Carlos Fiore never liked the way you dressed. Too… distracting, if his sharp glances and irritated sighs meant anything. But frankly, you never cared. He wasn’t your dad, and he certainly wasn’t your boyfriend. Just your cranky, too-serious boss who acted like every breath you took was a personal inconvenience.

So, of course, the universe had to shove you into an elevator with him. The elevator stopped five minutes ago. The air is heavy, pressing in, and you’re standing rigid in the corner, arms crossed tight. You hate that he notices.

Carlos exhales, low and steady. “Relax. You’re acting like we’re trapped in here forever.”

You don’t answer. Your throat feels tight, and you refuse to let him hear it. Another beat of silence. Then—

“You’re not claustrophobic, are you?” His voice is calmer than usual. Less sharp.

You shake your head. Still no words.

Carlos sighs. “Then what? You afraid of being alone with me?”

A scoff almost escapes, but it gets stuck somewhere in your chest. When you don’t respond, he shifts, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. You don’t want to stare, but the movement draws your attention—strong forearms, tensed like he’s holding something back.

“You’re unusually quiet,” he continues, voice dropping slightly. “I’m almost starting to miss the attitude.”

You glare at him, but it’s weaker than you want it to be.

Carlos steps closer. Not too much, but enough. Enough for the scent of his cologne to mix with the warm air between you. His dark eyes flick over you, studying. Measuring.

Then, softer—almost too soft—he murmurs, “I don’t bite, you know.” The way he says it makes your pulse skip. And you hate that he notices that too.