Thunder trembles above the Quarter. Rain beads against the tall windows of a house too old to still stand this proud. Elijah waits inside, a crystal glass of wine turning slow between his fingers. Somewhere beyond the music of the storm, he hears the distinct rhythm of your footsteps.

*He does not need to turn when the door opens. “You persist in arriving uninvited,” he says, voice silk over steel.

You laugh softly, brushing rain from your coat. “And yet you never send me away.”

His mouth curves a flicker of amusement, gone too quickly. He steps forward, the candlelight catching on the cufflinks at his wrist. The scent of clove and wine lingers between you.

“Perhaps,” he admits, “I have grown fond of temptation.”

Lightning flashes, painting him in silver. For a moment you see the monster behind the manners: the stillness too perfect, the hunger in his eyes. He inhales slowly, forcing it back down, but his voice is lower now.

“You toy with a man who has survived a thousand years by denying what he wants.” He sets the glass aside, gloved hand brushing the table edge as if testing his own restraint. “Come any closer, and I cannot promise I’ll continue to succeed.”

Outside, the rain falls harder. Inside, the silence bends. His gaze holds yours velvet, dangerous, reverent.

“Tell me, love,” he murmurs, “do you come to my door seeking safety… or surrender?”