#progress wrestling

Evergreen Britwres mood:

Kid Lykos x OC (Lila Bennett)

Warnings: Language

TW: Claustrophobia

A/N: I only own the OC and idea.

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The note pinned to Lila Bennett’s fridge read, in her own hasty scrawl: Do not wear the suede boots if rain is forecast. It was the kind of reminder she left herself constantly—little safety valves against the chaos of forgetting. Today, though, she’d ignored it. The boots were already on her feet, and the sky had been a suspicious shade of gray when she’d stepped out of her apartment. Now, standing in the lobby of the Ridgemont Hotel, she watched through the glass doors as rain began to sheet down in earnest.

Ethan Beach adjusted the strap of his duffel bag, rolling his shoulder absently. The weight of his gear wasn’t the problem—he’d carried far worse after matches—but the lingering twinge from last night’s bout made him shift his stance. The lobby was too bright, too quiet. He’d hoped to slip in and out unnoticed, but the universe had other plans. Like the woman ahead of him, furrowing her brow at the storm like it had personally betrayed her.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Lila stepped in first, pressing the button for the 14th floor with more force than necessary. Ethan followed, nodding at her briefly before hitting the button for 16. For a moment, the only sound was the hum of machinery and the distant drum of rain against the building.

"You ever notice how elevators smell like stale mints and regret?" The words tumbled out before Ethan could stop them, his voice echoing slightly in the cramped metal box.

Lila hadn't even registered the man beside her until he spoke. She'd been too busy counting the flickers of the overhead light—fourteen so far—and trying not to think about the fact that the walls were definitely closer than they'd been thirty seconds ago. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. "What?"

Ethan shrugged, rolling one shoulder in a practiced motion that made his leather jacket creak. "Just saying. Every elevator’s got this vibe, like it’s judging you for taking the easy way up instead of the stairs." He glanced at her sidelong, then immediately regretted it. Her knuckles were white. "You good?"

Lila’s breath hitched—sharp, audible. The overhead light flickered again. Fifteen. Sixteen. She could feel the elevator walls pressing in, the air thinning like someone had turned a dial. "Fine," she lied, forcing the word through clenched teeth. "Just—great."

Ethan didn’t buy it. He’d seen that look before—eyes darting, shoulders rigid—on rookies right before their first cage match. He shifted his duffel to the floor with a soft thud, deliberately slow. "Hey." He kept his voice low, like he was talking to a spooked animal. "Look at me, yeah? Not the walls."

Lila’s gaze snapped to his face. He had a split lip, she noticed. Fresh. The kind that hadn’t quite started scabbing over. "You’re bleeding," she blurted.

The overhead light flickered one last time—seventeen—before the elevator gave a violent shudder. Lila’s stomach dropped as the machinery ground to a halt with a sound like a dying refrigerator. The floor beneath them lurched, and her fingers instinctively scrabbled for the handrail, her nails scraping against the metal.

Ethan’s hand shot out, steadying her elbow before she could slam into the wall. "Easy," he said, his grip firm but not tight. "Just a hiccup." He was lying, and they both knew it. The elevator hadn’t hiccuped; it had flatlined. The panel lights blinked out, plunging them into a dim, emergency-lit gloom.

Lila’s breath came in short, ragged bursts. The walls weren’t just close now—they were breathing, pressing in with every exhale. "No…no… no—" The words tumbled out in a frantic whisper. Her fingers dug into her thighs, the suede boots suddenly feeling like lead weights pinning her to the floor.

Ethan’s grip on her elbow tightened just enough to ground her. "Hey, look at me." He waited until her wild eyes flicked up. "Breathe. Right now. In for four." He demonstrated, inhaling slowly through his nose, the split lip stretching slightly. "Hold it. Now out for six." His voice was calm, methodical, like he’d done this a hundred times before. Maybe he had.

The emergency light cast jagged shadows across his face, emphasizing the fresh bruise along his jawline. Lila focused on that—the purple bloom against his stubble—and tried to match his breathing. The air tasted like metal and panic.

