Elara had reviewed the summit logistics report three times before stepping into Room 5A. She knew every timestamp, every reroute, every seal entry. She’d written the incident summary herself, cross-checked the Velmira handoff delay, and flagged the security breach that nearly exposed the delivery chain.
She wasn’t supposed to be the one delivering that file.
She wasn’t supposed to be the one caught in the middle of a diplomatic storm.
But she had been. And now, Lucas wanted to hear it directly.
The message had been brief:
“President Lucas requests a direct review. Room 5A. Confidential.”
She didn’t ask why.
She didn’t argue.
She just went.
Room 5A was one of Draeven Nexus’s secure briefing spaces—soundproof, sealed, and reserved for high-level internal reviews. The kind of room where silence felt heavier than words.
Lucas was already inside when she arrived.
He stood near the console, hands in his pockets, gaze steady. He looked composed, unreadable, like nothing about the summit had touched him. But when he turned to face her, something flickered in his eyes—something quieter.
“You brought the report?” he asked.
She nodded, stepping forward. “Yes. Logistics chain, seal registry, and the Velmira handoff.”
He gestured to the seat beside him. “Sit. We’ll go through it together.”
She sat.
Too close.
Too quiet.
Too aware.
He opened the folder, flipping through the pages with practiced precision. His fingers moved quickly, eyes scanning each line like he was memorizing it.
“This timestamp—why was the delivery rerouted?”
“Security flagged the Velmira wing. I was redirected.”
“By whom?”
“Admin. I didn’t question it.”
He looked up. “You should have.”
She swallowed. “I didn’t think I could.”
“You can. Next time, you do.”
She nodded, heart thudding.
They kept going—line by line, entry by entry. She explained the encryption layers, the seal delays, the moment she realized something was wrong. Lucas listened without interrupting, but his gaze never left her face.
“You’re nervous,” he said suddenly.
She blinked. “I—I’m not.”
“You always stammer when you lie.”
Her cheeks flared instantly.
“I don’t stammer.”
“You just did.”
She tried to focus on the screen. “It’s the lighting. And the proximity. And the—”
“Me?”
She went red.
Lucas smiled—actually smiled—and Elara nearly dropped her stylus.
Before she could recover, the console beeped sharply. The lights flickered. The door behind them clicked—and didn’t reopen.
She turned. “What was that?”
Lucas frowned. “System lockdown. The room’s sealed.”
“Sealed?”
“Security protocol. Someone triggered a containment sweep. We’re locked in until it clears.”
Her heart jumped. “How long?”
“Could be ten minutes. Could be an hour.”
She stared at the door. Then at him.
Then, at the very small space between their chairs.
“Great,” she muttered. “Just great.”
Lucas leaned back, amused. “You look like you’re about to combust.”
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.”
She crossed her arms, trying to breathe normally.
“You’re very pink again,” he said.
“It’s the lighting.”
“It’s not.”
She turned to glare at him, but he was already watching her—smirking, yes, but also… curious.
“You always get like this when I’m near?”
“I don’t get like anything.”
“You’re stammering again.”
She groaned. “Can we just focus on the report?”
“We finished the report.”
“Then let’s sit in silence.”
“You think silence will help?”
She didn’t answer.
Lucas leaned in slightly, voice lower now.
“You’re very aware of me.”
Her breath caught.
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
She looked away, cheeks burning.
“You notice everything,” she whispered.
“Especially you.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.
It was electric.
She didn’t move.
He didn’t either.
The silence after “Especially you” wasn’t just quiet—it was charged.
Elara didn’t move.
Lucas didn’t either.
She could hear the hum of the sealed room, the faint pulse of the security system overhead, and her own heartbeat—loud, uneven, impossible to ignore.
She shifted slightly, trying to create space between them, but the chair creaked and Lucas glanced down at her hand—how tightly she was gripping the edge of the console.
“You’re holding that like it’s going to save you,” he said softly.
“It might.”
“From what?”
She didn’t answer.
He leaned in again, slower this time, and her breath hitched.
It was too much.
Too close.
Too familiar.
Just like that morning.
The morning he’d recovered from his fever—when she’d brought him tea, expecting distance, and instead found him standing in the kitchen, shirt rumpled, voice low, eyes softer than she’d ever seen.
She’d dropped the spoon.
Stammered through a greeting.
Fled before he could ask why her face was so red.
And now, here she was again—trapped in a room with him, no spoon to drop, no door to flee through.
Lucas tilted his head, watching her carefully.
“You’re remembering something.”
She blinked. “No.”
“You are.”
“I-I’m not.”
“You’re stammering again.”
She groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Can we not do this here?”
“Why not here?”
“Because it’s a sealed room and I’m already pink and you’re—”
She stopped.
Lucas raised an eyebrow. “I’m what?”
She shook her head. “You’re… very Lucas.”
He laughed—low, warm, surprised.
“That’s not a description.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
He leaned back slightly, but his gaze didn’t soften.
“You were flustered that morning.”
She froze.
“When I got better.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything.”
Her cheeks burned hotter.
“You looked like you’d seen a ghost,” he said. “Or like I’d said something indecent.”
“You were just… standing there. And you looked—”
“Alive?”
“Unreasonably awake.”
He laughed again, and this time it wasn’t quiet.
“You ran.”
“I didn’t run.”
“You dropped the spoon and vanished.”
She covered her face again. “I hate you.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You’re smiling.”
She was.
She didn’t mean to.
But she was.
Lucas leaned in once more, voice lower now.
“You always get like this when I’m near?”
She looked up, eyes wide.
“I don’t know how to be near you.”
He didn’t answer.
Just watched her.
And then—just as the silence stretched too long—the console beeped again.
The lights flickered.
The door clicked.
Unlocked.
Elara jumped.
Lucas didn’t move.
“Looks like we’re free,” he said.
She stood too fast, nearly knocking over the chair.
“I should go.”
“You should breathe.”
She turned to leave, but paused at the door.
“Lucas?”
He looked up.
“I didn’t mean to grab you at the summit.”
He nodded. “I’m glad you did.”
She swallowed.
“I didn’t mean to stay this long.”
“I’m glad you did.”
And this time, she didn’t run.
She walked out slowly—face still pink, heart still loud, and gravity still pulling.