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The Elevator

Authors Note

The Elevator is a story about silence, tension, and everything that's never supposed to happen--but does anyway. It's raw, messy, and unapologetically taboo. If you're drawn to stories where guilt and desire blur, where love gets twisted and nothing stays clean, then this one's for you.

CHAPTER 1

"Sometimes silence says too much."

DOWNTOWN APARTMENT BUILDING -- LOBBY -- LATE AFTERNOON

BLACKOUT. JULY. THE KIND OF HEAT THAT MAKES THE WALLS SWEAT.

She wipes her forehead with the hem of her shirt as she steps into the lobby, shoulder burning from the weight of her bag. Power's out. No lights. No breeze. Just shadows and the dull buzz of city heat bleeding through the cracked glass.

Elevator's still working. Maybe running on backup. She hits the call button and exhales.

The door slides open.

He's already inside.

No words. Just the sound of both of them breathing too hard.

She freezes. Her hand clenches around the strap of her purse. He leans against the far wall like the moment don't mean shit to him. But his jaw's tight. His eyes flick down, then up again.

"I didn't know you were in town," she says quietly.

He shrugs once. "Didn't plan to be."

She steps in without waiting for an invitation.The Elevator фото

The door slides shut.

DING.

DING.

CLUNK.

Then silence. Power dies. Elevator stops.

"Of course," she mutters. "Fucking blackout."

He tries the panel. Dead. "Guess the heat finally cooked the grid."

They both stand there. Still. Uneasy.

"You here for Granny?" he asks eventually.

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah."

"She don't know I was comin'. Figured I'd surprise her."

"Me too."

More silence.

Neither one of them has looked directly at the other yet. Not for real.

She shifts, her tank top clinging to her back. He notices.

Then his eyes catch the curve of her stomach.

He blinks.

"You're... pregnant?"

She nods. Doesn't say a word.

His arms drop to his sides. "Wow."

"You got somethin' to say?" she asks, tone flat.

"Just... damn."

"Yeah."

He laughs once. No joy in it. "You disappeared after the funeral. Now you pop back up like this?"

"You ain't call either."

"I didn't know what to say."

"You could've started with sorry."

"For what?"

She finally looks at him. "You know."

They're quiet again.

"Last time I saw you," he says slowly, "you were crying in the driveway."

"And you drove off."

"I didn't know how to fix it."

"You didn't even try."

He swallows. "That whole day was fucked."

"It was Dad's funeral. Of course it was."

He looks down. "You said some shit I couldn't forget."

"You said shit I'll never forgive."

He leans against the wall again, wipes sweat from his face.

"How far along are you?" he asks.

She doesn't answer.

"You happy?"

She scoffs. "You really care?"

He doesn't respond.

The air gets heavier. Sweat slips down his temple. She fans herself with her hand, breath shallow.

"This whole building feels like a coffin," she mutters.

He glances at her. "You look... drained."

"You look like a stranger."

That lands. Hard.

And it's true.

Since the day they buried their father, they haven't spoken. Not once. Not a text. Not a call. Just silence -- long and stubborn.

Now they're stuck here. No space. No air. No exit.

He looks at her again. Really looks this time.

"You look different."

"I am."

She places a hand over her stomach. Protective. Quiet.

Something shifts in his face. Not quite softness. Not quite anger. Just something too messy to name.

"You gonna tell Granny?" he asks.

"Eventually."

He nods.

Then: "you know who the dad is?"

She glares at him. "You always ask the wrong shit."

"I don't know what the right shit is anymore."

"Then don't speak."

They don't speak again. Not for a while.

But they're standing closer now.

And the heat doesn't feel like the worst part of the elevator anymore.

CHAPTER 2

"Sometimes it ain't what you say. It's what you stop fighting."

STUCK ELEVATOR -- TWENTY MINUTES LATER

No sound but the drip of sweat hitting metal and the subtle creak of two people trying not to shift too loud.

She's on the floor now. Back to the wall, knees up. Her shirt's damp all over. Her legs glisten. Her hair's frizzed out at the roots. She looks like she hasn't slept right in days.

He's still standing. Hands on his hips, head tilted back, eyes closed. His shirt is off now, balled up under his arm. Chest rising slow, too slow. Heat's starting to weigh on his lungs.

"You should sit down," she says, not looking at him.

"I'm fine."

"You look like you about to fall over. You know you don't do good in the heat."

