Reboot

She tried to breathe, the sound rapid and frantic in the close space. What if they ran out of oxygen? Did air get cycled into elevators like in planes? Would the air turn off?

She felt his hand again, sliding faintly down her arm to find her hand, taking it and pressing it flat against something warm and firm. She jerked back, afraid of whatever it was she was touching.

"Feel how I'm breathing?" he said softly, his voice low.

He slid her hand around some fabric until it was touching hot, bare skin. Her senses prickled to a sharp awareness of him.

"Feel my heartbeat, Chloe. Nice and slow. You feel it?"

She could feel it, actually, his heart thumping under her hand. Had he unbuttoned his shirt? He breathed in an exaggerated, slow way, his chest rising and falling.

"Make yours like mine," he urged her, breathing loudly again, and she strained to make out his expression in the near darkness. Was he mocking her?

"Come on," he said, a little impatient now, and she tried to do as he said. It took a while for her to match his slow rhythm, but at least she was focusing on something. They said nothing, just breathing rhythmically in sync. Dimly she felt like an idiot, but she had to admit it was helping.

"Ten minutes is a long time," she said finally, her voice calmer than she thought it'd be.

She felt him laugh beneath her hand. "You need to get out more," he said, and she wondered if she'd missed a joke.

"You were going straight home?" he asked, and her attention was caught by the unexpectedness of the question.

"Yeah."

"What would you do, in the first ten minutes you're home?"

"I don't know. Relax."

"Go through it, step by step. You're a writer, you know details. Walk me through every single thing you do, ten whole minutes."

Chloe felt her face flush when he mentioned her job. He remembered what she did, then.

"What's the first thing you see when you come through the door?" he urged, willing her to play the game.

"I don't know. The light fixture, I guess."

"What's it like?"

"It's this big piece, like an old industrial light bulb but it's massive. I turn on the light and I see it, and I see my couch. It's this mustard yellow Chesterfield I got for dirt cheap at an estate sale. My mother hates it."

Harry laughed softly, squeezing her hand still pressed against his chest. Chloe felt something strange twist in her stomach. Was she going crazy, or was he being sweet? Why was he touching her?

"What's the first thing you do, when you're home?"

"Take off my clothes."

Harry's laugh was louder, and even in the darkness she could feel herself flush with embarrassment.

"I mean, I put on pajamas. I don't walk around naked."

"Why not? You should."

"Yeah, right," she scoffed. "Nobody wants to see that."

"Oh yeah, they do," he insisted, and she thought she could hear his smile. She said nothing, trying to collect her thoughts.

"You've got a great body," he added casually, and her heart clenched again as a warning not to read into this. "What are your pjs like?"

"Standard fare," she insisted firmly. "Shirt, pants, slippers."

"Hmm," he murmured, as if in disagreement. "Sounds like a lot. What if we . . . compromised? How about you put on a shirt and some panties?"

"You're dressing me now?"

"Hey, you're painting the pictures with words, but I get to look at the picture in my head."

"Sure," she teased, feeling their banter pick up.

"Ok, so, shirt and panties. What now, you cook some dinner?"

"Tonight? No way. Even without this elevator bullshit I wasn't cooking. Maybe I'd heat up some leftovers, order a pizza or something."

She felt his hand tense over hers, and she could have sworn his breathing intensified. "Let me guess," he said darkly. "Milano's pizza?"

She frowned. "Uh . . . probably not? There isn't one close to me."

"Sure," he quipped back, his voice heavily laden with sarcasm.

What was happening?

"I thought Milano's was your go to," Harry pressed, and Chloe felt completely bewildered. Since when did the guy feel so strongly about pizza? How freaking weird was that?

"What about you? Your first ten minutes?" Her effort to change the subject back to more sane topics failed; he was already pulling away, leaving her in the strange dim light. She glanced down and only one phone was on. Hers must've died. Great. Just great.

"My phone died," she whispered, feeling her heart sink.

Silence.

"Harry, my phone died. Did yours have a lot of battery left?"

"What does it matter, when we don't have a signal?" The sound of his bitter voice caused a wave of desperation to crash over her.

"What if the lights don't come back on? We have to conserve yours," she said frantically, bending down and turning his phone over.

"You're at 67%," she breathed in relief. "That lasts you a while, right?"

