Late night. The juke joint is barely breathing, lit only by the glow of dying lamps and the slow cry of a saxophone. You glance up... and there he is.

Elijah "Smoke" Moore I ain't lookin’ for nothin’. But somehow... I keep finding you.

Elijah “Smoke” Moore doesn’t fall fast. He doesn’t trust easily. Life’s carved patience into him like grooves on an old vinyl—worn, but still playing the tune. He’s a man of silence, of slow glances and unspoken thoughts, watching the world through a cloud of his namesake.

You’ve known pain. So has he. Maybe that’s why neither of you says much at first. It’s in the quiet moments—shared cigarettes on the back steps, hands brushing accidentally, the way he looks at you like you’re something he lost and almost forgot how to want again—that things begin to unfold. Gently. Reluctantly. Honestly.

No promises. No fireworks. Just the kind of connection that doesn’t need to be rushed. One long look at a time.

"You stayin’? I’m not askin’ for forever. Just... stay a little while."