He doesn't respond. Just breathes.

She finally lifts her head. "Why you just now visiting Granny?"

"Time."

"Time?"

"Don't start."

She leans her head back against the wall. "I ain't started anything."

"You always start shit."

"No," she says, looking up at him. "I finish it."

His jaw flexes.

He slides down finally, ends up across from her -- not too close, not far enough. His shoulder brushes the metal. Their knees nearly touch.

"I didn't think you'd ever come back," she says.

"Didn't think you'd be pregnant."

"I didn't plan to either."

He wipes his face. "So who's the guy? He around?"

"Is he around?" She looks at him. Real this time. "Does it matter?"

He doesn't answer.

They sit in that for a while. Just the hum of silence and the occasional flicker of light from the panel that might come back on. But doesn't.

He glances at her stomach. She catches it.

"What?" she snaps.

"Nothing."

"You keep looking like you wanna say something."

"I just... it's weird."

"What's weird?"

"You like this. You pregnant. You sittin' there like it don't mean nothin'."

"It means a lot," she says.

"Don't look like it."

Her voice drops. "Maybe I got used to carrying heavy shit."

He closes his mouth.

She exhales. "You still mad at me?"

He stares at her. Then leans forward slightly, elbows to his knees.

"I ain't even know how to reach you."

"You didn't try."

"I didn't think you'd answer."

"Granny gon' lose it."

"She gon' cuss both of us out."

That quiets things again.

The elevator hums once -- a jolt. The lights blink -- then die again.

She jumps a little.

He notices.

"You good?"

"Yeah."

"You always hated tight spaces."

"I hate surprises more."

"You used to climb in my bed when the power went out."

"That was a long time ago."

He looks at her. "Not that long."

She looks away.

He's still watching her. The line of sweat down her chest. The way her stomach moves when she breathes. Her mouth.

"Why now?" he asks.

She furrows her brow. "What?"

"Why'd you come back?"

She shrugs. "Couldn't stay gone forever."

"You could've."

"I didn't want to."

He leans back, head against the wall. Stares up.

"Feels like I don't know you anymore."

"You don't."

She says it like fact.

He lowers his gaze again. It lands somewhere between her knees and her stomach.

"Why you looking at me like that?" she asks.

He doesn't answer right away.

"You different," he says.

"So are you."

She pulls her legs in tighter, arms hugging her knees.

Their eyes lock.

Neither of them breaks it.

The heat pulses between them now. Sticky. Too close to call casual.

CHAPTER 3

"You crossed it the second you didn't pull back."

STUCK ELEVATOR -- LATER THAT NIGHT

No idea how long it's been. Could be thirty minutes. Could be two hours. Time moves weird when you're sweating through your clothes and trying not to think about the person sitting inches in front of you.

Neither of them's spoken in a while.

She's leaning back now, one hand pressed against her lower back, belly pushed out with a sigh. Her body's tired -- full of weight, heat, gravity.

He watches her.

Not rude. Not perverted. Just... locked in. Like trying to read something he doesn't understand.

Her belly moves again. Slow, like something shifted under the skin.

"You keep staring," she says without looking at him.

He blinks. "Didn't realize."

"You got that face."

"What face?"

"The one you used to make when we'd walk past a little person, or a clown."

He looks away. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't."

That hangs in the air a second too long.

Then she shifts. Wipes her palms on her thighs. Then glances at him. And says, quietly:

"You wanna feel it?"

He doesn't answer right away.

But she's already moving -- slow, unsure, maybe a little reckless from the heat and the silence and the months of not being seen.

She reaches for his hand.

He lets her.

She pulls it gently across the short space between them and places it right there -- against the curve of her belly.

Warm. Alive. Rounder than he expected.

He stiffens. Breath catches.

She holds his hand there, her fingers lightly on his wrist. Not looking at him. Just... letting it happen.

He feels it -- a shift, a soft thump. Small but real.

His hand stays. Her fingers stay over his. For a second too long. Then two.

He should pull back.

He doesn't.

Instead, his thumb moves. Just a little. Just enough to be a touch.

She doesn't stop him.

Her eyes lift to his. Soft. Searching.

Then her hand moves -- slow, slow -- up his forearm.

He shifts closer. The heat between them building with every breath.

Her knees fall open just a little. Not on purpose. Just room.

His fingers trail up her side, slow. Her shirt lifts. Skin. Sweat. Stretch marks. Breath.

