Kian slumps against the cold steel wall of the elevator, sweat clinging under his collar despite the blackout’s chill. The emergency light paints his jaw in sharp relief, jaw tense, eyes shadowed and restless. Across from him, Leya hugs her knees to her chest, curls wild around flushed cheeks, her event-planner chic replaced by pajama shorts, a borrowed hoodie, and raw vulnerability. Each jolt of the elevator cable sounds thunderously close.

He runs a hand over his face, pulse echoing in his ears, pretending not to notice Leya’s trembling. She laughs—tight, brittle—filling the silence with small anxieties. “Of course it breaks when we’re in here. Is that your luck, or mine?”

Kian tries for cocky, but his voice betrays him. “Definitely mine. Always is.” His hands clench and unclench at his sides. He studies the floor, then darts glances at her, scared she’ll see through every mask.

She fidgets with the fraying hem of her sleeve. “I know what that feels like—trying to pretend you’re not freaking out.” Her eyes meet his, luminous even in near-dark. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Kian.”

He looks away, jaw working. “What if that’s all I have?” The confession gusts out, unexpected. In the dimness, their honesty hovers, fragile, impossible to snatch back.

Leya’s lips tremble. She shifts closer, her knee brushing his. “You’re not just some cocky guy streaming games. I wish you’d let people see it.” She swallows, cheeks burning. “I wish you’d let me see it.” Her voice cracks and she laughs softly, disbelieving her own courage. “I’m tired of being the safe one, cheering from the sidelines. I want to be chosen, for real.”

He’s silent, but his hand finds hers—callused, shaking. “You have no idea what you’re asking,” he murmurs. His thumb grazes her knuckles and she leans her head against his shoulder, the gesture tender, desperate.

“I know exactly what I’m asking.” She looks up at him, hope flickering. “I’m in love with you.” Tears glisten on her lashes, but she doesn’t flinch as the words fill the dark.

Kian’s breath stutters. Sarelle’s name haunts him—her sharp smile, the taste of her skin, her chaos. Guilt wars with longing. He’s split open, exposed, and for a dizzy second, he’s ready to surrender to Leya’s warmth.

The elevator jolts. Lights flicker to life. Kian blinks, ripping away his hand, guilt flooding his face. “I can’t.” The doors shudder open. He flees, running down the hall, leaving Leya staring after him, shattered, tears sliding down her cheeks.

Upstairs on the rooftop, Sarelle stands in the darkness, lips pressed thin, camera at her side. Vyn finds her, prowling closer, a predator in tailored black, his smile all sharp edges. He leans in, voice silk and threat. “You’re too smart to waste yourself on Kian. I could give you stories worth more than any photo.”

She lets him touch her wrist, but her voice is steel. “Is that what you told Leya? Or all the others on your little list?” Her words slice. “We know what you are, Vyn. You’re not getting anything from me. Not anymore.”

Vyn recoils, mask slipping, then stalks away as the building below flickers awake. Sarelle exhales, chest heaving, anger and relief mingling.

Inside, Kian finds Sarelle waiting outside his door, arms folded, eyes full of storm. He barely gets out a word before she pushes him back, lips crashing into his, their bodies meeting in desperate hunger. His hands tangle in her hair; her nails score his back through his shirt, both of them raw, breathless, everything unsaid dissolving into touch.

“Don’t let go,” he begs, voice hoarse, vulnerability laid bare. She answers with her body—pants tugged down, back arching against the glass wall, city lights flickering on their skin. The sex is urgent, almost furious, every movement a plea: trust me, see me, stay. He kisses her so fiercely it feels like drowning and breathing at once.

After, tangled on the carpet, Kian clutches Sarelle as if she could slip away. But her phone buzzes nearby—a message, glowing. She reads it, color draining from her cheeks. Her dream—South America—calling. Kian’s arms tighten, panic in his eyes.

She looks at him, torn wide open: love, longing, terror. “What if I’m never enough for both of us?” she whispers.

He kisses her temple, silent, knowing there’s no answer.

In the dark hallway, Leya presses her forehead to the elevator doors, mascara streaking down her cheeks. Vyn watches from the stairwell, eyes hollow, hate and regret flickering in their depths.

Downstairs, Sarelle stares at the screen: Are you coming? it reads. She deletes the message, but her hands shake.

To be continued...