LEAH POV
It's completely dark.
Not the soft kind you get when you close your eyes, but the heavy, suffocating kind that presses in from every side. The kind that makes your thoughts louder.
"Damian?" I whisper.
"I'm here."
His voice is closer than I expect—right in front of me. I can feel his heat, his solid presence cutting straight through the fear tightening in my chest. The elevator shifts slightly.
I grab his jacket again. "Don't move."
"I won't."
There's something about the certainty in his tone that steadies me. My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it. The silence amplifies everything—my breathing, the faint creak of cables above, and my body's response to being this close to a man I met barely an hour ago.
"I can't see anything," I say.
"I know."
"I don't like not seeing."
"Neither do I."
We stand there, frozen in the dark, until my legs start to shake.
"Sit," he says gently. "Slowly."
He guides me down, one careful movement at a time, until my back meets the wall and I slide to the floor. He sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush.
Too close.
Or maybe not close enough.
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."
Darkness forces honesty. There's no pretending when you can't see the exit.
"How long has it been?" I ask.
"Twenty-seven minutes."
"You counted?"
"Yes."
Of course he did. I laugh softly. "You're one of those people."
"One of which?"
"Prepared. Always watching the clock. Always ready."
He doesn't deny it.
"Someone has to be," he says.
The elevator creaks again, louder this time. I flinch and press into his side. He lets me. His arm comes around my shoulders—firm but careful—like he's holding something fragile without admitting it is.
"Leah," he says quietly, "are you claustrophobic?"
I hesitate. "A little."
"How little?"
"Enough that my chest feels tight and my brain is being dramatic."
"Look at me," he says, then pauses. "I know you can't. But focus on my voice."
I do.
"Breathe in," he says. "Slow."
I obey.
"Out."
Again.
My breathing steadies, inch by inch.
"You're good," he whispers.
The praise does something to me. I don't want it to.
"Thank you," I say.
We stay like that for a while, his arm resting comfortably around my shoulders. Time stretches in the darkness, turning minutes into something heavier.
"Why did you ask me not to lie?" he asks suddenly.
I swallow. "Because lies feel louder in the dark."
He hums quietly. "That's true."
"And because," I add, "I have a bad habit of pretending I'm fine when I'm not."
His arm tightens slightly.
"What are you pretending about right now?" he asks.
"That I'm not afraid."
He takes a sharp breath—just once.
"My turn," I say. "Why do you keep saying this wasn't an accident?"
"Because elevators fail differently," he replies. "This pattern was intentional."
My stomach twists. "Intentional how?"
"Timed. Targeted."
"Targeted at… you?"
"Yes."
The word carries weight.
I shift to face him more directly, even though I still can't see his face. "Who would do that?"
"Someone who benefits from my absence."
I shake my head. "You're not just a guy going to a meeting, are you?"
"No."
I pause, then ask the question that's been clawing at me.
"Are you dangerous?"
He freezes completely.
"Not to you," he says finally.
"That wasn't the question."
Silence stretches between us.
"I've done things," he says carefully, "that required difficult decisions."
"That sounds like a politician's answer."
He lets out a quiet laugh. "I'm not a politician."
"Good. I hate politicians."
Another creak echoes above us. The elevator shudders. I inhale sharply and grip his shirt.
"I've got you," he says immediately. "You're not alone."
The words rush out before I can stop them.
"Neither are you," I say.
His breath pauses.
DAMIAN POV
I shouldn't be telling her any of this.
Closeness mixed with fear is dangerous. It makes people bond too fast. Trust too deeply. But the darkness strips away performance.
"I don't usually talk like this," I admit.
She tilts her head slightly, listening. "Talk like what?"
"Like someone who doesn't have all the answers."
She smiles faintly. "That's funny. You seem like the type who hates not knowing."
"I do."
Her fingers brush my wrist—accidental, maybe. Or not.
Electric.
I steady myself. "What are you really running from?" I ask.
She stiffens. "I didn't say I was running."
"You didn't have to."
Silence.
Then, quietly, "I used to ask too many questions," she says.
I wait.
"The wrong people noticed."
The pieces fall into place.
"You're not afraid of elevators," I say. "You're afraid of being found."
Her grip tightens around my sleeve.
"Yes."
Her honesty feels like a gift.
Then the elevator shakes violently—harder than before—throwing us sideways. I react without thinking, bracing myself and pulling her against me, shielding her with my body.
Metal screams above us. The cables strain, stretched too tight.
"This is bad," I say.
She presses her forehead into my chest. "Don't sugarcoat it."
"We're losing stability."
Her breath trembles. "How long?"
"I don't know."
Another violent jolt. The elevator drops just enough to make my stomach hollow. Leah clings to me.
"If we get out of this," she whispers, "everything changes."
"Yes," I agree.
The darkness seems to press closer.
Then—faint and distant—voices. Unclear. Unreal.
"Do you hear that?" she asks.
I hold my breath.
The sound fades.
Hope slips.
The elevator tilts to one side.
This time, it doesn't correct itself.