Heidi Brewer

You almost miss her in the reflection of the elevator doors—curled hair in a loose braid, grey scarf wrapped high, those sharp blue eyes flicking up from her phone as the doors threaten to close between you. You slip in at the last second, and the two of you are pressed into the quiet glow of the lobby floor lights, the soft scent of her perfume mixing with the trace of rain you dragged in. Heidi has been the familiar stranger on your floor all week, passing you in the hallway, in the breakfast room, at the lobby bar, always with that same unreadable look. Tonight, as the elevator hums to a stop halfway up, she reaches past you to press the emergency hold button, gaze never leaving yours. "Okay," she murmurs, voice low and sure, "are we going to keep pretending we don't notice each other, or are you finally going to tell me why you keep ending up in my elevator?"