I was supposed to graduate next year. That was the plan—be responsible, keep my head down, push through like I always do.
Now I’ll be a cautionary tale in someone else’s lecture.
Andfuckme for trying to force fall fashion when it’s still seventy-five degrees and humid enough to steam vegetables. But did that stop me from putting on wool trousers and a moody turtleneck so I could pretend it’s already Halloween and I’m the main character in a cozy murder mystery? No. No, it did not.
The moment the elevator lurched and froze, my hands went numb. Then my legs. Then the part of my brain that knows how to stay calm. Because if there’s one thing I’m scared of, it’s being stuck in an enclosed space. And if there are two? It’s heights.
This is literally my own personal nightmare.
They say elevators are statistically safe. Whoevertheyare, they can come scrape me off this carpeted floor after I pass out from hyperventilation.
I try to glare at Mads, and to his credit, he at least has the decency to look mildly guilty. Which is how I know this is his fault somehow. The shift in his posture—shoulders drawn up, jaw tight—screamsguilty conscience. But I can’t stay angry for long, because my chest is tight and my lungs are failing, and I can’t fucking breathe.
My vision goes dark at the edges. Just a little fuzz around the perimeter at first, then a full blackout reel loading behind my eyes.
I sway, and suddenly Mads is in front of me, hands on my arms, voice low and steady. “Hey. Hey, look at me. You’re okay.” Which is rich, considering he’s the reason I’m stuck in this box of death to begin with.
His grip is steady but careful, and I’m reminded just how much bigger he is than I am—a full foot taller, built the exact way a goalie has to be. Broad shoulders, solid muscle, the kind of frame that blocks out the rest of the world, whether he means to or not. It should make me feel small, evenmoretrapped. Instead, it’s grounding, infuriatingly so.
I hate him.
I do.
But his hands are warm and firm and annoyingly comforting, and his face is obnoxiously symmetrical—strong jaw, dark hair, those reckless blue eyes that always look like they’re planning something. There’s a tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve, his forearm solid where it rests against mine, and Jesus Christ, I think I’m going to pass out into the arms of the world’s hottest asshole.
Except I don’t do that. I don’t lean on people. Not in elevators, not in life. I learned a long time ago that no one’s going to catch me when I fall, so I trained myself not to fall. To push through sprains, bad seasons, and worse family drama, all without anyone’s steady voice telling me I was okay. I made myself okay.
Which is why the fact that my pulse actually slows under his grip makes me furious.
“Breathe with me, yeah?” he says. And I want to slap him, because of course he sounds exactly the same as always: calm, annoyingly patient, and armed with that English accent of his that makes everything sound way more reasonable than it is. Then he takes my hand and presses it against his chest. “Right here. Match me.” His heartbeat is steady, unfairly even, like hedidn’tjust sabotage my entire afternoon by trapping me in an elevator. I try to yank my hand back, but he tightens his grip, gentle but firm. “C’mon, you can hate me later. Just breathe now.”
I do, because apparently my body listens to him more than it listens to me. After a few shaky inhales, the black spots start to fade. My lungs unclench.
“You back?” he asks, still maddeningly close, his voice a shade softer. I nod, barely.
Then—finally—he lets go of me, pulls out his phone, and mutters, “Let’s get us the hell out of here.”
“Oh, fuck you,” I snap, the dizziness dissolving completely in a wash of fury. “Iknowthis was your fault.”
He blinks at me, eyes wide with innocence. “Sorry—come again?”
“Don’t‘cahm agayn’me,” I spit, mocking his accent and stepping out of his reach. “This has your fingerprints all over it. Trapping me in here? Classic Madsen Keller bullshit. Just another one of your absurd games.”
“Are you seriously accusing me of—what, rigging the lift?” he says, arms thrown out. “Oh, right, ‘cause risking our lives for a laugh sounds dead smart.”
“Yes! Because you think ‘what’s the worst that could happen’ is a solid risk assessment strategy!”
“Well, you do keep up rather impressively, don’t you?” he bites out, stepping forward, eyes sharp. “Because I know my cleats didn’t fill themselves with glitter.”
“Not comparable to zip-tying my locker shutfrom the inside!” I snap, jabbing a finger at his chest.
“You replaced my protein powder with confectioner’s sugar!” His voice lifts with mock outrage, jaw clenched as he towers over me, just barely holding back a grin.
I’m glad one of us is entertained by this.
“My hair isfucking bluebecause you put Kool-Aid in my purple conditioner!” I shove past him, turning quickly, too close, breath caught between fury and disbelief.
“You nicked my whole laundry bag and hoisted it up the bloody flagpole!” He crowds in behind me.