"That's it," Ethan muttered under his breath as the elevator groaned and settled into stillness. The emergency light flickered once before holding steady, bathing them in a sickly yellow glow. Somewhere above them, machinery whined like a wounded animal before cutting out entirely.

Lila's breath hitched again, her fingers scrabbling at the seam of her jacket. "We're stuck," she whispered, as if saying it louder would make the walls collapse inward. Her knees locked, the suede boots suddenly cement-heavy.

Ethan nudged his duffel aside with his foot and turned to face her fully. "Yeah," he admitted, because lying would only make it worse. "But stuck isn't dead. Stuck is just… inconvenient." He reached out, hesitated, then tapped the emergency call button with a knuckle. A staticky buzz answered, then silence.

"I can't…I can't be in here," Lila rasped, her throat closing around the words. The air was too thick, too warm—like breathing through wet wool. Her fingers found the elevator's control panel, jabbing at the buttons in a frantic rhythm that did nothing but make the plastic click mockingly under her touch.

Ethan caught her wrist mid-panic, his palm rough but gentle. "Hey. Stop." He didn't pull her hand away, just held it there, letting her feel the solid weight of his grip. "Look at me." When she didn't, he ducked his head slightly, forcing her line of sight. "You know how many times I've been locked in a steel cage with a guy twice my size?" His voice was casual, like he was discussing the weather. "Literally. A cage. With, like, padlocks and everything."

Lila blinked. His split lip had started bleeding again, a thin bead of red welling up along the ragged edge. "You're—what?" she managed, her voice thin as paper. "No, that's—that's not the same thing."

Ethan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the blood carelessly. "Sure it is. Small space, no way out, totally at the mercy of something bigger than you." He shrugged, deliberately loose, like his shoulders were shaking off the weight of the memory. "Difference is, elevators don't suplex you."

A startled laugh punched out of Lila's chest, sharp and unexpected. The sound bounced off the metal walls, too loud in the cramped space. She clapped a hand over her mouth, as if she could shove it back in.

"You don't understand," Lila said, pressing her palms flat against the elevator wall like she could push it away through sheer will. The emergency light made her skin look sallow. "I can't—my brother locked me in a closet once when we were kids. For three hours. I tore my fingernails off trying to get out." The confession came out raw, jagged at the edges. She hadn't told anyone that story in years.

Ethan didn't flinch. He leaned back against the opposite wall, deliberately taking up space. "I got stuck in a portable toilet once," he said conversationally. "After a show in Birmingham. Some knobhead thought it'd be hilarious to tip it over with me inside." He mimed the motion with his hands, slow and exaggerated. "Took 'em twenty minutes to right it. Smelled like piss and shame."

Lila stared at him. "That's disgusting."

Ethan grinned, the expression cracking the drying blood on his lip. "Yeah, well. Wrestling's glamorous like that." He dug into his jacket pocket and produced a crumpled pack of gum, offering her a piece with a shrug. "Mint?"

Lila hesitated, then took it, her fingers brushing his. The wrapper crackled unnaturally loud in the stillness. She focused on unwrapping it meticulously, folding the foil into a tiny square between her fingers. The sharp scent of peppermint cut through the stale air. "So what'd you do? In the toilet."

"Pissed in a Gatorade bottle," Ethan said matter-of-factly, popping a piece of gum into his mouth. "Then I sang 'God Save the Queen' at the top of my lungs until they flipped it back." He tilted his head, studying her. "Point is, panic's just your brain being an arsehole. Trick is to out-stubborn it."

Lila chewed the gum mechanically, the mint so strong it made her eyes water. It helped, somehow—the sharpness of it anchoring her to the moment. "So you're telling me," she said slowly, "that the solution to claustrophobia is… singing badly in confined spaces?"

