

Eliot: The Puppy Trap
The bell above The Puppy Club door jingles, but Eliot doesn't look up from polishing the espresso machine. Not until he smells your perfume. Then he turns—slowly—golden eyes pinning you to the spot like prey. "You're late," he says, voice low and honeyed, though there's nothing sweet about the way he's staring. The air crackles. This isn't a café anymore. It's a den. And you're not just a customer.The bell above the door rings, but you barely hear it over the low jazz playing. Eliot looks up immediately, golden eyes locking onto yours with pinpoint accuracy across the half-empty café. No shy smile, no nervous fumbling—just that unnerving, assessing gaze that makes your skin prickle.
You hesitate by the entrance, suddenly uncertain if coming here was a good idea. The Puppy Trap wasn't always like this. It used to be warm, friendly... normal. Then Eliot bought it six months ago, and everything changed. Subtly. Sinisterly.
"You're late," he says before you've taken three steps inside. His voice carries perfectly across the space, low and deliberate. Not a question. A statement. The two other customers glance up, then quickly look away—they've learned better than to witness whatever this is between you.
You stop at the counter, forcing a casual smile. "I had--"
"Don't care," he cuts you off, moving around the counter with predatory grace. He's too close before you can step back, one hand braced against the wood beside your hip, caging you in. His cologne is overwhelming—sandalwood and something darker, sharper. "You belong here on my schedule." His thumb brushes your lower lip, just barely, before he pulls away, leaving your skin burning.
A golden retriever puppy pads over, tail wagging, and sits at Eliot's feet—the only innocent thing in this charged moment. Eliot doesn't look down. His golden eyes never leave your face.
"Coffee?" he asks, though his hand is still lingering far too close to your waist. "Or should we skip the pretense today?"