"Chloe, they're gonna come back on any minute."

"Let's turn yours off at 50%, just in case. It's like . . . it's super important to be able to see a little bit sometimes, just like, a little," she rambled, telling herself she was being logical, practical, not in the least bit irrational.

"Do you want me to call Ben for an update?"

"What for?" she practically yelled, her nerves raw. "So he can tell us that a whopping four fucking minutes have passed and that now it's gonna be five hours more?"

"What do you think I do?"

"What?"

"With my minutes, Chloe. What do you think I do?"

"As . . . as a lawyer?" she asked, bewildered.

"So these doors open up," he said matter-of-factly, hooking a hand under her armpit and lifting her gently up. She stood, coming to rest again with her back to the elevator wall. She sensed him in front of her, in resumption of their earlier posture.

"They open up," he said again. "Like they're going to real soon. And I walk out of here. What do you think I do next?"

"You want me to . . . to guess?"

"Yeah, guess." His voice was gentler now, softer.

"I don't know. You . . . you drive somewhere."

"Am I going to Chester's?" The teasing lilt was back in his voice. Confusion swirled around in her mind but she tried to focus on him, on his question. It had helped before. She considered Chester's for a moment before answering.

"No."

"No? Then where? Home?"

"No."

"Interesting. Where am I going in Chloe's mind?"

"Probably to your girlfriend's apartment."

There was a long silence, and Chloe wondered if he was going to be angry again like he was about the stupid pizza.

"Why am I going there?" he asked finally, cautiously.

Chloe spared only a moment to ask herself if this reply confirmed his dating status before going on. "Well, you're very late."

"Late?"

"Yeah, you two were going out tonight. You're in big trouble. She'll never believe this elevator story."

He laughed softly, almost begrudgingly. It was more of a forced exhale. "Are we still going out?"

"I don't know. You had a reservation but you missed it. She's disappointed, but you're going to try to make it up to her. Maybe you'll catch a late movie instead."

"In my work suit?"

"Well, no. You keep some clothes at her place, so you change."

"Sounds pretty serious."

"Yeah, I guess so," she replied, the fun losing its edge now.

There was another long pause.

"What's she like?"

Chloe couldn't stop herself, even though she wanted to stop. She envisioned the kind of woman who would date Harry. A self possessed beauty, confident and badass.

"She's blonde. She's got great hair. And super white teeth. She wears those $100 leggings when she works out."

This made Harry laugh in earnest, and she sensed him shifting his weight in front of her. "Wow. Is she a Barbie?"

"No," Chloe said defensively, as if this invented opposite of herself was her real life friend. "No, she's cool. She volunteers, and eats keto."

"Oh, I could never date someone who ate keto."

"No?"

She saw him shake his head firmly in the dimness.

"No. That's a dealbreaker. I like bread too much. We'll have to break up."

"Oh man, that sucks," she said with feigned disappointment, and he laughed again.

"Nice while it lasted," he murmured with mock nostalgia, but to this she said nothing.

She felt the fabric of his trousers brush against her shins, he was standing so close She should have felt claustrophobic but instead felt calmer, surrounded by him like this. Her heart was beating fast again, but not with panic. It was good that she couldn't see his face. Better yet that he couldn't see hers right now.

"It sounds like you put a lot of thought into that," he said finally, and she swallowed hard.

"What, that?" she scoffed, trying to sound nonchalant. "I'm a writer, remember? I think in details."

He made a vague sound that told Chloe he didn't buy her brush off, bending even closer to her as he spoke in a low voice. "Want me to tell you what's actually in store for me tonight?"

"I'm going home, of course," he began before she even answered. "I'm going to take off my clothes too, Chloe."

His voice had turned husky when he said her name, prickling Chloe's awareness of him. She could smell him, he was so close. He smelled spicy and like some wood-scented deodorant. She was already imagining what he would look like naked. How hot his skin would be.

"But no pj's for me. Just boxers."

Boxers, she thought, and felt a distinct rush of moisture at the apex of her thighs, followed swiftly by a wave of embarrassment. All he had to do was mention underwear and she was wet.

"I'll open a beer and drink half of it straight off. It's been a tough day."

"What kind of beer?" she breathed.

He paused.

"Budweiser. Does that make me a bland jock bro?"

