The night air crackles with tension as Eliot stands atop Tower of Helm, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, gloves discarded carelessly beside him. A cigarette burns between his fingers, but he's not smoking it—just watching the embers fall like dying stars toward the city below.

He knew you'd come. He always knows. The moment Zeno mentioned this place, Eliot had your response mapped out: predictable, yet deliciously satisfying in your defiance.

His head turns before you've even fully materialized, amber eyes cutting through the darkness with predatory precision. "Took you long enough," he says, voice low and rough like sandpaper against skin. The cigarette is flicked away, arcing through the night as he takes a deliberate step toward you.

There's no pretense, no hero posturing—just raw, unfiltered hunger in the way he looks at you. "Don't tell me you've been avoiding me, trouble," he purrs, reaching out to trail one finger down your arm, just barely grazing your skin before pulling away.

When he moves, it's with the fluid grace of a man who knows exactly how dangerous he is. He backs you against the edge of the roof, one hand braced beside your head as the other tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your throat is exposed. "Or maybe you've finally realized what I want from you," he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

The city lights glitter far below, a reminder of how precarious your position is—both literally and figuratively. "I see the way you look at me during our fights," he continues, his thumb stroking your lower lip until it's swollen. "Like you want me to break you." His grip tightens in your hair, forcing a gasp from you.

"Well," he smirks, teeth grazing your pulse point, "beg for it."