Chapter 3 — Breaking the Ice
Leo
The elevator was a box of silence, save for the occasional groan of its suspension cables and the faint, rhythmic tapping of Olivia’s manicured nails against her silver watch. Her eyes darted to the dimly glowing emergency light above, then back to her wrist, as if sheer willpower could restart her watch or make time move faster. The faint scent of her perfume—something crisp, almost citrusy—lingered, a stark counterpoint to the sterile metallic tang of the elevator walls.
Leo leaned against the elevator wall, his paint-stained flannel shirt rumpled from a long day at the studio. His arms were loosely crossed over his chest, though his fingers twitched faintly, betraying the restlessness he didn’t care to show. The corporate types in his life had always been easy to categorize—predictable, like the sharp lines of their tailored suits. But this one? She was a tightly wound spring, and he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if it finally snapped.
“Do you always look like you’re about to fire someone?” he asked, his voice low, edged with amusement and just enough curiosity to keep it from being entirely flippant.
Olivia’s head jerked up, her dark brown eyes narrowing instantly. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve got this look,” Leo said, gesturing vaguely at her face, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Like you’re plotting how to take over the world—or at least the office. Very Miranda Priestly of you.”
She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “I beg your pardon?” Her tone was clipped, pristine, as if she were addressing an unruly intern.
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive,” he continued, straightening up and mimicking her rigid posture in a way that was both exaggerated and annoyingly accurate. “The watch, the blazer, the whole ‘don’t mess with me’ vibe. It’s like you walked out of some corporate power-play handbook.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but a flicker of something—confusion? amusement?—crossed her face. “I’m sorry, but do you always critique strangers’ appearances, or is this a special occasion?”
“Only when I’m trapped in an elevator with them.” Leo let the silence hang for a beat before adding, “It’s a coping mechanism. Helps me ignore the fact that we’re stuck in a metal box dangling who-knows-how-many stories above the ground.” His tone was casual, but his fingers twitched again, a subtle hint of unease.
Her eyes flicked toward the ceiling, and for a moment, he thought he saw a crack in her armor—a flash of unease before she smoothed her features into practiced indifference. “I’m sure maintenance will have us out of here soon,” she said briskly, her tone clipped and professional. “These things happen.”
“Sure,” Leo said, dragging the word out like a skeptic at a fortune-teller’s table. “And until then, I guess we just sit here and enjoy the ambiance.” He gestured around the cramped space. “Nothing like brushed steel and fluorescent lighting to set the mood.”
Olivia exhaled sharply through her nose. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it wasn’t not a laugh, either.
Leo smirked, tilting his head as if to say, Gotcha. “See? You’re warming up to me already.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she shot back, though her tone had softened slightly.
He pushed off the wall and crouched down, pulling his battered leather sketchbook from the worn messenger bag slung over one shoulder. The edges of the book were frayed, and a faint smear of dried paint stained its cover. Flipping it open, he thumbed through pages of sketches—some bold, others delicate, each one a glimpse into a world only he could see—until he found a blank page.
Olivia’s gaze drifted to the sketchbook despite herself. She crossed her arms tightly, but her curiosity betrayed her. “What are you doing?”
“Keeping myself entertained,” Leo said, pulling a charcoal pencil from the elastic loop on the book’s spine. “Unless you’d prefer I start singing elevator music instead?”
“Please don’t,” she said, her voice dry but tinged with faint amusement.
He grinned and began to sketch, the sound of pencil scratching against paper filling the quiet. His strokes were quick and fluid, the lines unfurling like a story only he could see. With each movement, his own tension seemed to ease—not entirely, but enough to ground him.
For a while, Olivia said nothing, her gaze flitting between the sketchbook and the emergency light above. But as the minutes stretched on, her impatience got the better of her. “So, what do you draw?”
Leo didn’t look up, his pencil moving with a rhythm that seemed almost hypnotic. “Anything, really. People, places, whatever catches my eye. Right now…” He paused, glancing at her with a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes. “You.”
Olivia stiffened. “What?”
“You’ve got a great face for it,” he continued, as if her reaction wasn’t worth noting. “All sharp angles and big, intense eyes. Very ‘don’t mess with me,’ like I said. Makes for an interesting subject.”
Her posture became even stiffer, her fingers tightening around the strap of her leather bag. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
“Too late,” Leo said with a shrug, his pencil still moving.
She huffed, her gaze darting from the sketchbook to his face. “You can’t just—”
“Relax, it’s just a sketch,” he said, his tone light but not dismissive. “Not like I’m stealing your soul or anything.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?” he asked, finally looking up. There was no malice in his gaze, only curiosity. “Why does it bother you so much?”
Olivia opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. She exhaled sharply and looked away, her jaw tightening. The watch on her wrist glinted faintly in the low light as she adjusted the strap, a nervous tic she didn’t seem to notice.
Leo held her gaze for a moment longer before returning to his sketch. “You know,” he said after a beat, “most people would kill for this kind of free publicity. You’re lucky I’m not charging.”
That earned him a faint scoff, though she didn’t argue further.
As the minutes ticked by, Olivia’s tension seemed to ebb, if only slightly. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her polished heels making a faint click against the elevator floor. Her gaze kept drifting toward the sketchbook, her curiosity warring with her irritation. She hated how vulnerable it made her feel—like he could see something she wasn’t ready to share.
Finally, she broke the silence. “Do you always carry that thing around?”
“Always,” Leo said without hesitation. “You never know when inspiration will hit.”
She arched an eyebrow. “And what exactly inspires you? Random corporate prisoners in elevators?”
He smirked. “Sometimes. Though I wouldn’t call you a prisoner. More like… a reluctant participant in the art of life.”
Olivia stared at him, clearly unsure how to respond to that. “You’re… very strange.”
“Thank you,” he said, as if it were the highest compliment he’d ever received.
She shook her head, but the corners of her mouth twitched, betraying the faintest hint of a smile.
Leo glanced at his sketch and then back at her. “Want to see?”
Her expression immediately shuttered. “No.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, closing the sketchbook with a soft thud. “But for the record, you look way less intimidating when you’re not scowling.”
“I don’t scowl,” she said automatically.
He tilted his head, his hazel eyes sparkling with humor.
“Much,” she amended, her tone grudging.
Leo chuckled, the sound warm and unguarded. For a moment, the tension in the elevator seemed to dissipate, replaced by something lighter, more human.
Olivia glanced at him, her dark eyes searching his face as if trying to decipher a puzzle. “You’re not what I expected,” she said quietly.
He leaned back against the wall, his expression softening. “Neither are you.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy or awkward. It was something else entirely—something that felt like the first step onto unfamiliar ground.
The emergency light flickered, casting brief shadows across the elevator walls. Olivia’s gaze lingered on Leo’s sketchbook, and for the first time, she didn’t look away.
