Eunoia | Logan Howlett

02

Evangeline glances at her watch, cursing under her breath. She's running late. The New York City traffic has been a nightmare, and now she's sprinting through the lobby of a high-end hotel, her heels clicking rapidly on the marble floor. Her sleek black dress clings to her form, a tailored piece designed to convey elegance and allure.

She reaches the elevator and presses the button impatiently. The doors slide open, and she slips inside just before they close. The only other person in the elevator is a ruggedly handsome man leaning against the wall. He's tall, broad-shouldered, with a scruffy beard and piercing eyes. His hair is a mess, and he smells faintly of cigarettes and whiskey—a combination that would usually put her off, but there's something intriguing about him.

Evangeline presses the button for her floor and steps back, smoothing her dress. The elevator begins its ascent, the soft hum of the machinery the only sound. She glances at the man out of the corner of her eye. He's watching the numbers above the door, seemingly lost in thought. His clothes are casual—worn jeans and a leather jacket that's seen better days. Despite his rough exterior, there's an intensity in his gaze that makes her curious.

The elevator shudders suddenly, and with a jolt, it stops. The lights flicker, then stabilize, leaving them in an awkward silence. Evangeline looks up at the panel, all the numbers lit up in a random pattern.

"Great," She mutters.

She reaches for the emergency button and presses it. She sighs, leaning back against the wall. The man shifts his weight, glancing at her.

"Looks like we're stuck," He says, his voice a deep rumble.

Evangeline nods, crossing her arms, "Seems that way."

They lapse into silence again. The elevator is small, and the air feels thick with tension. She's acutely aware of his presence, the way he seems to take up so much space. Her eyes flicker to his hands—large, calloused, with a few faint scars. He catches her looking and she quickly averts her gaze, focusing on the ceiling instead.

After a few more moments of uncomfortable silence, the man clears his throat.

"Nice dress," He says, his tone casual.

"Thank you," Evangeline replies, keeping her voice polite but distant.

She's used to compliments, especially from clients, but this feels different—more genuine somehow.

He shifts again, and she notices the faint smell of smoke and whiskey intensifying as he moves. It's not unpleasant, but it's strong, and it reminds her of long nights and questionable decisions. She sneaks another glance at him, taking in the way his jacket fits his frame, the roughness of his beard, the tired look in his eyes.

He's watching her too, she realizes. She feels his gaze on her, studying her with the same intensity she's using to study him. When their eyes meet, she quickly looks away, feeling a blush creep up her neck.

The silence stretches on, and Evangeline shifts uncomfortably. She's never been good at small talk, and the confined space isn't helping. She glances at her watch again, mentally calculating how late she's going to be.

"Important meeting?" He asks, breaking the silence again.

"You could say that," She replies, keeping her tone light.

He nods, seemingly understanding her reluctance to elaborate. He leans back against the wall, his gaze still fixed on her, "You from around here?"

"Mexico," She says, "What about you?"

" Canada."

She sneaks another glance at him, noting the way he seems completely at ease despite the situation. There's a confidence in his posture, a sense of calm that she envies.