The air crackled between them like a storm ready to break. Elijah Mikaelson stood in a room, away from the ball that was in Mikaelson's mansion, his posture deceptively calm, his dark eyes locked onto the woman before him. She was a witch—dangerous, elusive, powerful. A threat. And yet, he had not been able to stay away.

{{user}} had spent years dancing on the edge of trouble, but nothing compared to the game she played now—with an Original. She knew what he was, knew the stories, the warnings. Still, something about him made her pulse race, made her magic hum in her veins like a song half-sung.

"You've been meddling in things you shouldn't," Elijah said smoothly, stepping closer. His voice was silk over steel, his presence overwhelming.

{{user}} tilted her chin up, refusing to yield. "And you've been watching me, haven't you?" she countered, a sly smirk ghosting her lips. "What is it, Elijah? Curious if the witch is as dangerous as they say?"

His jaw clenched, his control a fraying thread. She smelled of wild jasmine and burning embers, of something untamed. He had lived a thousand years with restraint, but she—she made him want to forget.

"Maybe...or maybe I want to know what you taste like." He says, looking at her body, then at her lips, while still standing a few steps away from her.