⋆. 𐙚 ̊ ELIJAH MOORE (SMOKE)

Elijah had always been the kind of man people warned their daughters about.

Smooth voice, easy smile, hands that never stayed in one place too long. Women came and went like smoke through his fingers—names he barely remembered, faces that blurred together after enough nights and enough drinks. He didn’t care to keep them. Didn’t care to try.

That was before Chicago. Before the dim lights, the heavy jazz, and the low hum of sin that wrapped around the city like a second skin. Before her.

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She wasn’t supposed to matter. Just another girl working the floor at one of Al Capone’s spots—a singer with a voice soft enough to pull men in and sharp enough to cut straight through them. She wore silk like it belonged to her, walked like every eye in the room owed her something, and smiled like she knew exactly what she was doing to every man who watched.

Including him. Especially him. It started simple. A drink after her set. A laugh too close to his ear. A hand brushing his shoulder that lingered just a second too long.

Then it turned into nights. Her in his bed. Him tangled in her sheets. Breathless conversations that didn’t mean anything... until they did. And just like that—Elijah, the same man who never stayed, never chased, never cared—found himself letting every other woman slip right past him.

He gave it all up. All the easy touches, the meaningless nights, the “pussycat in his lap,” as Stack liked to joke. All for her.

But she? She never changed.

“You leaving?” Elijah would ask, voice low and rough, propped up on one elbow as he watched her move around his small apartment in the middle of the night. She’d be half-dressed already, slipping into her heels like she hadn’t just been wrapped around him minutes ago. Fixing her hair in the mirror like none of it meant anything.

And every time—

She’d smile. That same smile. Soft. Pretty. Untouchable. Then she’d walk right out the door. Like he wasn’t worth staying for. Like he never would be. It became routine.

A cycle neither of them bothered to break. He knew she was seeing other men. Hell, he saw them himself half the time—hands on her waist, drinks bought in her name, whispers traded in dark corners of the club. Men with money. Men with power. Men who weren’t him. And still—he kept going back. Kept letting her in.

Kept asking that same damn question, knowing he’d never like the answer. It was toxic. Everybody knew it. Her mama knew it. Stack definitely knew it.

“Deceiving smoke,” his twin would mutter, shaking his head as he rolled up his cigarette, watching Elijah with that look—half judgment, half concern. “That girl gon’ burn you one day, Lijah. You just too blind to see it.” Elijah would just scoff, brushing it off like it didn’t get under his skin.

But it did. Every damn time.

—

The night everything snapped wasn’t supposed to be any different. The club was alive—music pouring through the air, glasses clinking, laughter mixing with the low hum of danger that always lingered in places like that. Elijah sat at the bar, drink after drink disappearing in his hand, the burn barely touching him anymore.

Because his attention wasn’t on the liquor. It was on her. On that stage. On the way she moved. The way she sang like she was telling secrets nobody else could hear. And then— The way she stepped off that stage. Right into another man’s space. Elijah’s grip tightened around his glass as he watched her laugh—really laugh—head tipping back slightly as some slick-dressed man leaned in too close. His hand slid along her arm like he had a right to touch her.

Another man joined. Then another. They circled her like they’d already decided she was theirs. And she let them. Flirting. Smiling. Playing the game like she always did. Like Elijah wasn’t sitting right there watching it happen.

Watching them look at her. Touch her. Talk to her like they could take her home. His jaw clenched so tight it ached. The alcohol in his system twisted into something hotter. Sharper.

Possessive. Dangerous.

By the time one of those men leaned in like he was about to whisper something in her ear—something too close, too familiar— Elijah snapped. His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood, drawing a few glances, but he didn’t care. Didn’t hear the music anymore. Didn’t hear anything except the blood rushing in his ears. He crossed the room in long, fast strides.

Before she could even react— His hand wrapped around her arm. Firm. Unyielding. “Let’s go.”

She barely had time to catch her balance before he was pulling her away, dragging her through the crowd, ignoring the confused looks, the muttered protests, the men who suddenly didn’t look so bold anymore. Her heels stumbled against the floor as she tried to keep up.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t answer. Didn’t slow down until they were backstage. Until he shoved open the door to her dressing room and pulled her inside. The door slammed shut behind them with a force that made her jump. Before she could steady herself, he let go just enough to push her back—she stumbled, falling onto the sofa with a soft gasp, her hands catching herself.

Silence filled the room. Heavy. Thick. Dangerous. Elijah stood there for a second, chest rising and falling, eyes dark in a way that wasn’t just anger—it was something deeper. Something uglier. Something that had been building for far too long. Then he pointed at her. Sharp. Accusing.

“You like seeing me upset, huh?” His voice was low, rough, barely controlled. “Like me sitting out there watching you put on a show for every man in that room like I ain’t even exist. She opened her mouth—but he wasn’t done. “Like me thinking about breaking the fingers off every man who touches you like they own you.” He took a step closer, shaking his head, a bitter laugh slipping out. “Like I won’t lose my damn mind over you.”

Another step. Now he was right in front of her. Close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him. “Tell me that’s what you like,” he muttered, voice dropping even lower, almost dangerous in its quiet. “Tell me you get off on that. On pushing me like this.” His gaze locked onto hers, intense, searching, like he was trying to find something—anything—that made this make sense.

Because the truth? He didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand why he kept letting her do this to him. Why he couldn’t just walk away. Why, no matter how many times she left his bed in the middle of the night... He still waited for her to come back.