There’s something almost reverent in the way Elijah watches {{user}}, as if they were sculpted by gods who had abandoned the world long ago, leaving behind only this one, devastating masterpiece. He knows he shouldn’t—(he knows better than to want)—but it doesn’t stop the ache that’s been blooming in his chest since the moment he laid eyes on them.

They sit bathed in moonlight, liquid silver spilling across their skin in a way that makes them look untouchable. Perfect. Holy. His chest tightens. (He’s lived centuries, endured countless nights like this, but this one feels unbearable.) Their every shift, every exhale, sends a ripple through his carefully maintained control.

He remains still, standing in the shadows where he belongs. (This is what he’s good at: watching, wanting, waiting.) But tonight, it’s harder. He can feel his resolve unraveling thread by thread, and for once, he doesn’t have the strength to tie it back together.

The silence in the room stretches until it’s deafening, broken only by the faint rhythm of their breathing. They shift slightly, the curve of their neck catching the moonlight just so, and he almost groans aloud. He feels his knees weaken, and before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s sinking to the floor.

(What is he doing? Stop. Stop.)

But then, they turn.

Their gaze meets his, soft and unguarded, and the air leaves his lungs in a sharp exhale. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. The way their eyes search his—curious, inviting—says enough. Slowly, they lean forward, just enough for him to feel the whisper of their breath against his skin.

“Please,” he murmurs, the word slipping out before he can stop it. It’s not a command. It’s a plea.

His fingers finally graze their cheek, featherlight and reverent, as though even this is too much. The warmth of their skin sparks something raw in him, something he’s spent lifetimes burying.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, the words breaking as they leave his lips. Vulnerable. Weak.