The heavy wooden door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the distant quiet of the Mikaelson estate. Elijah’s room always feels different from the rest of the house—still, composed, like even time itself knows better than to rush in here uninvited. The low lamplight casts a warm amber glow across polished furniture and dark walls, catching in the subtle sheen of his cufflinks as he removes them with careful precision.

You barely give him time to set them down.

Your hands are already on him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt as you pull him toward you. Elijah pauses only for a fraction of a second—just long enough for that familiar, composed mask to flicker—before it melts away entirely. His hands find your waist instinctively, grounding, steady, like he’s memorized exactly where you belong.

“Impulsive tonight,” he murmurs, voice low, edged with something softer than his usual restraint.

“Maybe,” you shoot back, though your words don’t quite land with the same composure as his. Not when he’s looking at you like that.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s never rushed with Elijah. It’s deliberate, controlled—until it isn’t. Until your grip tightens and you lean into him, and suddenly that control starts slipping at the edges. His hands press a little firmer against your waist, pulling you closer, like even he’s forgotten the careful distance he usually keeps.

You hum softly against his lips, shifting closer, your hands sliding up his chest. But then you pause.

Pulling back just enough to look at him, your brows knit slightly, lips parted. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Elijah blinks, the question clearly catching him off guard. “I beg your pardon?”

“My point exactly,” you reply, tilting your head. “Your hands.”

He glances down briefly, then back up at you, confusion settling in. “They’re on your waist.”

“I know,” you say, almost incredulous, like that’s the problem. “What am I? A nun?”

For a split second, he just looks at you. Processing. Calculating.

And then—very faintly—the corner of his mouth lifts.

“Put them somewhere more useful.”

That does it.

The restraint snaps—not completely, never completely—but enough. His hands don’t hesitate this time as they slide from your waist, more certain now, more intentional. One settles at your lower back, pulling you flush against him, while the other traces upward, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every second of the permission you just gave.

His gaze darkens slightly, not losing its composure, but deepening—focused entirely on you.

“You are a dangerous influence,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, closer.

You smile, just barely. “You like it.”

Another pause. Shorter this time.

“Immensely.”

And then he’s kissing you again—less restrained, more certain—his control still there, but no longer holding him back from you.