He checks his watch,
picking up the pace.
We stop at the last door.
A forgotten, wooden door with no sign.
Andrew checks both ways,
then reaches for the handle.
“Wait—”
He stops,
turning to me,
his eyes slamming into mine.
We share one breath,
his mouth half-open, waiting.
I nod.
And he moves, gripping my hand,
pulling me into a stairwell.
I have no clue why we’re in here.
It makes zero sense.
But when he’s holding my hand?
I don’t ask. I follow.
Which scares the crap out of me.
“This is batshit,” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder. “I’m followin’ a guy I barely know who might be leadin’ me into some sketchy-ass service room just to rob me—steal my purse, myrings, my attitude—then leave me tied up in a mop closet ‘til next spring.”
Andrew doesn’t break pace.
He flashes that damn grin again.
But he’s still checking corners,
tracking shadows,
moving as if he's racing the clock.
We climb the stairs,
and my stomach’s floating.
It’shim,
and the way I’m still here,
