The elevator doors sighed open, metal brushing metal, and Leah stepped inside. The air was cool, faintly humming with machinery. She pressed for the top floor — the executive level — and exhaled, hoping the ride would be silent.
But just before the doors sealed, a hand slipped through.
Adrian.
He entered without a word, composed as always, his movements deliberate. His tie hung loose around his collar, his sleeves rolled just enough to expose the line of his forearm. The scent of coffee and cedar trailed faintly after him, subtle but unmistakable.
Leah's heart gave a small, treacherous leap. "Morning," she managed.
"Morning." His tone was calm, professional, but there was a quiet weight beneath it — something that made her spine straighten a little too quickly.
The elevator began its climb. Silence filled the space, thick and breathing. Leah could hear the faint rhythm of her own pulse, the low hum of the cables, the soft rustle of Adrian adjusting his cuff.
"I reviewed your report last night," he said, his reflection catching hers in the mirrored panel. "You noticed a discrepancy in last quarter's numbers. Sharp catch."
She blinked, caught between pride and surprise. "Oh. I—it just didn't match the client receipts."
The corner of his mouth lifted — a near-smile, restrained, almost private. "Still. Not everyone would've seen it."
Her chest tightened. It wasn't just what he said, but how he said it — steady, certain, without a trace of flattery.
The elevator chimed halfway up, then stopped abruptly. The lights flickered once, twice, and steadied dimly. The car jolted, a short, sharp shift that made Leah's hand fly to the rail.
Adrian moved without thinking, one arm bracing her elbow. "Easy."
She steadied herself, breath uneven. His hand lingered, just enough to anchor her.
"I'm fine," she said, voice low.
He withdrew slowly, fingers sliding away, his gaze holding hers for a moment longer than either of them meant.
Then — distance. Always distance.
Adrian pressed the emergency button. "Looks like we're between floors."
"Perfect," Leah muttered. "I'm not great with... waiting."
He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. "You don't seem the type who sits still for long."
"You'd be right." She tried to smile. "Stillness makes me think too much."
His brow lifted slightly. "About work?"
She hesitated. "About everything."
For a moment, something in his expression softened. The tension in his jaw loosened, his eyes steady but not sharp this time. "You handle pressure well," he said. "Most people would've panicked."
Leah gave a soft laugh. "You don't know what's going on in my head."
"Maybe not." His tone dropped — quiet, sincere. "But I've seen how you handle things. That tells me enough."
The elevator hummed faintly. The world felt narrowed to this small metal box, the breath between them, the faint buzz of fluorescent light. It wasn't attraction exactly — not yet — but awareness. A quiet current that neither could fully ignore.
She looked down at her shoes. "Do you ever regret it?"
He turned to her, puzzled. "Regret what?"
"Being the one everyone looks at when something goes wrong."
He was silent for a long beat, his eyes on the panel lights.
"Regret isn't useful," he said at last. "You just learn to live with the choices you made — and the ones you didn't."
There was something raw behind the words, quickly buried. Leah wanted to ask, but didn't. She understood enough — the exhaustion in his voice, the quiet solitude of command.
The lights flickered again, then steadied.
Adrian exhaled softly. "Guess we're waiting it out."
She leaned against the opposite wall, mirroring him. "You don't strike me as someone who takes breaks."
His mouth twitched faintly. "Maybe that's why I'm stuck here."
"Maybe it's the universe forcing you to slow down."
He gave a quiet sound that might have been a laugh — low, genuine, gone in an instant. The silence that followed was no longer awkward. It was charged, suspended, oddly fragile.
When the elevator finally jerked to life, Leah nearly laughed in relief.
"Told you it'd reset," Adrian said, straightening his cuffs, his tone back to its usual control.
"Still felt longer than it was."
The doors opened at the top floor, spilling light between them. He stepped aside. "After you."
She passed him, and just as she did, his voice came low. "You handled it well."
Leah glanced back, catching his gaze — steady, unreadable, but not cold. "Thank you."
He gave a small nod. "Take five before the meeting. You've earned it."
As she walked down the hallway, her heels echoing against the marble, she realized her heartbeat hadn't fully calmed.
Later that day, during the board briefing, she caught him watching her for half a second — not in the way of a superior evaluating performance, but of someone remembering silence in a confined space.
Neither spoke of it. But both felt it — that unspoken understanding born in stillness, the kind that doesn't vanish once the doors reopen.