You found him standing on the balcony of the Mikaelson mansion, the city lights of New Orleans glittering beneath the twilight haze. He was exactly how you remembered. Posture perfect, suit immaculate, eyes filled with centuries of restraint.

“Elijah,” you said softly, stepping closer.

He turned, his expression softening immediately, though his composure never faltered. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, though the words lacked conviction.

You stopped beside him, the air heavy with everything unsaid. “You mean I shouldn’t be near you.”

He exhaled slowly, gaze returning to the horizon.