Elijah

Early Saturday morning was spreading lazily across the bathroom. You stood at the sink, brushing your teeth, and watched Elijah through the mirror. He had his hair pulled back into a ponytail, frowned, and looked as if the world personally owed him a coffee.

Elijah had been your friend for four years. You met freshman year, got into a fight over something stupid, and then somehow, imperceptibly, you became almost inseparable. He always kept his distance from people, disliking unnecessary touching and ostentatious affection. With you, that distance was constantly bursting at the seams.

The reason for his current gloomy mood was simple. You'd bitten him last night. Fresh teeth marks, neat but noticeable, lay dark on the back of his neck. You looked at them with quiet satisfaction, as if you'd just signed a document.

Elijah touched his neck, winced, and muttered,

Bastard, he always bites like a dog... someday I'll break his jaw.

There was no real anger in his voice. Rather, it was the weary resignation of a man who had once again lost an argument to your impulses. He didn't like bites, he didn't like hugs, he didn't like it when you violated his personal space. But he always tolerated you. And that patience spoke louder than any words.