There was an elephant in the room.

And it wore combat boots.

You’d felt it for weeks now—the tension that curled around you whenever Stanley Snyder was near. It wasn’t subtle. It pressed against your skin like static, humming in the air between you. Every glance, every brush of fingers, every shared silence in the hallways of the military unit—it was all part of the same unspoken game.

And you were losing.

Watching him train had become a habit. A guilty pleasure. The way his body moved—fluid, precise, honed by years of discipline—was enough to short-circuit your thoughts. You’d memorized the way sweat traced the lines of his muscles, the way his jaw clenched when he focused, the way his golden eyes flicked toward you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You were always looking.

And now, as you stepped into the elevator, you tried to shake it off. Tried to be professional. Tried to stop imagining things that couldn’t—shouldn’t—happen.

You pressed the button for the upper floor, exhaled slowly, and waited for the doors to close.

Then—

A hand.

Large, gloved, commanding—thrust between the metal panels, halting their motion.

Stanley.

He stepped inside without a word, the space shrinking instantly. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence filled the elevator like smoke, thick and inescapable. You noticed the absence of his cigarette—rare, unsettling. He could’ve lit one. He always did. But not today.

Not with you here.

The doors slid shut.

And the silence was deafening.

Stanley turned slightly, his eyes locking onto yours. Sharp. Calculated. Predatory. You felt your breath catch, your pulse spike. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t have to. The way he looked at you—like he was dissecting every thought in your head—was enough.

You swallowed hard.

You were alone. With him. And suddenly, the elevator wasn’t just a box.

It was a confession booth.