FLOOR 17

Danielle jabbed the elevator button with the same energy she reserved for deleting spam emails. She checked her watch, sighed, and checked it again just to prove time was still crawling. The fluorescent light hummed above her, casting a pale, yellow glow over the tiny metal box and highlighting every scratch on the walls. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wishing she could disappear into the lobby rather than being trapped in such a confined space. Every time the hum of the elevator pulsed, it felt louder, almost like the walls themselves were taunting her.

 Then, as if fate had a cruel sense of humor, Michael stepped around the corner.

 “Oh great,” she muttered under her breath.

 He wore that same smug expression he always did, the kind that said he had never lost an argument and had no plans to start now.

 “Well, if it isn’t the queen of passive-aggressive emails,” he said, stepping in.

 “Funny,” Danielle replied, crossing her arms. “I was just thinking you would look better taking the stairs.”

 The doors slid shut. The elevator lurched with a sharp metallic clunk, and Danielle’s stomach dropped. The lights flickered and dimmed to emergency yellow. A subtle vibration hummed beneath her feet. She pressed the “Door Open” button repeatedly, but nothing happened.

 Michael leaned back against the mirrored wall. “Looks like we’re stuck.”

 “This is your fault,” Danielle said immediately, tapping her foot.

 “My fault?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

 “Ever since you joined the project team, things have gone wrong. Coffee floods, wrong reports—”

 “That was you!”

 “You unplugged the machine!”

 “That was an accident!”

 Danielle’s cheeks warmed. The metallic tang of the elevator mixed with his cologne, making the air heavy. “You are infuriating.”

 “And you are predictable,” he replied.

 They sat in tense silence. Danielle pulled out her phone; no signal. With a sigh, she slid to the floor, crossing her legs. Michael followed suit, sitting across from her. “So… you afraid of small spaces or just me?”

 “I am afraid of wasting oxygen on stupid questions,” she said.

 He chuckled, shaking his head. “You always this pleasant?”

 “Definitely special,” she muttered, rolling her eyes, yet catching herself glancing at him, the twitch of his brow, the fray at his sleeve. Something in the dim light made him look softer than she expected.

 Minutes passed. The elevator groaned, low, and complaining. Danielle noticed details she hadn’t before: the hum of the light softened at the edges, the warmth pressing in from the tiny space, the faint scent of metal mingled with his cologne. Somehow, the proximity felt grounding. Her heartbeat seemed louder than usual, echoing in her ears.

 “You pretend you are made of steel,” Michael said quietly, “but I have seen you bring cupcakes to the office.”

 “That was one time,” she said, cheeks heating.

 “And you made sure mine didn’t have nuts,” he added gently, not teasing.

 Danielle looked at her hands. “You notice everything.”

 “I pay attention,” he said simply.

 She thought about it, about how much attention she had paid to him over the past year, the quiet ways he tried to anticipate problems, the way he always showed up with solutions. “And I notice you,” she admitted. “You talk a lot to hide doubts.”

 He smiled faintly. “Ouch.”

 Their silence softened, warmer and closer. Danielle’s mind drifted to her office desk, the stack of reports waiting for her, the project that had made her dread seeing Michael in the first place. Yet none of it felt important in this suspended space.

 Michael shifted slightly, brushing his knee against hers. He did not pull away. Instead, he let the touch linger, a small acknowledgment of shared space, a silent apology for all the verbal sparring that had come before. Danielle’s pulse quickened, irritation mixing with curiosity.

 “Do you ever imagine what it would be like if we weren’t mortal enemies?” he asked.

 “Hypothetically?”

 “Totally hypothetical,” he said, eyes on hers.

 “Hypothetically,” she said slowly, “maybe.”

 He grinned. She smiled back, briefly, turning her gaze to the mirror reflection. She could see the softness in his eyes that never appeared in the office. Something about the confined space allowed their masks to slip.

 The elevator groaned again. Danielle instinctively reached out, brushing his sleeve. She pulled back quickly, cheeks burning. “I am fine.”

 “Next time,” Michael said as the doors opened to the seventeenth floor, “maybe we take the stairs together. Just to be safe.”

 Danielle shook her head, walking toward the lobby, faintly smiling. “Do not push your luck.”

 She glanced back once. The elevator sat silent, its dim light pooling in corners, a small world where anger had softened into understanding. It hummed quietly, a tiny, contained space holding conflict, vulnerability, and the beginnings of connection.

 She stepped into the lobby, and the cold air felt sharper after the warmth of the elevator. The ordinary sounds of the building, the chatter of coworkers, the clicking of heels on tile, seemed distant. She imagined the elevator sitting quietly, waiting for the next group of strangers, but knowing that for her, it had held more than just two people. It had held moments that would linger longer than any report, any meeting, any petty rivalry.

 For a fleeting moment, Danielle allowed herself to wonder maybe getting stuck was not the worst thing that could have happened. Maybe it was the first time she saw Michael as something more than an irritant. Maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning of understanding that could last beyond the confines of seventeen floors and fluorescent hums.

Danielle DeOrnellas is a writer and storyteller based in the United States. Her work explores human connection, personal growth, and the quiet moments that reveal the complexity of everyday life. She enjoys blending realism with timeless emotional insight, crafting stories that linger long after the page is closed.