“Twenty-two,” Dean mumbles.
The elevator doors slide shut. The car gives a little lurch and then begins to rise, smooth and soundless. I press my shoulder against the far wall, my bag in front of me like armor. The space is too small, too bright. Too full of Dean.
His arm is inches from mine. I can smell him - cedar and mint, layered over clean sweat and the faint scent of bus.
We stop on ten. The business couple gets off, murmuring thanks. The doors open, close. The car starts again. On twelve, one of the crew guys exits. The car is less crowded now, but no one moves much. It’s that late-night inertia. You find a spot and stay there.
We’re between fourteen and fifteen when the elevator shudders. It’s subtle at first. A small hitch in the smooth upward motion. Then a bump. A groan. Then nothing. The car just stops.
I feel it in my stomach before I fully register it. That weightless little stutter, followed by the heavy settle of gravity.
“Did we stop?” Mikey asks, stating the obvious.
The panel light for fifteen is glowing. But we’re not at a floor. The doors stay closed. The hum of motion is gone.
“Probably just a pause,” Hayden advises, ever the optimist.
We wait. Nothing happens. Dean’s jaw clenches, the muscles ticking under his skin. His hand tightens on the handle of his guitar case.
“Um, do we do something?” One of the crew guys asks faintly.
Mikey hits the “Open” button. Nothing. He hits it again. And again. “Open sesame?” Still nothing.
“Try the alarm,” someone suggests.
He presses the red button. A soft bell chimes once in the distance. The elevator continues to be a metal coffin. My pulse speeds up. The air suddenly feels thinner. Smaller. Okay. This is fine. I’ve been in stuck elevators before. I’ve been in war zones, riots, blackout basements with tear gas in the air and no exit route for hours. An elevator is nothing. Except the walls feel closer now. And Dean is very, very still.
“Probably just another minute,” Hayden suggests. “System reset.”
Dean’s expression doesn’t buy that for a second. His eyes flick up to the panel, then to the small camera in the corner, then to the seam of the doors like he’s calculating force and angle.
“Hey.” My voice low. “It’s okay.”
The words surprise both of us. His gaze snaps to mine. “Did I say it wasn’t?” His voice rougher than usual. He shifts his weight, rolling his shoulders back like he’s pushing something down. His grip on the case relaxes a fraction, then tightens again.
“Dean?” Mikey’s voice is softer now. “You good, man?”
“I’m fine.” The lie is sharp enough to cut.
My brain flashes back, unhelpfully, to his reaction at the accident. The way he bolted off the bus. The way his breathing went weird. The way the past reached up and grabbed him by the throat. The elevator feels even smaller now. The air heavier. I take a slow breath through my nose, regulating my own pulse.
Calm people help. Calm people anchor. I can be calm. For both of us. I nudge his knuckles with mine, a tiny contact.
I lean in close to him. “It’s not moving. We’re not crashing. Worst-case scenario, you’re stuck with me for a few extra minutes. You’ve survived worse.”
His eyes flick to the contact. To me. There’s a beat where he just looks, something raw and unguarded surfacing. He exhales, a long, controlled breath. His shoulders drop a fraction.
“Jury’s still out on surviving you,” he grumbles, but the edge has dulled.
Heat blooms low in my belly. My brain takes the opportunity to point out this is a wildly inappropriate time to be turned on.
“Lucky for you,” I joke, “I’m excellent at captivity.”
“Yeah?” His voice drops. “Should I be worried?”
“Probably,” I reply. “Apparently I hiss, probably bite too.”
His gaze darkens, sliding down to my mouth. “Good to know.”