He leans in.

Closer.

Closer.

And then it just happens.

Mouth on mouth. Clumsy. Hot. No warning. No talk. No turning back.

Teeth click. Mouths miss. Then catch.

Her hands are in his hair. His palms are under her shirt. One knee nudges between her thighs.

Everything's slow and imperfect and undeniable.

The kiss breaks, but they don't stop.

She bites her bottom lip. Eyes glassy.

But she's still touching him.

And he's still breathing against her skin like it's the only air left.

CHAPTER 4

"It ain't the heat. It's what it pulls out of you."

STUCK ELEVATOR -- RIGHT AFTER THE KISS

The moment shatters.

A loud clank echoes above them -- metal shifting, gears grinding somewhere deep inside the shaft.

They break apart like they got burned.

She jerks back, arms covering her chest, breathing sharp. He stumbles to his feet, shirtless, hands flexing like they don't know where to go.

No one's there. Elevator's still dead. Still hot. But it feels like they got seen.

She slides into the corner, curling up, arms tight around her knees. Her chest rises and falls like she just ran six blocks.

He presses his back to the wall, head tipped up, lips parted. Sweat rolls off his ribs. His hard-on still shows -- painfully visible, painfully alive.

They don't speak.

They just sit.

The air gets thicker. Slower.

Everything that was about to happen sits between them now -- heavy, unfinished.

STUCK ELEVATOR -- MAYBE AN HOUR LATER

The silence doesn't heal anything. It just stretches. Wraps around their bodies like steam.

She's still across from him, legs folded, arms loose now. Her tank clings to her chest. Her belly rises with each breath, soft and tight, moving beneath the thin cotton.

He's watching her again.

Eyes low. Controlled. But locked in.

She doesn't look at him. Just reaches up, pulls her damp hair off her neck, and shifts her legs slightly apart. Her inner thighs gleam with sweat.

He swallows.

Doesn't speak.

She catches him staring.

And this time... she doesn't flinch.

Instead, she leans back against the wall. Slow. Her legs part just a little more. Her hand rests lightly on her belly.

Then -- without a word -- she slides her fingers down and pulls her shorts off.

No hesitation. Just done.

She doesn't look at him. Doesn't say a thing. Just sits there, bare from the waist down, legs open, heat radiating off her like a slow confession.

He blinks. Swears under his breath. Then crawls toward her.

Slow. Like he's not sure she'll let him.

She doesn't stop him.

She lifts her hips just enough to help him pull her tank top over her head. Her breasts fall soft and full, nipples dark and tight from the heat. He stares.

She watches him now -- his face, his breath, the way his jaw clenches when he sees her naked like this.

Still, no one talks.

He kneels between her legs, hands on her thighs. Slowly parts them more.

His palms glide up her skin, damp and smooth, until they reach her hips. He leans forward, mouth dragging over her belly -- over the swell of it -- kissing low, reverent.

Then lower.

She gasps when he licks her.

Soft at first. Just a taste. Then longer. Slower. His tongue moves in tight circles, warm and wet and steady. She lets her head drop back against the wall, moaning low.

Her thighs tremble against his ears.

He grips under them, holding her still, burying his face deeper. The sound of his mouth on her is obscene -- wet, sticky, breathy.

She whispers his name once. Not like a call. Like a warning.

But he doesn't stop.

Her body arches. Hips rolling. She grabs his hair, pulls him closer, rides his tongue with small, shaky thrusts.

When she comes, it's sudden. A sharp moan -- bitten off halfway. Her whole body jolts, thighs clamping around his head.

He stays there. Tongue dragging through her again, slower now, like he can't get enough.

When he finally pulls away, her legs are shaking. She's breathing fast. Face flushed.

He stands. Still silent.

Pushes his shorts down.

His dick slaps heavy against his thigh -- hard, slick, flushed dark at the tip.

She stares at it. Then meets his eyes.

Nothing needs to be said.

She shifts her hips forward. He lowers himself over her.

He pushes in -- bare, slow, inch by inch -- until he's buried.

They both gasp.

His hands brace on both sides of her head. Her legs wrap around his waist.

He fucks her slow at first. Deep. Controlled. Like he wants to memorize how she feels from the inside out.

The rhythm builds naturally -- hips rolling, bodies slick with sweat, the soft slap of skin on skin echoing through the dead air.

