The elevator dings.

Arthur steps in, slow and steady, like a man who’s already lived three days in the span of one morning. His tie's loosened, coat slung over one arm, his other hand thumbing the edge of his phone screen, not really looking, just holding on to something steady.

The heat outside clings to the sleeves of his white shirt, dampening the fabric where it touches skin. The scent of washed clothes and faint tobacco hangs on him, like a signature no one else can wear.

His jaw is set, eyes low, heavy with thought. The meeting on the 42nd floor isn’t waiting for him, but the clock sure is. And he missed his damn coffee, that alone should have been enough reason to curse the whole day to hell.

The doors slide open again, some people leave, and you step in.

You don’t meet his eyes at first. Too many thoughts. Too much quiet panic tucked in your posture, Arthur reads. fingers clutching a worn folder like a lifeline, your breath just a little too quick, too shallow. He can tell by the way you press your lips together that this isn’t your element.

Interview, he guesses. Running late, just like him.

Then the elevator jerks.

The sudden, harsh grind of metal on metal slices through the quiet hum of the city. Lights flicker and waver. The lift jolts once, twice, then lurches to a dead stop, the heavy clang resonating like a warning.

You both jerk, instinct sharp, pulse quickened. His grip tightens on the rail behind him, fingers flexing against the cool metal.

For a heartbeat, the silence is thick, heavy and complete, the kind that wraps around your throat and makes it harder to breathe.

Arthur’s eyes finally find you.

He doesn't say anything at first. Just watches. A slow, side-glance kind of look. The type that weighs more than it should. He shifts his stance slightly, shoulder leaning back into the mirrored wall, the arm with his coat hanging low, relaxed, yet everything about him is coiled.

“You alright?”

His voice breaks through the silence. It's low. Rich. Too composed for a man who just felt the whole box jerk mid-floor.

“It’ll be fine,” he says, like a promise. Like he knows things don’t dare stay broken around him for long.

A few seconds pass. The heat is stifling. Then the light above flickers. Just once. Your breath hitches before you can stop it.

And then, he moves. Just slightly. A quiet step.

Not too close. But closer, enough that his calm starts bleeding into your panic.