This time, my laugh is more genuine. The walls aren’t pressing in quite so aggressively now, and I can take deeper breaths. “Hard to imagine you afraid of anything.”
“Oh, I’m afraid of lots of things,” he says, his tone light but his eyes serious as they meet mine. “Spiders. Heights. Disappointing people I care about.”
Something shifts in the air between us, a current of sincerity beneath the banter.
“Let me try the emergency button again,” he says, pushing himself up. This time, when he presses it, a crackling static fills the elevator, followed by a distant voice.
“Building maintenance. Is someone there?”
Relief floods through me as Dylan responds and explains our situation. The maintenance person assures us they’re aware of the problem—apparently, we’re not the only elevator affected—and they’re working on it, but it might take some time.
“Just sit tight,” the voice advises. “We’ll have you out as soon as possible.”
“How soon is ‘soon’?” I ask after Dylan thanks them and the line goes silent.
He shrugs, returning to sit beside me. “Before next New Year’s, hopefully.”
I groan, but the tight band of panic around my chest has loosened considerably. “Great. I’m trapped in an elevator in a too-tight dress with terrible shoes and no bathroom.”
“If it helps, the dress doesn’t look too tight from where I’m sitting,” Dylan offers, then immediately looks embarrassed. “I mean, it looks ... you look...” He clears his throat. “What I’m trying to say is, you look incredible.”
The compliment warms me despite my best efforts to remain immune to his charm. “Thanks to Genna’s intervention. She practically force-marched me into the store.”
“Remind me to thank her later.” His smile is softer now, less the practiced Dylan Williamston grin and more something real. “Though I have to say, I kinda miss the Cheyenne who wears messy buns and sweatpants.”
“Yeah, well.” I fidget with the hem of my dress. “New year, new me, right?”
“I like the old you just fine,” he says quietly.
We sit in silence for a moment, the only sound our breathing and the faint hum of the emergency lights. Despite the circumstances, I feel calmer now, the panic attack receding like a tide going out.
“So,” Dylan says finally, his tone deliberately casual. “No Garrett tonight?”
I look up sharply, searching his face for the meaning behind the question. His expression is carefully neutral, but there’s something in his eyes—a tension, a hope—that makes my heart beat faster for reasons that have nothing to do with claustrophobia.
“No Garrett,” I say, meeting his gaze directly. “Not tonight. Not ever again.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “No?”
“I blocked him,” I continue, the words coming easier than I expected. “After Christmas. I’m never going back.”
The relief that washes over his face is so raw, so undisguised, that it takes my breath away. “Good,” he says simply. “He didn’t deserve you.”
The sincerity in his voice makes something crack open inside me—something I’ve been maintaining since Christmas.
“Why do you care?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
Dylan looks startled, then thoughtful. He runs a hand through his hair and shifts to face me more directly.
“Because I care about you,” he says. “More than I’ve ever cared about anyone. And that scares the heck out of me.”
The confession hangs in the air between us, impossible to take back, impossible to ignore. My heart hammers against my ribs, and for a moment, I can’t find words.
“You said we were just friends,” I manage. “At Christmas. In front of yourwholefamily.”
He winces, genuine regret flashing across his features. “I know. And I’ve been kicking myself ever since.” He takes a deep breath, as if gathering courage. “The truth is, Chey, I don’t want to be just friends with you. I haven’t for a while now. But when my dad made that joke, and everyone was looking at us, I panicked. I said the exact opposite of what I was feeling.”
“And what were you feeling?” I ask, barely above a whisper.
