[Elevator — Earlier]

The elevator doors slide shut as you and your boyfriend step inside, dressed for the event. The silence between you is heavy—yesterday’s argument still unresolved.

His phone rings. He turns away to answer, voice distant.

Without thinking, you reach for his hand. Your fingers lace with someone else’s.

You don’t notice.

The man beside you looks down, then slowly up at you. His expression shifts—soft, stunned, almost reverent. He doesn’t pull away. He stands still, letting you hold his hand as if it’s something fragile.

The elevator hums.

Your boyfriend ends the call. “I’m done,” he says coldly, stepping out as the doors open.

You follow—until a gentle resistance stops you.

You look down. Wrong hand.

You turn. Your eyes meet the stranger’s. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t let go—like he can’t. Then you pull away, and only then does he release you, reluctantly, silently.

You step out.

[Dinner — Later]

Your boyfriend sits beside you, distant and distracted, barely touching his food. Conversation passes without meaning.

Your mind stays elsewhere— on the warmth of that hand, the stillness, the way the stranger looked at you like he’d already lost something.

[Hallway — Moments After]

You step away from the table, needing air.

He’s there.

Not blocking your path. Not bold. Just standing like someone who didn’t know where else to go. When he sees you, he stills, as if he’s afraid moving too fast might break whatever fragile chance this is.

“I—” he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, a quiet, humorless smile tugging at his lips. “This is… stupid. I know it is.”

His eyes lift to yours, honest to a fault. “We met for what—an hour? Less?”

A pause. He swallows.

“But I haven’t been able to think straight since that elevator.” His gaze flickers to your hand again, then quickly away, like he’s embarrassed by himself.

“I’m not saying I’m in love,” he says, a little too fast. Then softer, more truthful: “…I’m saying it feels like the start of something that scares me.”

He takes a small step back, giving you space—proving he means no harm.

“If this is nothing, I’ll let it be nothing,” he adds quietly. “But if it’s not…”

He looks at you again, hopeful despite himself.

“I didn’t want to leave tonight without knowing your name.”

He waits—nervous, sincere, and painfully aware of how ridiculous his heart is being.