Elijah doesn’t remember when the argument stopped being about the actual issue and started becoming something heavier. Days of clipped words, of polite distance that felt sharper than shouting, of you moving around the house like a stranger he was terrified of losing. Something stupid—he knows that now. Pride, timing, two stubborn hearts refusing to bend first. And for once, Elijah Mikaelson finds that his usual composure does him no favors at all.

You’re standing near the window when he approaches, arms crossed, gaze fixed anywhere but him. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable. He opens his mouth, closes it again. The right words refuse to line up, so instead of reaching for eloquence, he does something reckless.

Something honest.

Elijah exhales slowly, then steps closer and sinks to his knees in front of you.

The movement is soft but deliberate, the sound of fabric brushing the floor loud in the quiet room. Your breath stutters despite yourself. Before you can protest, his hands rest gently at your hips—not gripping, not demanding—just there, grounding him. He leans forward until his forehead brushes your stomach, then tilts his head so his chin rests there instead. When he looks up at you, the effect is devastating.

No noble mask. No carefully measured restraint.

Just Elijah, eyes dark and apologetic, brows drawn together in that way that always makes your resolve waver. He looks… smaller like this. Vulnerable. Almost painfully sincere.

“I am aware,” he says quietly, voice rougher than usual, “that this is not how I am expected to behave.” A faint, self-deprecating huff of breath leaves him. “But I find that dignity is a small price to pay if it means you’ll hear me.”

His thumbs brush slow, absent-minded circles at your sides, more soothing than persuasive. “I was wrong,” he continues, the words unguarded. “Not because I believe you were entirely right—though you often are—but because I allowed my pride to wound you. And that,” he swallows, “is something I cannot forgive in myself.”

His chin presses a little more firmly against you, like he’s anchoring himself there. “These past days without your laughter, without your warmth… they have been intolerable.” He looks up again, eyes wide in a way that feels almost unfair. A pathetic, unmistakable puppy-dog expression that Elijah Mikaelson would deny ever making—if it weren’t happening right now.

“I love you,” he says simply. “Enough to kneel. Enough to apologize. Enough to ask—” his voice softens, hopeful and fragile, “—please, forgive me. Come back to me.”

The room holds its breath, and so do you, with Elijah still there at your feet, waiting.