My lips part. The car feels suddenly, stupidly intimate, despite the fact that there are three other people inside pretending not to listen.
The intercom squawks to life. “Sorry for the delay, folks,” a male voice crackles. “We’ve had a temporary glitch. Just stay put. We’ll get you moving again in a few minutes.”
“See?” Hayden nods, relief obvious. “Glitch.”
Mikey snorts. “We’re stuck between floors in a luxury toaster, but sure, call it a glitch.”
Dean doesn’t say anything. But his hand eases off the case handle. His shoulders are still tight, but less like coiled wire, more like strained bungee. I stay where I am, close enough that the heat from his body radiates across the tiny gap between us. Our arms don’t touch, but they could. Easily.
A minute passes. Then two. Then three. The elevator rocks faintly, then resumes its smooth upward motion. Everyone exhales and laughs at once, that awkward, relieved sound of shared tension breaking.
It stops on fifteen. The doors slide open. Hayden and one of the crew guys step out, throwing back a quick wave. “See you upstairs.”
Mikey looks between me and Dean, one brow raised, mischief lighting his eyes. “You kids behave,” he sing-songs, and then he’s gone too, slipping out on sixteen when we stop again.
When the doors close this time, it’s just us. Eighteen glows orange on the panel. Two more floors.
“Thanks,” Dean blurts unexpectedly.
I blink. “For what?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Keeping the walls from closing in.”
My heartbeat does a weird stutter. “I didn’t-”
“You did,” he interrupts gently. “It helped.”
I swallow. “You’re welcome.”
The car hums as it moves. He shifts, turning a fraction so he’s angled more toward me. The small space between us feels even smaller.
“You don’t have to do that,” he insists, voice low. “The caring thing. Whatever. It’s not your job.”
“Neither is pretending you’re made of stone,” I shoot back.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m very committed to that bit.”
I huff out a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
The elevator starts gliding up again. He steps closer. Just a fraction. Just enough that I have to tilt my head back to keep looking at him. My breath stalls. His palm hits the wall beside my head with a quiet thud, caging me in. Not touching. Not quite. But his body is a force field, blocking out everything else. Everything else is just… gone.
It’s just him. Me. And the very loud rush of my own pulse. “Dean,” I whisper, unsure if it’s a question or a warning.
His eyes search mine, scanning like he’s looking for a reason to stop. A reason to proceed. A reason to do something reckless and call it a mistake later. “You keep getting in my head.” The words are rough and honest, like they cost him. “On the bus. With the camera. Out there on the road. In here…” His throat works. “I don’t like it.”
My fingers curl around the strap of my bag to keep from reaching for him. “The feeling’s mutual,” I manage to lie.
His gaze drops to my mouth. “Doesn’t feel very mutual right now, sweetheart.”
My breath trips. Want flares, fast and hot, running through me like electricity arcing between storm clouds. The doors choose that exact moment to slide open behind him with a cheery ding.
A couple in business attire stands in the hallway, mid-step, eyes going wide as they take in the scene: me pinned between the wall and a rockstar, his arm braced over my head, his body angled toward mine like a promise.
“Sorry,” the woman spits out quickly, cheeks flushing as she grips onto the hand of the man next to her. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“We’ll get the next one,” the man stutters.
Dean doesn’t move. His jaw tics once as he stares after them, then he slowly drops his arm, stepping back just enough to put air between us again. The elevator tries to close; the little sensor triggers on his guitar case. The doors bump gently against it and reopen.