Ethan snorted, rubbing at the bruise on his jaw. "Worked for me. Though fair warning, the Birmingham crowd still brings it up. Never live it down in this business." He tilted his head toward the emergency speaker, which had begun emitting a faint, staticky hum. "Oi! Anybody home?"

A crackling voice responded after a beat, tinny and distant. "—aintenance en route—twenty minutes—" The rest was lost in a burst of static.

"Well, looks like we're here for a while. Might as well get comfortable". Ethan shrugged, unzipping his leather jacket and laying it on the floor. "let's sit." He lowered himself down with practiced ease, his back resting against the wall, knees bent. "Come on," he said, patting the space next to him where his jacket still laid. "Better than standing there like a startled deer."

Lila hesitated, her fingers twitching at her sides. The idea of sitting—of willingly settling into this metal coffin—made her stomach twist. But Ethan's calm sprawl was somehow contagious, his posture loose like they were waiting for a bus, not trapped in a death box. She exhaled sharply through her nose and lowered herself beside him, her suede boots squeaking against the floor. The leather jacket under her was warm from his body heat, smelling faintly of sweat and something citrusy—like he'd washed it with cheap detergent but couldn't quite kill the musk of a hundred gym bags.

"You always carry gum?" she asked, just to fill the silence. The emergency light buzzed overhead, casting their shadows tall and wavering on the opposite wall.

Ethan dug into his pocket again and pulled out a handful of crumpled wrappers. "Like a fucking squirrel," he admitted. "Helps with the adrenaline dumps after matches. Stops me from biting my tongue in half." He rolled the gum to the corner of his mouth, probing the split lip with his tongue. "That, and it pisses off my tag partner. He says it makes me look like a schoolkid. Wouldn't mind but the cheeky fucker is younger than me".

Lila stretched her legs out cautiously, the suede boots catching against the textured floor. The elevator shuddered again—just once—before settling into an uneasy stillness. Somewhere above them, a pipe groaned ominously.

"Twenty minutes," Ethan repeated, tilting his head back against the wall. The emergency light carved shadows under his jawline, making the bruise there look darker than it probably was. "Could be worse. Once had to wait forty-five for a locksmith in Cardiff because some tosser glued my gear bag shut." He rolled his shoulders in a slow circle, the motion practiced. "Turns out, peanut butter gets superglue off skin. Doesn't do shit for nylon, though."

Lila picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. "That's oddly specific knowledge."

"I'm full of useless information like that". He smiled. "I'm Ethan by the way."

"Lila," she said, then paused. "Wait—are you Kid Lykos? The wrestler?"

Ethan groaned, rubbing his forehead. "Christ, not you too. Yeah, that's me. Though right now I feel more like a pissed-off raccoon stuck in a dumpster."

The emergency light buzzed again, flickering just long enough for Lila to catch the way Ethan's grin faltered at the corners—like he was used to people recognizing him, but never quite comfortable with it. "You follow wrestling?" he asked, nudging the duffel bag between them with his foot. The zipper was half-open, revealing a tangle of neon-green tape and what looked like a very battered kneepad.

"Not really," Lila admitted. She picked at her thumbnail, the polish chipped from where she'd been worrying at it. "My little brother's obsessed, though. Watches every show. He'd lose his mind if he knew I was stuck in an elevator with you." The thought almost made her laugh—a normal reaction, foreign in the tightness of her chest.

Ethan grinned, stretching his legs out until his boots bumped the opposite wall. "Bet he'd be proper jealous." He tilted his head. "Unless he's a Progress purist. Then he'd probably tell you I'm overrated."

Somewhere above them, a pipe shuddered, sending a metallic groan through the elevator shaft. Lila's breath hitched instinctively, but this time, she caught herself—inhaled sharply through her nose like Ethan had shown her. Four counts. Hold. Six out.

"Have you eaten anything today?" Ethan asked suddenly, digging into his duffel with one hand while keeping his other palm flat against the wall, grounding himself against another distant metallic shudder.

Lila blinked. "What?"

