Then the doors slid open.
And there he was—
Joshua.
Wearing black jeans with a tight-fitted white shirt, hair kind of messy, breath just slightly uneven like he’d been moving fast. The smell of cologne and alcohol clung to him, sharp and strong. His phone was still in his hand.
For a second, neither of us moved. The air felt thick, humming between us.
He didn’t text back.
Hecameinstead.
I blinked, mouth parting, words caught somewhere deep in my throat. My hand tightened around the envelope inside my bag.
He looked at me,reallylooked at me. From the heels to the skirt to the low neckline, the nametag that glinted under the hallway light. His jaw clenched once, hard.
He stepped out of the elevator, closing the distance until he was standing right in front of me. And for a heartbeat, the whole world felt suspended between that text that never got an answer and the fact that he came, anyway.
The elevator doors slid shut behind him, leaving only the low hum of the lights and the sound of my own pulse. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. Joshua Lockhart stood in front of me, tall enough that I had to tilt my chin up just to meet his eyes.
Something in me thudded so hard against my ribcage at the sight of him like this, messy hair, skin glistening from sweating, his cologne, and I hated that I couldn’t get it under control. Or look away.
Which I probably should—
I clutched the strap of my bag with one hand and reached inside with the other. My fingers brushed the envelope. When I pulled it out, my hands were shaking.
His gaze flicked to it instantly, and I noticed it right away—the way his jaw flexed, the way he held his breath as if to try to calm himself down from blowing up at me.
I tried to make it easy. I held it out between us, like a peace offering. Like an apology.
He didn’t move.
My arms trembled under the weight of something that shouldn’t have been heavy. My throat worked, but no sound came. I wanted to explain.It’s not about the money. I just can’t owe you. I don’t want you to think I’m—
But the words stuck like glass.
I pushed it closer, pleading silently, eyes begging him to take it so I could breathe again.
He didn’t. He just stood there with an expression where I couldn’t tell if he was angry or in disbelief. His hands stayed at his sides, fists curling. His stare was intense, burning through every layer I had left.
Please.
That’s what my eyes said.
He exhaled, sharp and low, like the sound hurt to make. His head dropped forward for a second, the muscle in his jaw jumping. Then, when he looked up again, his eyes softened just barely, just enough to notice.
“Campbell, stop.” His voice came out, not soft but not rough either. It was just him. The normal voice he used when he wanted to get his point across.
The voice he used when he was giving orders to his teammates, one that he used to ground people in a serious situation. The calm under pressure tone.
I shook my head and—I didn’t know why, or where the confidence came from—grabbed his hand and lifted it up before placing the envelope in his hand, closing his fingers up so he could just take it. Just take it already.
He scoffed and looked me right in the eyes before flipping his hand, letting the envelope drop on the floor. A loudthumpechoed through the quiet walls as it just sat there between us.
Something in my chest sank.
“Leave it for the rats to nibble on then,” he said before turning around to press the elevator button.
