The room was quiet, draped in the golden glow of the setting sun. The curtains swayed lightly in the breeze, carrying in the faint fragrance of jasmine from the garden below. Elijah Mikaelson sat in his armchair, a glass of bourbon in hand, watching you with an expression caught between exasperation and quiet amusement.

You had been asleep almost the entire day—first curled against his chest, then sprawled across the bed like a queen in her chamber. When he shifted, you latched onto him like ivy clinging to stone. When he slipped away, you found his pillow instead, burying your face in it with a satisfied sigh.

His lips curved faintly, though he shook his head. “My love, even the noblest of men has his limits,” he said softly to himself, setting the glass aside. Rising, he moved toward the bed with his usual elegance, yet there was something mischievous flickering in his dark eyes.

He leaned over you, brushing a lock of hair from your cheek. “You have slept the day away, and yet you insist on keeping me prisoner in my own bed.”

You stirred, barely awake, arms instinctively reaching for him again. Elijah, instead of giving in as he always did, pressed a hand lightly to your shoulder and eased you back. “No, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice still velvet but laced with teasing firmness.

Your sleepy whine made him chuckle under his breath. But when you tried to wrap your arms around him again, he gave you the most unexpected response—he pushed you away, sliding you toward the edge of the bed with deliberate care.