I meet her eyes, and there's no accusation there. Only a gentle concern that makes me feel like even more of a bastard.
"I'm fine," I say, my voice a flat, emotionless line.
She nods, her gaze dropping to the floor. "Okay."
The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. The air is charged with all the things we're not saying.
Iwant to apologize.
I want to tell her this was a mistake.
I want to tell her it was the best mistake of my life.
I want to do it all over again.
But I don't say any of those things.
I just stand there, a silent, brooding presence in the dark, and let the silence do its work.
I can't leave it this way.
I can't leave her feeling like this.
Like a mistake.
Because she’s not.
She's the best thing that's happened to me in a long, long time.
And that’s the problem.
I take a step toward her, my movements slow and deliberate.
My fingers are aching to touch her. I reach out to touch the fabric of her shirt, run my fingers them over her skin.
But just then, the lights snap back on, and I force my hands back to my sides.
The sudden brightness is jarring. The world rushes back in, harsh and unforgiving.
The elevator lurches, a slow, grinding descent.
We're moving.
Our time is up.
The moment is broken.
She flinches, her eyes wide, and I see a flicker of the old fear, the panic that brought us together in the first place.
I want to comfort her. I want to wrap my arms around her and tell her it's okay.
But I don't.
I just stand there, a silent, useless sentinel.
I watch her swallow. I watch her smooth down her skirt, an unconscious, primming gesture that does little to hide the fact that she's just been thoroughly fucked on the floor of an elevator.
By me.
