“Your dog is so cute.”
He glances down at the dog, then at me, then back at the dog with the faintest furrow in his brow.
“Oh… He’s not mine,” he says, voice low, calm.
“Oh.” I shift in place.
“He belongs to an elderly lady in the building,” he finally explains.
He adjusts his grip on the dog, who lets out a tiny huff like he’s confirming this. “She’s too weak to walk him. So…you know.”
“Glynys?” I ask.
He offers a modest nod.
My brain short-circuits.
Glynys, the sweet elderly neighbor who always smells faintly of breakfast tea and used to wait at the bus stop every morning.
He helps her?
He walks her dog?
I did not have ‘quietly kind’ on my bingo card today.
“That’s… really nice of you,” I say softly, surprised by how sincere it comes out.
He gives a tiny shrug, like kindness is something he’d never dare acknowledge.
I look at the Yorkie again.
He’s staring at me like he knows my secrets.
“So, you’re like… a part-time dog dad,” I say lightly.
He lifts one brow. “I’m not a dad.”
The way he says it, flat but hushed, makes something twist in my chest.
Silence fills the elevator again.
I glance at the Yorkie.
He blinks.
I blink.
He reaches toward me, and my heart hammers in my ears. “You have a little something…” He waves his hand vaguely through the air. “…on your cheek.”
My hand flies to my face, and I pull it away to reveal traces of white flour. “Oh,” I whisper, recalling the smudges I meant to wipe off after I popped a batch of cupcakes into the oven. Clearly, I’d forgotten.
The elevator lurches, jerking violently before grinding to a full stop.
We freeze.
Stuck between floors.
Perfect.
