LEAH POV
I don't believe in signs.
But if I did, the fact that my alarm didn't go off, my coffee spilled down my blouse, and the subway stopped underground for fifteen minutes would've told me to turn around and go home.
Instead, I'm sprinting through the lobby of HartTech like my future depends on it.
Because it does.
The elevator doors start to close.
"Wait!" I shout, waving like an idiot.
A hand shoots out from inside.
Strong. Confident. Male.
The doors slide open again, and I rush in, breathless. "Thank you. I swear I don't usually run like that. Or shout. Or—" I stop myself. "Thank you."
He doesn't answer.
He's tall. That's my first thought. The kind of tall that makes the air feel different. He's wearing a black suit that looks tailored to violence, not fashion. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Eyes that don't miss anything.
He looks… expensive. And annoyed.
I press the button for the twelfth floor and step back, hugging my folder like a shield. Silence fills the small space.
"Crazy morning," I say, because my mouth has never known when to stop.
No response.
I glance at him. He's staring straight ahead, jaw tight, hands hanging at his sides like he's restraining himself from doing something.
Okay. Message received.
The elevator hums as it ascends.
Three.
Four.
Five.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it. Vivian can lecture me later.
"So," I try again, softer this time. "Do you work here?"
"Yes."
One word. No warmth. No invitation.
I nod like that was a whole conversation. "Same. Well. Hopefully."
He turns his head slightly. Not enough to look at me fully, but enough that I feel it.
"Interview?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Good luck."
It's automatic. Polite. But his voice—deep and steady—slides under my skin in a way I don't appreciate.
"Thanks," I say. "I'll need it."
Six.
Seven.
The elevator jerks.
I grab the wall. "What was that?"
"Nothing," he says immediately.
But his shoulders are tight.
Eight.
The lights flicker—once, twice—and a cold knot forms in my stomach.
"Okay," I say, forcing a laugh. "That's definitely something."
The elevator shakes violently, then stops.
I stumble forward with a shout, crashing straight into him.
Strong arms catch me instantly—one hand gripping my wrist, the other steadying my waist. He's warm. Solid. Too real.
"Careful," he says.
Then the lights go out.
Total darkness.
"Oh God," I whisper. "Oh God, no—no—"
"Leah."
I blink. "How do you know my name?"
"You said it earlier."
Did I? I must have.
His voice is calm. Firm. It slices through my panic like a blade.
"Breathe," he says. "In. Out."
I try.
It works more than I want it to.
A dim red emergency light flickers on, casting the elevator in shadows. We're still close. Too close.
He releases my waist but not my wrist. His thumb presses gently against my pulse, grounding me.
I really notice him then—the way his chest rises steadily, how effortlessly he keeps me anchored.
"I hate elevators," I admit quietly.
"Then why take one?"
"Because stairs don't go twelve floors up."
That almost makes me smile.
Almost.
He lets go.
"Damian," he says. "My name is Damian."
I pause, then nod. "Leah."
The elevator creaks above us.
I flinch. "We're stuck."
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Whether this was an accident."
My stomach tightens. "What do you mean?"
Before he can answer, the elevator drops an inch.
I scream.
He moves instantly, pulling me against his chest—one arm braced against the wall, the other around my shoulders.
"It's okay," he says. "I've got you."
The emergency light flickers again. Dimmer.
I cling to his suit without thinking.
"I don't like this," I whisper.
"Neither do I."
And for the first time, I hear concern in his voice.
DAMIAN POV
The failure is too precise.
Elevators don't behave like this unless something goes wrong—or someone makes it go wrong.
I press the emergency button.
Static.
No response.
"Do you have signal?" Leah asks.
I check my phone. One bar. Then nothing.
"No."
She exhales sharply. "Of course. Perfect."
I study her briefly. She's trying to joke, but her eyes are sharp. Observant. Not fragile. Not helpless.
Interesting.
"We'll be fine," I say.
"You sound very sure for someone trapped in a metal box."
"I prefer facts."
"And the fact is…?"
"We're not moving."
Silence settles between us. The space feels warmer now. Closer. She shifts slightly, fighting the walls with willpower alone. She's holding it together—but barely.
"Tell me something," she says suddenly.
"About what?"
"About you. Distract me."
I hesitate. Information is leverage. I don't give it freely.
"What do you want to know?"
She shrugs. "Anything not elevator-related."
"Fine," I say. "I don't like being late."
She smiles softly. "Me neither. But today humbled me."
There's intelligence in her eyes. And tension—like she's always braced for impact.
"What's so important about today?" I ask.
She swallows. "It changes everything."
The elevator creaks again.
This time, the sound is wrong—metal grinding against metal.
My jaw tightens.
"Damian?" she says quietly.
"Yes."
"This doesn't feel normal."
I agree—but instead of panic, I force calm. I won't be perceived as weak.
The elevator jerks violently, screeching as if it's moving again—then stops after a few uneven drops.
She wraps her arms around me instinctively. Even after the air settles, her grip doesn't loosen.
I glance down at her, reality sinking in.
We could be here for hours.
" You can open your eyes now," I say gently.
She squints them open and slowly releases me.
Just as I think it's over—
The elevator slams.
We're thrown forward, crashing into the metal doors—
Our lips inches apart.
And suddenly, breathing feels impossible.