Fiona sat at her desk long after the clock ticked past six. The floor had emptied slowly, one by one Riley waving goodbye with a "don’t stay too late, babe," Maya calling out "see you tomorrow," Sara and Lena laughing about sothing as they headed to the elevators. Their voices faded down the corridor until the only sound left was the low hum of the air conditioning and the soft patter of rain against the windows.
She hadn’t moved.
Her laptop screen had gone dark ten minutes ago, the Voss Éclat logo glowing faintly like a ghost. She stared at it without seeing it, lost in the loop of mories she couldn’t shut off.
Martin’s mouth on hers—hard, desperate, tasting like everything she’d tried to bury. The way his hands had cupped her face like she was sothing precious and breakable at the sa ti. The way she’d kissed him back, fingers twisting in his shirt, body arching toward him before her brain could scream *stop*. The way he’d groaned against her lips—low, raw, like the sound had been torn out of him. The way she’d pushed him away anyway, chest heaving, heart hamring, because if she let it go any further she’d lose the last piece of herself she still controlled.
And then his face when she’d said *we can’t*.
Shock. Then anger. Cold, quiet, dangerous anger that made the room feel smaller.
She’d walked out.
He hadn’t stopped her.
She hadn’t looked back.
Now the office was silent except for her breathing and the rain.
She finally stood. Legs stiff from sitting too long. She saved the empty docunt anyway, closed the laptop, slipped it into her bag. Zipped it. Shouldered it. Walked toward the elevators like she was moving through water.
The hallway lights had dimd to night mode—soft amber glow, shadows stretching long across the black marble. Her heels echoed louder than they should have in the empty space. She pressed the down button. Waited. The doors slid open with a quiet chi.
Empty.
She stepped inside.
Pressed ground floor.
The doors started to close.
A hand caught them.
Martin.
He stepped in without a word.
The doors slid shut behind him.
Fiona’s heart slamd into her ribs.
He stood on the opposite side of the elevator—far enough to keep distance, close enough that she could sll cedar and rain on his coat. His hair was damp, dark strands falling across his forehead. He must have co down from 45. Or maybe he’d been waiting. She didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.
He didn’t look at her.
Just stared at the floor numbers ticking down.
The silence was suffocating.
Fiona pressed her back against the wall, bag clutched to her chest like armor. Her palms were damp. She wiped them on her trousers.
She swallowed.
The elevator humd downward.
Floor 30.
25.
20.
Neither of them spoke.
She stole a glance at him.
His jaw was tight. Lips pressed into a thin line. Hands in his pockets, shoulders rigid. The scar on his left eyebrow stood out in the dim light—small, silver, a reminder of the man who’d once let her trace it with her tongue in the dark.
She looked away.
Floor 15.
10.
5.
The elevator jolted.
A tallic groan.
The lights flickered.
It stopped.
Dead.
Fiona’s stomach lurched.
The ergency light snapped on—cold, white, casting harsh shadows across Martin’s face.
He looked at her then.
Really looked.
No anger now. Just sothing darker. Hungrier.
She pressed harder against the wall.
"What... what happened?"
He stepped forward—slow, deliberate.
"Power surge. Happens sotis in the rain."
He reached past her—close enough that his coat brushed her arm—and pressed the ergency call button.
Nothing.
He pressed it again.
Silence.
He exhaled through his nose. Turned to her.
"We’re stuck."
Fiona’s mouth went dry.
She wrapped both arms around her middle, trying to hide the tremble.
"How long?"
He shrugged. "Could be minutes. Could be hours. Maintenance will get the alert eventually."
She nodded. Swallowed.
The space felt smaller now.
Too small.
His eyes dropped to her arms—crossed protectively over her stomach. He didn’t comnt. Just watched.
The silence stretched again.
Fiona couldn’t stand it.
"Why did you call back?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Martin’s gaze lifted to hers.
"You know why."
She shook her head. "I don’t."
He stepped closer.
She didn’t move.
He stopped a foot away—close enough she could see the raindrops still clinging to his hair, the tension in his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell too fast.
"I couldn’t stop thinking about you," he said quietly. "About that kiss. About the way you pushed away like I was poison."
"You were angry."
"I was."
He took another step.
Now he was close enough she could feel the heat radiating off him.
"I’m still angry," he murmured. "But not at you."
She looked up at him—wide-eyed, breathing shallow.
"Then who?"
He didn’t answer right away.
Just reached out—slow, careful—and brushed his knuckles along her cheek.
She flinched.
He froze.
Then continued—gentler.
"At myself," he said. "For letting you walk out that night. For not chasing you then. For thinking I could just... forget."
Fiona’s breath hitched.
His thumb traced her lower lip—soft, reverent.
"I haven’t forgotten," he whispered. "Not a single second."
Fiona gasped.
Martin’s hand dropped.
He stepped back.
Just one step.
The space between them felt colder.
The ergency light buzzed overhead.
The elevator stayed still.
Fiona wrapped her arms tighter around herself.
Martin leaned against the opposite wall.
Eyes on her.
Neither of them spoke
...
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