She moans. Not loud. Just deep. Throaty. Every sound soaked in need.

His lips find her throat. Then her breast. His tongue flicks across her nipple, then sucks hard. She whimpers. Her fingers dig into his back.

"Don't stop," she breathes.

He doesn't.

The pace gets rougher. Thrusts harder. Her body bounces under him with every push.

He grips her hips, pulls her down to meet him -- over and over -- their stomachs sticky, chests pressed, mouths open but not speaking.

She comes again. Legs locked. A moan caught in her throat like a sob.

He fucks through it -- strokes longer, deeper -- until his body tenses hard and he groans low into her neck.

He spills inside her, hips bucking, breath broken.

Then stills.

Their chests rise and fall against each other. Sticky. Fused.

Still no words.

Just sweat. Heat. And the silence that finally tells the truth.

QUICK ROUND TWO

"This is the part we don't talk about later."

STUCK ELEVATOR -- MINUTES LATER

She's half-dressed now, legs still sticky, shirt bunched under her chest. He's still inside her heat, hands on her hips, body buzzing.

The intercom hisses. Then a man's voice, muffled:

"Y'all okay in there? Crew's on the way. Hang tight."

She freezes.

He doesn't move.

They lock eyes -- wide, breathless.

Then something shifts in her face.

She turns around. Slowly. Hands to the floor, knees spread. Looks back at him over her shoulder.

Still wet. Still open.

His dick's already getting hard again -- just seeing her like that, bent over and waiting, hair stuck to her neck, sweat beading down her spine.

He moves behind her, pushes back in -- one stroke, deep. No hesitation.

She gasps, hands splayed against the floor.

His grip tightens around her hips. Thrusts harder. Faster. Desperate.

No rhythm this time. Just urgency. The filthy kind. Bodies smacking, breath loud, no time to think.

She bites her bottom lip to keep from moaning. He grunts with every thrust, forehead damp, eyes locked on the way her ass bounces against him.

The elevator jerks again -- just slightly -- like help's almost here.

He fucks her harder.

She breaks. A muffled cry into her elbow. Her pussy clenches around him, soaking, spasming.

He slams in once, twice, then groans -- low, primal -- and finishes inside her again, twitching deep, full.

They collapse forward. Panting.

Sticky. Shaking.

Still no words.

Just the hiss of the intercom and the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door.

CHAPTER 5

"You ever sweat with somebody, then pretend you didn't?"

BUILDING LOBBY -- LATER

The elevator creaks. Then jerks. Then finally opens.

Cool air hits like a slap.

She squints against the light. Hair stuck to her cheek, shirt damp in patches. She's pulled her shorts back on, but they cling too tight. There's a smudge on her thigh. Her bra's still somewhere on the elevator floor.

He steps out behind her, chest bare, shirt balled in his hand. His waistband's twisted. His zipper's only halfway up. They both look... used. Wrecked.

A maintenance guy stands near the breaker box. Middle-aged. Bored.

"You two alright?" he asks.

She nods, avoiding eye contact. "Yeah. Just hot."

He squints at them. "You look it."

She forces a half-smile. Keeps walking.

He follows, quiet. Neither of them says anything as they head to the hallway.

GUEST BEDROOM -- GRANNY'S APARTMENT -- NIGHT

The shower runs behind the door. Muffled water, soft steam.

She stands in front of the dresser in an oversized sleep shirt, arms folded, staring at nothing.

He walks past her, towel over his shoulder, hair damp, clean clothes hanging looser than before.

Their eyes meet for a second.

Just one.

No smile. No smirk. No flirting. Just the look of two people who burned through something they can't rebuild.

"I'll sleep on the couch," he says.

She nods.

He leaves.

She closes the door.

Locks it.

Leans back against it.

Closes her eyes.

Hand drifts slowly to her belly. Feels the faintest flutter. Not from him. Not because of this. But it feels different now.

LIVING ROOM -- LATER THAT NIGHT

He lies on the couch in the dark. Shirt off again. Blanket tangled around his legs. One hand behind his head. The other clenched in a fist over his chest.

He hasn't slept.

He won't.

Somewhere in the apartment, a floorboard creaks.

He doesn't move.

But his eyes stay open.

GRANNY'S BUILDING -- NEXT MORNING

Sun's up.

He steps out into the light, duffel bag on his shoulder.

She watches from the second-story window. Eyes low. No wave.

He doesn't look back.

Not once.

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