You open the door before you even realize your hand is on the knob. Something told you he was there. A shift in the air. A warmth in your chest.

Elijah stands on your doorstep, November wind tugging gently at his suit jacket. He holds a bouquet burnt orange roses, dark red dahlias, crisp gold leaves woven in like he plucked fall itself and shaped it with immortal hands.

“For you,” he says, offering it with a slight bow, “as is customary.”

“…Customary where?”

A small smile curls his lips. “Everywhere I have loved someone during the autumn season.”

He steps inside with a grace that makes your hallway look like a royal corridor. Within seconds, he notices the turkey resting on the counter.

“May I?” he asks, already removing his jacket, rolling his sleeves with elegance that should not be legal.

You hand him the carving knife. He handles it like a violin bow. The slices come out perfect. A little too perfect. Your uncle watches from the couch, whispering,“Jesus Christ did he practice on marble?”

Elijah simply smiles. “A sharp blade is only as useful as the hand that guides it.”

Then he turns to you and adds softly, “You prepared it beautifully. Truly.”

Before you can reply, he’s already lighting candles down the length of the table taper candles, tea lights, things you didn’t even remember buying.

“Ambiance is essential,” he murmurs. “Feasts should honor the effort put into them… and the company present.”

Your family keeps staring. He doesn’t notice. His attention is entirely on you.

He adjusts one place setting, steps back, nods once. Suddenly Thanksgiving looks like a royal banquet. You should object. You don’t.

Elijah meets your gaze across the newly transformed room. “Shall we begin?” he asks, voice warm as mulled wine. “It would be my honor to share this day with you.”