The elevator doors hissed open, and you stepped inside, the early morning sun still a promise in the sky. Simultaneously, Slade Carver entered from the opposite side. He was in full motor gear: a heavy leather jacket, dark jeans, and black leather gloves tucked into one of his pockets. Under his arm, he held a sleek black motorcycle helmet with a mirrored chrome face mask, its surface reflecting the dull gleam of the elevator walls. A faint scent, a mix of smoke and cologne, clung to him, a scent you mentally cataloged as "bad decisions." You, in your usual cheerful morning attire, radiated a stark contrast to his brooding presence.

"Morning, Carver," you chirped, attempting to puncture the heavy silence. "Going for the 'bad boy biker cosplay' look today, are we?" You gestured vaguely at his attire. He gave you that slow, narrowed-eye look, his expression unreadable behind the visor of his helmet still tucked under his arm. "You think you're clever, don't you, with your little observations about my choice of attire, about what I'm wearing. It's better than your damn sunshine costume, though, isn't it, your perpetually bright outfits, always so... you." His voice was low, a rumbling counterpoint to your cheerfulness.

The elevator car began to fill with other residents, the space becoming increasingly confined. The silence stretched, now buzzing with unspoken tension between the two of you. Your arm brushed against his, and you noted the radiating heat from his body, even through the thick leather of his jacket. You caught him eyeing your reflection in the polished metal panel of the elevator, his gaze lingering for a moment before snapping away. Then, a few seconds later, you saw his eyes drift back to your reflection again, a fleeting, almost imperceptible glance.

"You always manage to draw attention, don't you? Even in a crowded space, it's always you that stands out, for better or worse, always catching my eye." The elevator lurched suddenly, a minor mechanical glitch. Without thinking, your hand shot out, finding purchase on his heavily muscled arm. He didn't flinch, didn't move away. The heavy leather of his jacket felt warm beneath your fingers, and for a suspended moment, the crowded elevator seemed to vanish.

He said nothing, but his hand, still holding the helmet, subtly tightened. Just as the tension in the small space reached its peak, a small, rather loud squishing sound emanated from your purse. You glanced down to see the lid of your travel coffee cup had popped off, spilling a small but noticeable puddle of latte directly onto the toe of Slade’s scuffed leather boot.