I stumble—lightly—over an uneven paver. “Depends. Is he into high adventure or slow-burn longing?”
“Bit of both,” Matt says, smirk deepening. “Definitely enjoys a well-placed plot twist.”
“Then I’d hand himPersuasionand dare him to make it through chapter ten without catching feelings.”
He whistles, impressed. “Dangerous confidence. I like it.”
We arrive at the annex lobby. The elevator doors part with an obedient ding. He gestures me in first, eyes bright with mischief. “Let’s grab those diagrams—before I decide to ditch the paperwork and do something far more interesting with you.”
Inside the cab Matt presses the button for eight, then rests my clipboards against the rear rail. The doors hush shut, and a soft hydraulic purr replaces the plaza clamor.
At first everything feels absurdly private. Polished steel panels mirror us back: me, cheeks pink from the crisp morning air and shameless flirting; him, relaxed stance, thumbs hooked in hoodie pockets, blue eyes tracking the floor numbers like he’s already solving another backstage puzzle.
The car slides past level three, then four. I become acutely aware of how close we’re standing—shoulders almost brushing whenever the cab sways. My pulse ticks faster with every light that blinks overhead: 5 ?… 6 ?…
The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s thick—charged with something I can’t quite name.
Matt shifts his weight, the motion subtle but seismic in the small space. My senses go hyper-detailed: faint cedar-and-citrus soap, the soft scrape of his stubble when he rubs a knuckle along his jaw, the way his mouth curves as if holding a private punch-line. Heat crawls up the back of my neck; I focus on my breathing, on the clipboard labels, on absolutely anything but the urge to replay the masquerade kiss and imagine if his mouth would taste the same.
The cab hum deepens—an octave lower, as though the motor has to think harder. A tremor ripples under our feet, gentle at first, likedriving over a gravel seam. I glance at Matt; he raises one brow, not alarmed yet but definitely listening.
Floor indicator flicks to 7 ?… then hesitates. The cab seems to coast, decelerating more than it should. My heartbeat trips. Another tiny shudder—a metallic groan this time, a sound elevators shouldn’t make.
Matt’s gaze meets mine. “Little rough patch,” he says, tone calm but alert. “Happens in old shafts.”
I nod, swallow. The numbers don’t advance.
A sharper jolt snaps through the cab—nothing violent, just enough to make the railing quiver under my grip. I suck in a breath; cold worry slides beneath my ribs like a bookmark marking trouble.
Matt plants one palm against the control panel, as if feeling for vibration. “Okay, that was bigger,” he admits quietly. “But still within—”
The sentence never finishes. A final, decisive lurch throws us against opposite rails and the clipboards clatter to the floor. Lights flicker once, twice, then settle into a weak emergency glow. The motor’s purr dies, replaced by a hush that feels eerily loud.
We are motionless.
I stare at Matt as adrenaline floods me in a hot rush. My hands tingle, ears ring, every sense tunneling in on one unsettling fact: fifty-year-old cables are holding up several tons of steel—and two very mortal occupants.
Did I mention I’m slightly claustrophobic? Not much, just enough for being stuck in an elevator to be officially terrifying.
Matt pushes off the rail, steps close enough that the emergency light casts half his face in gold shadows. “You okay?”
I manage a nod, but my voice hides somewhere behind my hammering heart. The floor feels tilted even though I know it’s level; sweat prickles at the base of my spine.
He checks the panel—buttons dark, call light dead—then gives me a reassuring half-smile that almost works. “Looks like we’re pausing between seven and eight. Probably a sensor trip; they’ll reset it from Control.”
His composure steadies me a little, but nerves still flutter like loose pages in a fan. The cab’s stale air smells faintly of machine oil and lavender sanitizer, and suddenly the space feels one size too small.
I force a breath, summon a quip. “Classic Tuesday plot twist?”
He chuckles, low and warm. “I was hoping for something more original, but yeah—plot twist.”
4
MAX
Truth or Dare
She’s right in front of me—same laugh, same quick-silver wit—and the longer I listen the harder it is to believe the mask actually fooled her. Part of me is thrilled she hasn’t connected the dots; it means I get to watch her discover “Matt” without the baggage that clings to Max Donovan. But the bigger part of me is stunned and –I admit it– a little hurt that she has no clue that we shared a life-altering kiss already.
