“So was I.” He takes half a step back to give me the corner and gestures for me to go ahead. “You first.”
I press the call button. “Long day?”
“Productive,” he says. “Yours?”
“Also productive.” The doors stay shut; the quiet stretches. I hear myself add, “And—thank you. For the chair.” It comes out lighter than my emails sounded in my head. “Facilities dropped it off about an hour after you left. It’s… very much appreciated.”
Something eases at the edge of his mouth. “Good. I’m glad.”
The elevator dings. We step in side-by-side and face forward like we’re both giving the doors our best attention. The car starts down.
Silence blooms. It isn’t empty; it’s charged, like if you rub it the wrong way, you’ll spark. I stand there feeling absurdly aware of where my wristwatch sits on my skin and whether my hair looks adorably unkempt or just sloppy. He is unbothered. Just a man waiting to get off the elevator.
The elevator jolts hard, and then everything goes black.
The gasp scorches my throat as I clutch at the rail.
The car tilts a hair—maybe it doesn’t, maybe it’s just me—but my knees go loose anyway.
“Olivia,” he says, low. Not loud, not sharp. “I’m here.”
The bag strap slides off my shoulder; I catch it with my elbow and hug it to my side like that will hold me together. The quiet is too loud. No fan, no hum. Just my breathing getting fast and thin.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Power hiccup. Happens during testing.” His voice is steady and calming. “You’re safe.”
I try to answer and get half a noise. Air won’t move. The dark presses.
“Breathe with me,” he says immediately, like he’s done this before. “In through your nose. One… two… three… four. Hold.”His voice counts in the dark, calm as a metronome. “Out for six. One… two… three… four… five… six.”
I do it. The first inhale is jagged, the hold feels like drowning, the exhale breaks in the middle. He doesn’t comment. He just counts again, same pace.
“In… two… three… four. Hold.” A beat. “Out… two… three… four… five… six.”
My grip eases a fraction. I find the wall with my shoulder and lean. The car smells like carpet and a hint of his cologne—warm, not sharp. It anchors me in the black.
“You’re doing fine,” he says. “Again.”
We do it twice more in the hopes that my lungs will remember how to work properly. The shake in my hands turns into a tremor I’m not sure I’m hiding well.
A soft click. A whir above us. The fan coughs once. A weak strip of light stutters on over the panel, not much, but enough to turn pitch black into dim orange.
“See?” he says, same even tone. “Generator picked up.”
I nod, then realize he can barely see me. “Okay,” I manage. It scrapes out, but it’s a word.
“Do you want the corner?” he asks. “Feels steadier.”
“I’m good here.” I’m not, but I physically can’t move and don’t want to embarrass myself. “Sorry. Elevators and I aren’t friendson a good day.”
“No apology needed.” He lifts a hand toward the panel; the tiny light catches a silver line at his cuff. “I’m going to hit the call button.” He presses it.
Nothing happens.
He presses the alarm bell. A single polite chime goes off inside the car. Still no answer.
He takes out his phone, glances at the corner of the screen, shakes his head. “No signal.”
I fumble mine out to check because hope springs eternal. Zero bars. “Great.”