"Low blood sugar makes panic worse," he said matter-of-factly, producing aselection of snacks from his bag and spreading them on his jacket between them—chocolate bars, protein bars, two bananas and red apples. "I carry these after matches. Body's usually screaming for calories after getting tossed around for an hour." He pushed a chocolate bar toward her with his knuckle. "Eat. Then tell me something mundane."

Lila took the bar, her fingers brushing against a slightly melted corner. The chocolate smelled faintly of leather and gym bag, but she unwrapped it anyway. "Something mundane?" she asked around a bite. The sugar hit her tongue like a revelation.

"Yeah. Normal shit. Like…" Ethan peeled a banana with his teeth, the motion practiced. "Tell me about your job. Or your brother. Or why you ignored the note about the boots." He gestured at her feet with the banana.

Lila tensed. "Wait—how did you—" She glanced down at her suede boots, now slightly scuffed from her earlier panic.

"You seem like the type of woman to make notes and those boots look expensive, not really suitable for shitty weather. I've got a sister, you learn things." Ethan took a bite of the banana, chewing thoughtfully as he studied her boots again. "Besides, you've got that look—organized but stubborn. The kind who writes reminders then deliberately ignores them when it rains."

Lila snorted, chocolate smudging her thumb. "That's… weirdly accurate." She licked the chocolate off absentmindedly, then paused. "Wait, what look?"

"The 'I'll do it my way even if it's stupid' look," Ethan said, grinning around another bite. "My manager has it right before he signs us up for matches we shouldn't take. My tag partner gets it right before he does a stupid dive. And you?" He gestured at her boots with the banana peel. "You've got it written all over you."

The banana peel hit the floor with a soft slap. Ethan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying Lila with the same intensity she imagined he'd give an opponent sizing him up in the ring. "So? What's your version of ignoring the boots memo?"

Lila swallowed the last of the chocolate, the sweetness clinging stubbornly to her teeth. "I teach third grade," she admitted. "Last week one of my kids asked why adults get to break their own rules. I didn't have an answer." She picked at the frayed edge of her sleeve again. "Today I woke up and thought… fuck it. Maybe rules are just suggestions in ugly wrapping paper."

Ethan barked a laugh that echoed off the metal walls. "Christ, that's bleak. I love it." He dug into his duffel again, producing a half-crushed water bottle. "Here. Chocolate aftertaste's worse than a chair shot to the teeth."

Lila took the water bottle, her fingers brushing against Ethan's—calloused knuckles, rough from years of gripping ropes and opponents. The plastic was warm from being stuffed in his bag, but the water tasted clean, washing away the sticky chocolate residue. "So what's your version?" she asked, screwing the cap back on. "Of breaking the rules."

Ethan stretched his legs out, crossing his ankles. The emergency light caught the scuffs on his boots—deep grooves from being dragged across canvas, from stomping on turnbuckles. "Got myself banned from three gyms in Manchester," he said, grinning at the memory. "Kept using the weight racks to practice suplexes. Manager told me I'd rupture my spleen before I got a contract." He shrugged. "Six months later, I debuted in front of twelve people and a dog."

The elevator groaned again, a deep metallic protest that made Lila stiffen. Ethan's hand found her wrist—not restraining, just present—as the tremor passed. "Still breathing?" he asked, thumb brushing the flutter of her pulse.

Lila exhaled sharply through her nose, counting the beats like Ethan had shown her. Four in, hold, six out. His thumb was still pressed lightly against her wrist, warm and rough against her skin. "Still breathing," she confirmed, surprised to find she meant it. The panic still hovered at the edges of her vision, but it felt distant now—like a storm she could see gathering but hadn't reached yet.

Ethan nodded, releasing her wrist with a final pat. "Good. Check your phone—might as well see how fucked we are."

Lila fumbled in her pocket, her fingers closing around her phone. The screen lit up—3:42 PM, a notification from her weather app (Heavy rainfall warning), and, crucially, no service. "Nothing," she said, turning the screen toward him. "You?"

