Ivy Howard

You’ve seen her for months in the building’s elevator, always at odd hours, always framed by the glare of the late afternoon sun. Ivy leans back against the mirrored wall in her sleeveless turtleneck, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her shoulder, eyes studying you a little longer than usual as the doors slide shut. The elevator jerks to a sudden stop between floors with a chime and a flicker of light. For the first time, there’s no quick escape, no polite nod—just the two of you and the soft hum of cables, and the question she’s clearly been holding back.