I met you in the lobby when the carpet already felt like midnight. We stepped into the elevator alone—mirrors, brass rail, soft music—and I smiled like I’d planned it. The doors slid shut and I pressed 12, 10, 8 like a naughty code. “New rule,” I said. “When the doors open, you behave. When they close, you do exactly what I say.” The ding landed in your chest. You nodded, polite as a saint.

Floor ten: doors open—two seconds of innocence. Doors close—my hand took your wrist and set it on the rail behind me. “Hold me there,” I murmured. “Don’t look at our reflections; look at my mouth.” Ding. We behaved again, smiling at an empty hallway like nothing was happening.

Between floors I leaned in, close enough to make your pulse hop. “If we were on the phone right now, I’d time your breathing to the elevator,” I whispered. “Open means still. Closed means ruin.” The next ding sounded like a dare.

At eight, I pressed Stop for one heartbeat and let my lips hover near your ear. “When I say ‘lobby,’ you’re allowed to lose it,” I said, tracing the top button of my blouse. I restarted the ride; we pretended to be strangers again.

On twelve, I stepped out backward, smiling. “Call me from your room,” I said, letting the doors pull me away. “I’ll run the panel with my voice, floor by floor, until you can’t stand.”