering his plants in favor of picking up the pot and escaping back into his house.
He paused once he was in the foyer, wondering where in the world he should put the flowers. He thought of putting on gloves and burying them in his garden, but ultimately decided a part of him wanted them closer than that. He twisted on his heel and headed for his room instead, approaching the large windows that let in plenty of sunlight. On the window pane were other indoor plants he took care of. Atlas set the pot of purple dahlias in the remaining space on the edge, tugging the metal note-holder out of the soil and tossing it in the trash. Then he studied the note some more, running his thumb across the edge, taking in the neat calligraphy. A small smile pulled at his lips, then it dimmed as nerves quickly followed it, his stomach churning uncomfortably. An entire night alone with Klaus Mikaelson was something Atlas hadn't really thought of when he'd agreed to having dinner with him, and he wondered if he would even be able to make it through the food itself.
The smart part of him was telling him that this wasn't a good idea. That Klaus, just for his bloodthirsty background and his animosity when he'd first arrived in New Orleans, was bad news. It would be smart of Atlas to contact him now—surely, Marcel had his number—and cancel their date. He should put distance between them, stick by Marcel's side, and forget about all the flirtations and smiles. But a bigger part kept remembering the tension that seemed to be around them whenever they were close. He remembered how his eyes had latched onto the arch of Klaus's throat, the sound of his loud laughter after Atlas had made that silly dog joke, and the way Klaus had lounged on that bench in the middle of the street. Atlas groaned out loud and swiveled toward his bed, falling face-first on his freshly-made bed. The note that had been attached to the flowers was still in his hand, and he turned his head to rest his cheek against the bedspread as he looked at it again.
He flipped it over on the off chance that Klaus had added something else on the back of it, but the small white notecard was blank. Pursing his lips, he left it on the bedspread and raised himself up. His cellphone was on his bedside table, attached to the charger. He hadn't checked his notifications yet, so he unplugged it and brought up his contact list. He had a sudden very strong urge to call Marcel and ask for advice, but then he paused, his nose wrinkling. What could he even say? He was sure many already suspected that they had a flirtation, at least—a lot of people had been eavesdropping on their conversation during the masquerade party—but how could he even approach the subject to Marcel? It wasn't like he could call him up and say, Hey, your adoptive dad and sire asked me on a date, what should I wear?