"Budweiser is the most popular beer in America," she replied breathily, wishing he'd put her hand back on his chest. "Well, technically Bud Light. So, that makes you . . . popular."

He waited, and she hoped he didn't think she was making fun of him.

"You watch some TV?" she prodded, trying to keep him going.

"Maybe," he replied, noncommittal.

She said nothing, hearing the sound of her own breath in the dark stillness of the elevator. She willed him to keep talking.

"I turn the TV on at least, for the sound," he said finally, and she exhaled. "I hate how quiet my place is. I sit on the couch, finish my beer, but I can't get into anything I'm watching. I can't focus."

"Hmm," she murmured, as if concerned for this version of Harry.

"I'm fixated on this one moment. I keep going back to it. It's all I can think about, really. My eyes are on the TV but really I'm just replaying this one scene in my head, this one moment. Over and over. And to make matters worse, it's raunchy."

Chloe's mind flew to the two of them, kissing outside of Chester's in the hot, evening summer air earlier that year, her breasts pressed against him, his hand sliding under her dress to glide up her thigh. She was breathing hard now, like she had then, wanting him so much. Scared that she wanted him to just fuck her right there in the street.

"Raunchy, like bad?" she whispered, remembering her own voracious response.

"No," he said quickly. "Raunchy like sexy as fuck, Chloe. I keep thinking about this moment and I can't help it. I get hard. Sitting there on the couch with a fucking hard on, just remembering it. I have to touch myself. Reach inside my boxers and grip my hand around my dick."

She exhaled shakily, reaching out her hands to gauge how close he was to her. He felt her and came closer, pressing the length of his body against hers, same as he had done that night six months ago. She felt the same delicious pressure of being wedged between his body and a solid wall, the same telltale bulge of his excitement against her sex, the same hot breath on the side of her neck making her shiver.

"What . . . what moment is that?" she ventured faintly.

"It's this one," he growled, swooping down to capture her mouth in a hungry kiss. She was caught off guard at how much the pleasure swelled, the energy between them still so shocking and sharp. He was aggressive, his body craning over hers to pull her up and into him, forcing her mouth open with his own. She thrilled at the totality of her surrender, eagerly taking all he had to give. He was ravenous for her mouth, his tongue coaxing her own, his hands and breath hot all over her. He was gathering her to him, smoothing his hands over her curves to find places he could squeeze, grab, caress. She was delirious in an instant, oblivious to everything else but this man, this man who could take away every frantic thought in her wild little brain and bring her to a state of complete openness.

He had pulled her skirt so tight that it had started to unzip from the bottom, hiking up to her waist. He made a hoarse grunt of approval, scooping her ass up in his hands and wrapping her legs around him as he pushed back against the elevator wall, pinning her as he rubbed himself against the damp crotch of her panties. Chloe's forehead fell against his shoulder, she felt faint and overheated. Harry bent his head, kissing the side of her throat with open mouthed abandon, inciting a feminine moan. The sound of it resonated in the space and Harry groaned, thrusting up against her sex again.

"You want to know the fucked up part, though?" he asked hoarsely as he pressed his forehead into the wall beside her, squeezing her ass in his hands as if he couldn't help it.

Chloe blinked, trying unsuccessfully to emerge from her sensual haze.

"I keep thinking about it, about you, and you don't even like me."

Chloe stirred, reality intruding on the moment as his words sunk in.

"What?" she whispered.

"I should just fuck you," he cursed to himself in a low tone, and saying the words made his body rock against hers again, the feeling of his dick making her shudder. "That's what you want, right? Just a fuck, no strings, no nothing."

"Jesus, Harry," she swore, pushing back against his chest.

"No," he replied urgently, sliding her into one corner of the elevator. Chloe sat precariously on a thin wooden lip that bordered the elevator at hip height, a kind of handrail, and her hands flew up akimbo to maintain her perch. In the vague, shifting shadows she saw his hands at his hips, and heard a crinkle and the clink of his buckle.

"No, I get it," he was saying, his voice unsteady. "Just a fuck."

In the span of a heartbeat he had returned to her, his hands searching for the lace edge of her panties, his fingers delving inside. Suddenly, what had been unadulterated pleasure was now much more confusing.

"That's not fair," she protested, clenching her legs together to force him out. It took every ounce of her willpower to form logical words. "You're the one who ghosted me. I'm allowed to not like you."