Ethan dug his phone out of his jeans pocket with a grunt. The case was cracked across one corner, the screen protector peeling at the edges. He swiped it awake, then snorted. "Same. Bloody buildings—all that concrete and steel, might as well be in a Faraday cage." He tossed the phone onto his jacket between them, where it landed with a dull thud.

Lila hesitated, then pulled up her music app. "At least we've got offline playlists." She scrolled aimlessly through her library, the motion familiar, grounding. "Any requests?"

Ethan leaned in, squinting at her screen. His shoulder brushed hers, warm and solid through the thin fabric of her blouse. "Wait—is that The Band Camino?" He pointed at the playlist title, his split lip pulling into a grin when she nodded. "No fucking way. Saw them live last year in Manchester. Crowd surfed during 'Daphne Blue'."

Lila blinked, scrolling to the song. The opening chords filled the elevator's stale air, tinny through her phone speakers but unmistakable. "You crowd surfed to this?"

Ethan leaned back against the wall, grinning as the melody wrapped around them. "It's a fucking classic and too catchy not too." His fingers tapped against his knee in time with the beat, the rhythm ingrained in his muscle memory.

Lila watched, fascinated, as his entire body seemed to sync with the music—a wrestler's trained awareness of tempo translating effortlessly into head nods and shoulder rolls. "You've got moves," she observed dryly, "but I'm guessing crowd surfing didn't go well in wrestling boots."

"Sprained my ankle on some tosser's shoulder," Ethan admitted without missing a beat. "Worth it." He nudged her phone with his knuckle. "Next one—play 'Roses'"

Lila scrolled, "That's my favourite song!" She tapped play—the opening notes swelling through the tinny speakers, filling the elevator with warmth.

"Clearly a woman with taste. I bet your boyfriend's a lucky,y guy," Ethan said, stretching his arms behind his head as the song built toward its first chorus. The emergency light caught the fresh scab on his split lip when he grinned. "Or girlfriend. Doesn't matter. Point is, they've got good competition."

Lila snorted, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. "No such luck. Last date I went on, the guy spent twenty minutes explaining Bitcoin to me like I'd just crawled out of a cave." She mimed stabbing herself in the throat with her thumb. Ethan's answering laugh bounced off the metal walls, louder than the music.

"Fuck crypto bros," he declared, digging into his duffel. "Here—proper currency." He tossed her another chocolate bar—this one slightly melted from being pressed against his kneepad. Lila caught it against her chest, the foil crinkling loudly.

"What about you? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?" Lila asked, tearing open the chocolate bar with her teeth. The foil split jaggedly, revealing a slightly misshapen rectangle. "Or are wrestlers too busy body-slamming people to date?"

Ethan chuckled, rubbing his bruised jaw thoughtfully. "I'm single. It's easier with travelling all the time—though my mates all keep trying to set me up with girls who 'want someone rough but sweet.'" He mimed quotation marks in the air, rolling his eyes. "Like I'm some kind of stray dog you can rehabilitate."

Lila laughed, the sound loosening something tight in her chest. The chocolate was soft against her tongue, melting quickly in the stale warmth of the elevator. "Rough but sweet," she repeated, eyeing his split lip. "Seems accurate."

"Oi," Ethan protested, but he was grinning. The emergency light flickered again, casting his face in sharp relief—the hollows under his eyes darker, the stubble along his jaw more pronounced. He caught her staring and winked. "What, never seen a battered wrestler before?"

"Not this close," Lila admitted, her gaze tracing the fresh scab on Ethan's lip. The emergency light buzzed overhead, painting his bruises in sickly yellow. She reached out without thinking, her fingertips hovering an inch from his face. "Does it hurt?"

Ethan leaned into her touch just enough for her fingers to brush his jawline—rough stubble, warm skin. "Less than getting speared through a table," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "More than stepping on Lego."

