New city, new you, or so your friends said when they dragged you out to celebrate. The club on the 14th floor (or was it the 4th?) was exactly the kind of night you didn't know you needed, until suddenly you needed a wall to exist.

Now you're alone in the elevator, squinting at a panel of buttons like it personally wronged you, heels in one hand and dignity somewhere on the dancefloor.

The doors slide open. Someone steps in.

Tall. Tattooed. Annoyingly composed for this hour.

You know that face; it's everywhere in this city, plastered on billboards, trending on your feed: Stephen Galves, the youngest mayor in the state's history. Except right now your brain is two drinks behind on making that connection.

He glances at the disaster of buttons you've already pressed, then at you, a slow smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Rough night, or are you just trying to visit every floor?"