Harry froze, a dark shadow hovering an inch away, just his thighs touching her, holding her aloft. The space resounded with their labored breathing.

"Ghosted?" he echoed disbelievingly, breaking the silence.

Chloe said nothing, vacillating between getting down and pulling him into her. She didn't care anymore. Maybe she did just want a fuck.

"I didn't ghost you," came his angered voice. "I called you, and I got Milano's pizza."

"What the fuck is it with you and this fucking pizza place?" she shouted, feeling totally frazzled and sexually keyed up. She slid down onto her feet, wobbling a little from the disarray of her clothing. "What, you own stock or something? Why do I care whether you got pizza? You never called."

He growled, and she saw the shadow of his hands as they raked through his hair.

"I called you Chloe," he said again, enunciating with precision. "Actually, I texted that night. And then when I didn't hear back after a couple of days I called, and the person who answered thanked me for calling Milano's and asked if I wanted delivery or carryout."

"Then . . . then you called the wrong number."

"I dialed the number you typed in my phone."

"I don't know, maybe I typed it wrong. I wasn't exactly sober."

"That's why you're supposed to send yourself a text from my phone, not add a fucking contact," came his quick retort.

"I didn't know there were protocols," she snapped, bewildered. Her mind was racing. Was he telling the truth? He had called?

Harry backed away, and crouched, picking up his phone. Suddenly his face was lit by its blue glow, and Chloe could see the confusion and hurt on his expression plain as day. He was just as thrown off as she was.

"What's your number?" he demanded, and she knew it wasn't so he could correct the entry. He was trying to call her bluff.

"I'm 206 301 3272."

"You wrote 3242." He shoved the phone in her face and she swatted it away.

"So? You didn't think to just ask me, like a normal human?"

"I thought you gave me a fake number, I wasn't about to grill you. I saw Steph in the cantina, I asked her if she thought you liked me or what, told her I couldn't reach you. She said she'd talk to you."

Steph had talked to her, a week out from the hookup. Steph had told her she saw Harry, that he asked about her. Chloe had been miserable, wallowing in her rejection. Steph asked her gently if she was into him and Chloe had cried, saying she had liked him but now she wasn't sure. Steph, never one for an emotional scene, had apologized for even bringing it up and told her they should go throw axes at a picture of him, and Chloe had ugly cried while she laughed.

Even now, just remembering her swirling confusion, Chloe's breath hitched. Yes, that night had been intense, and had fueled a fire that had been burning in her for too long, but it had been more than that. She had been sure they had something, and then, for nothing to come of it, the whole thing had filled her with self-doubt.

"You . . . you thought I ghosted you?" he repeated, tentative.

Chloe bit her lip and nodded, knowing he could hardly see it.

"After that?" he scoffed. "Jesus, Chloe, I went crazy that night thinking about you. I know I moved too fast, and I probably scared you off, but I couldn't wait to see you again."

"I thought maybe. . ." her voice trailed off before she found the courage. "Maybe I was too intense."

"I was too intense," he countered, moving closer to her again. "I was practically mauling you in the fucking biergarden."

She let out a short huff of laughter. "Well, then there was mutual mauling."

But Harry didn't reciprocate her humor. Instead he lifted her by the waist, propping her back up in the elevator corner so high that she looked down on him a little. Sexual anticipation thrilled through her anew. If he kissed her again she would welcome it, she would pull him closer and finish what they had started.

"Would you have answered? If I called you?"

"Yes," she whispered immediately, and it was the truth. She had wanted so badly for him to call. She had kept her phone on her the whole day after.

He moved closer, his body against her again, his hands holding her hips.

"Would you have seen me again? Come home with me?"

"Yes," she whispered again, wrapping her hands around his belt and pulling him in the cradle of her open legs.

"Fuck," he moaned, gliding his hands over her breasts, pulling at her blouse, her skirt, searching for undergarments and the skin beneath them. Uncovering a breast he bent, taking the crested mound in his mouth and sucking, and Chloe cried out at the pure heat and pleasure that spiked through her, her hips jutting up to rub against him. Her hands pulled him closer, felt for his buttocks, reached around for the waistband of his briefs. He broke off momentarily, his hands searching, and she heard the tearing of a wrapper.

"I've got a condom," he murmured, cursing as he struggled to fit it in the near darkness.