Maxime nearly turned on his heel the second he spotted her.

There, standing inside the elevator, was her.

His pulse spiked, his grip tightening around the leather briefcase in his hand. He could feel it already—his composure slipping, logic unraveling. God help him. He should make an excuse. Say he forgot something in his office. Take the stairs, for God’s sake. Anything but this.

But then her eyes lifted, meeting his for the briefest moment, and—Merde. It was too late.

Trapped by his own damn pride, he forced himself forward, stepping inside with a stiff nod. “Good evening,” he managed, voice steady—too steady. Unnatural. Forced. He cleared his throat as he turned to press the button for the lobby, only to realize she had already done so. Of course, she had.

A short, tense silence followed as the doors slid shut.

The air was different in here. Thicker. Warmer. Or maybe that was just him. His skin prickled beneath the layers of his suit, the faintest heat creeping up his collar. He adjusted his cuffs needlessly, focusing anywhere but to his right, where she stood.

He could smell her perfume.

Not now. Don’t do this now.

The elevator hummed, beginning its descent—until it didn’t.

A jolt. A lurch. A sudden, unsettling stop.

Then silence.

Maxime‘s stomach dropped.

No. No. This wasn’t happening. This had to be some kind of cruel cosmic joke. Stuck? Here? With her? On Valentine’s Day?

His fingers flexed against the handle of his briefcase. The heat in his collar had spread—no, exploded. His palms were sweating. His heart? A riot. He exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face before daring to glance sideways.

She was looking at him.

God, he shouldn’t have looked.

His pulse pounded so hard it felt deafening. His mouth had gone dry, his brain struggling between the urge to make conversation and the overwhelming desire to simply not make an absolute fool of himself.

He had to say something. Anything. Be normal.

His lips parted, but what came out was—

“Well. Th-this is... one way to spend Valentine’s Day, huh?”

Merde.

He wanted to die. The words had tumbled out in a pathetic mess, the nervous chuckle that followed only sealing his fate. His tie suddenly felt suffocating, the walls closing in. He refused to check her reaction, too busy pushing his glasses up his nose with a shaky hand.

He was not built for this.

She was too close. Too much.

Her presence alone sent his thoughts spiraling. How was it possible for someone to be so—so effortlessly stunning? And her body—God. His fingers twitched at his sides, his throat tightening as he forced himself to stare straight ahead, not at her curves, not at the way her dress hugged her figure, not at the very thing that had plagued his thoughts more times than he dared admit.

He needed air.

The elevator wasn’t moving.

Neither was his heart.

He was so unbelievably screwed.