AFTERGLOW

ELEVATOR

*CHAPTER 7 — ELEVATOR*

It was 11:13 PM. Just you two left in the building.

You finished the Moreau deck. He finished his calls.

"Come on. I'll walk you down," he said.

Elevator. 42 floors. Just you, him, and that red dress you wore again even though you told yourself you wouldn't.

Floor 30. Floor 20. The lights flickered.

Then — jolt. Stop. Dark for half a second, then emergency light.

Lena grabbed the rail. "Jax?"

He pressed the button. Nothing. Pressed intercom. Static.

"Power cut on this grid. Backup will kick in 10 minutes."

10 minutes. Alone. In a metal box.

She was breathing hard. "I don't like small spaces."

"I remember," he said quietly. "You locked me in the janitor's closet. Sophomore year. You said I liked small spaces because I was invisible anyway."

Lena went still. "Jax—"

"But you — you hated them. You told Maya that in gym. You said you'd panic."

She stared. "You remembered that?"

"I remembered everything about you," he said.

The emergency light made his jaw sharper, his eyes darker.

She was pressed against the back wall. He was in front of her, hands in pockets, not touching. Same as interview day.

"You said you wanted inside," he whispered. "You chose it. Twice."

"I know."

"Do you know what that does to a man who spent 10 years dreaming about you noticing him?"

Her pulse was in her throat.

"Lena."

"Yeah?"

"Can I—" he stopped, jaw clenched. That cold billionaire calm cracking completely. "Can I touch you? Just once. Properly."

She nodded before he finished.

He stepped in, one hand cupping her face, thumb brushing her cheek where her tears had been yesterday. The other hand stayed at his side, fisted.

"Tell me to stop and I stop," he said.

"You won't have to."

He kissed her.

Not soft. 10 years of waiting, of notes kept in boxes, of watching her from the back of a classroom while she laughed at him. It was hungry and desperate and angry and reverent all at once.

She gasped against his mouth and he groaned, pressing her gently back against the elevator wall, his suit jacket open, her hands in his hair.

"Jax—"

"God, you have no idea," he whispered against her lips, forehead to hers, breathing hard. "Every dress I bought, every time I moved your desk... I was trying not to do this. Trying to be a gentleman about it."

"You failed," she whispered, smiling, kissing him again.

The lights flickered back on. The elevator jerked and started moving.

He didn't let go. He slid his hand down to her waist, holding her steady as the elevator dropped.

Ding. Lobby.

The doors opened to an empty lobby and a security guard who took one look, turned around, and walked away.

Jax looked down at her, swollen lips, his cologne on her sweater.

"My place or 42B?" he asked, voice wrecked. "Your choice. Always your choice."

She took his hand.

"Yours. But only if that photo of your mom is still on the shelf. I want her to like me."

He laughed, shocked, soft — the first real laugh she'd ever heard from him.

"She already does."

Doors closed again, going back up.