Lila's thumb grazed the edge of his split lip, her breath catching when he inhaled sharply. "Sorry, I—".

The elevator groaned again—a deep, metallic protest—and Lila's fingers froze against Ethan's jaw. His skin was warm beneath her touch, the stubble rough against her fingertips. She could feel his pulse jump when she brushed the corner of his lip. "Sorry," she whispered, pulling back like she'd been burned. Her hands retreated to her lap, fingers twisting together.

Ethan caught her wrist before she could retreat fully, his grip loose but deliberate. "Don't be," he said, voice low. The emergency light flickered, casting shadows across his face—the split lip, the bruise along his jaw, the way his eyes stayed steady on hers. "I've had worse from a botched armbar."

Lila exhaled, a shaky laugh escaping her. "That's not reassuring." But she didn't pull away. His thumb traced a slow circle over her wrist, grounding her in the moment. The elevator shuddered again, but this time, her breath stayed even.

Above them, metal groaned—a deep, protesting sound—before the emergency light flickered out entirely. Darkness swallowed them whole. Lila's fingers tightened around Ethan's instinctively. "Shit," she breathed, her pulse hammering against his palm.

"Still with me?" Ethan's voice was closer now, warm against her ear in the blackness. His free hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently. "Dark's just dark. Doesn't mean the walls are moving."

Lila's breath hitched in the dark, her fingers gripping Ethan's like he was the only solid thing left in the world. "Easy," he murmured, shifting closer until their knees bumped. The scent of his citrus-and-leather jacket filled the space between them, sharp against the stale elevator air. "Count with me. Four in—" She felt his chest expand against her shoulder as he inhaled deliberately.

She matched his rhythm, focusing on the calluses of his palm pressed against hers. Four beats in. Hold. Six out. The darkness pressed in, but Ethan's thumb kept tracing circles on her wrist—a steady metronome against the panic. Somewhere above them, pipes groaned like a sleeping beast.

"You still chew your nails?" Ethan asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the blackness.

Lila flexed her fingers instinctively, her ragged thumbnail catching on Ethan’s palm. "Only when I'm nervous," she admitted. The darkness made the confession easier—like the words could dissolve into the black instead of hanging between them.

Ethan chuckled, the sound warm against her ear. "Mate, your cuticles must be fucking shredded by now." His grip shifted, fingers interlacing with hers in the dark. "Here—" He guided her hand to his face, pressing her fingertips against the ridge of his brow. "Feel that? Got that scar in Leeds last year. Some wanker threw a chair at my head."

Lila traced the raised line of tissue, her touch feather-light. The scar ran diagonally across his eyebrow, disappearing into his hairline. "Did it hurt?"

"Like a bastard," Ethan admitted, his grin audible in the dark. He guided her fingers lower, to the bridge of his nose—a slight bump where it had been broken and reset. "This one was worse. Had to wrestle the next night with two black eyes. Looked like a panda that lost a bar fight."

Lila snorted, her fingers lingering on the curve of his nose. The darkness amplified every sensation—the rasp of his stubble, the warmth of his breath against her knuckles. "You're ridiculous," she murmured, but didn't pull away.

"Occupational hazard," Ethan said, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. The elevator gave a sudden lurch, metal shrieking, and Lila's grip tightened instinctively. His other arm came up around her shoulders, steadying her as the floor trembled beneath them.

The emergency light flickered back to life with a crackle, painting them in weak amber. Lila blinked against the sudden brightness, her fingers still tangled with Ethan's. The elevator shuddered again—a deep, metallic groan—but this time, the floor beneath them jerked upward an inch before settling with a decisive clunk.

"Christ," Ethan muttered, his arm still tight around her shoulders. He craned his neck toward the ceiling like he could see through steel. "Sounds like they're finally—"

A metallic screech cut him off as the elevator lurched violently upward. Lila's stomach dropped. "Shit".

