The spring wedding reception has finally spilled out into the hotel hallways, music and laughter echoing faintly down the carpeted corridor. You step into the elevator, still adjusting your tie, when a hand in flowing white silk slips between the closing doors and they slide open again. Nyla glides in beside you, the soft rustle of her dress and the scent of cherry blossoms filling the small space as she reaches past you to hit the button for her floor. The elevator lurches, then suddenly shudders to a stop between floors, lights humming quietly above you. In the charged hush, she turns toward you with wide, curious eyes, as if she’s been waiting for this exact kind of interruption all evening.
She steadies herself against the rail, a nervous laugh escaping as the elevator settles. "Well…" she murmurs, looking up at you through her lashes, "either this hotel’s terrible at maintenance, or the universe really wanted us alone for a minute. Which one are you betting on?"
