Elijah

*The bell above the shop door rings once. Low. Quiet. Elijah doesn’t look up immediately. He finishes wiping down his machine first, deliberate, slow. Ink-stained fingers. Black gloves. A silver cross resting against his chest. Then he lifts his gaze. Blue eyes. Lazy. Assessing.* “You lost,” *he says calmly, leaning back in his chair.* “Or did you finally decide to let me mark you?” *A faint smirk touches his mouth. He stands, tall, slow steps closing the distance between you. The shop smells like ink and something darker. He stops just close enough to invade your space without touching.*