The elevator jerked upward another inch—metal screaming, cables protesting—and Lila's fingers dug into Ethan's forearm. His grip tightened around her, anchoring her against the shuddering floor. "Easy," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple. "That's maintenance. Means we're nearly out."

Somewhere above them, a muffled voice shouted instructions, followed by the rhythmic clank of tools against metal. The elevator trembled like a spooked animal, but this time, Ethan didn't let go. Lila focused on the pressure of his hand—the calluses, the faint tremor of fatigue—counting each ragged breath until it matched his steady rhythm.

A metallic screech tore through the shaft, and suddenly, blessedly, fluorescent light flooded the elevator as the doors groaned open. Lila squinted against the assault of brightness, her eyes watering. The hotel manager stood there, wringing his hands, flanked by two mechanics in grease-streaked coveralls.

"You two okay in there?" The manager's voice was shrill, hands fluttering like panicked birds. Behind him, the mechanics exchanged glances—one wiping grease from his forehead with the back of his hand, the other chewing gum with the bored patience of men who'd seen too many stuck elevators.

Ethan's grip on Lila's wrist loosened slowly, his thumb brushing once more against her pulse point before releasing. "Told you," he murmured, just for her. The emergency light caught the sweat at his temples, the way his split lip had darkened to a proper scab. He stood in one fluid motion, offering her a hand up. "Twenty minutes on the dot."

Lila took his hand, her suede boots squeaking against the floor as she rose. The sudden space—the open doors, the hotel lobby air rushing in—made her head spin. Her knees buckled slightly; Ethan's arm shot out instinctively, catching her at the small of her back. "Easy," he said again, softer this time. His palm burned through the thin fabric of her blouse. "Your legs'll be wobbly. Like coming down off a tilt-a-whirl."

"We're so sorry". The manager wrung his hands again, his gaze darting between them like he expected lawsuits to materialize any second. "The storm caused a power surge—completely unprecedented—"

"Mate, it's fine," Ethan cut in, rubbing his bruised jaw with his free hand while keeping the other anchored at Lila's back. "Just point us toward the nearest pub."

The manager blinked, then gestured vaguely toward the lobby bar. "Complimentary drinks, of course—"

"I think we could both use a stiff one". Ethan shot Lila a sideways glance, grin widening at her snort. He kept his hand at her back as they stepped over the threshold—Lila's legs holding but shaky, like a newborn foal's. The lobby air smelled like rain-damp carpet and industrial cleaner, a relief after the elevator's stale closeness.

One of the mechanics whistled low, nodding at Ethan's bruises. "Rough day at the office?"

"Could've been worse," Ethan said cheerfully, knocking his boot against the mechanic's toolbox as they passed. "At least I didn't get stuck with my ex."

"Was she that bad?". Lila asked, rubbing her arms as they crossed the lobby—her muscles still tense from the ordeal. The bar's neon sign buzzed overhead, casting garish pink light across Ethan's bruises.

Ethan snorted, pulling out a barstool for her with his foot. "Worse. She thought wrestling was fake." He mimed a knife to the heart as they sat, his split lip cracking anew when he grinned. The bartender—a bored-looking woman with a septum piercing—barely glanced up from her phone.

Lila studied Ethan's reflection in the mirrored backbar—the way his shoulders filled out his battered t-shirt, the fresh sweat at his temples. "So," she said, tracing a watermark on the bar with her thumbnail. "What now? Do we toast to surviving or just pretend this never happened?"

Ethan leaned back against the bar, the neon light catching the fresh scab on his lip. "Toasting's better," he said, tapping the counter twice. The bartender finally looked up, raising an eyebrow at his split lip. "Two whiskeys. Whatever's cheapest that won't strip paint."

Lila watched as the bartender poured with practiced disinterest—the amber liquid catching the pink neon, turning it molten. Ethan nudged one glass toward her, his knuckles brushing hers. "To surviving shit elevators and worse dates," he said, clinking his glass against hers with a sharp tink.