#vincedunn29

Your hands land against his chest to catch yourself. Warm. Solid. You’re acutely aware of the way his jacket stretches over muscle, the way his fingers span almost entirely across your side.

Then the elevator goes still. Too still.

You both look toward the doors. But they don’t open. There’s a mechanical groan from somewhere above, and the overhead lights dim to a low, humming glow. The silence that follows feels louder than the jolt did.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you breathe.

Vince leans past you and presses the button for the lobby again. Nothing. He presses it harder, like that might intimidate the system into working. Still nothing.

“Seriously?” he mutters.

You’re hyperaware now—of the confined space, of how close he’s standing, of the faint scent of clean laundry and something woodsy clinging to him. The team hotel elevator was not built for this kind of tension.

He hits the emergency button. After a few seconds, a distant voice answers, calm and detached, informing you that maintenance is on the way.

“How long?” you ask.

“Hard to say,” the voice replies. “Shouldn’t be too long.”

Shouldn’t. The line clicks off.

You blow out a breath and lean back against the wall. “This is so on brand for my week.”

He glances at you, brow lifting slightly. “Yeah?”

“I handle every crisis for this team,” you say dryly. “Flight delays. Equipment mix-ups. Media chaos. And now I’m stuck in an elevator. With a defenseman.”

He snorts softly. “Wow. You make it sound like I’m the worst part of this.”

You glance at him. “I didn’t say that.” But you don’t elaborate.

Working for the team means you’re used to keeping a professional distance. You coordinate schedules, handle communications, smooth over issues before they become headlines. You do not develop feelings for players. Especially not players who look at you the way Vince does when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

The elevator feels smaller by the second. He shifts slightly, and your shoulders brush. Neither of you move away.

“Guess we sit?” he suggests.

You nod and slide down the wall to the floor, grateful for something to do. He follows, long legs stretching out in front of him. His knee ends up pressed against yours. It would be so easy to shift an inch to the side. You don’t.

The silence settles between you. Not awkward, exactly. Just charged.

You’re acutely aware of your perfume—something light and subtle you’d spritzed on that morning without thinking. You’re aware of how close he is, how the warmth of his body radiates in the small space.

He inhales slightly. You notice.

He hesitates, jaw tightening like he’s debating something. And then, softly—

“This might be a bad time to mention it, but i really like your perfume.”

For a second, you think you misheard him.

“My what?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. The movement pulls his sleeve up slightly, revealing the strong line of his forearm. “Your perfume,” he repeats, a little sheepish now. “I noticed it earlier. In the hallway. And now we’re stuck in here and it’s kinda impossible not to notice.”

Heat floods your face.

“You’re unbelievable,” you murmur, staring straight ahead at the elevator doors. “We’re trapped between floors.”

“I know.”

“And that’s what you choose to say?”

He shrugs lightly, though there’s tension in his shoulders. “Didn’t exactly plan it.”

You risk a glance at him.

He’s not smirking. Not teasing. He looks almost… nervous.

“It smells really good,” he adds quietly. “On you.”

Your heart stutters.

This is dangerous territory. You work for the team. You know the policies. You know the unspoken rules. You know how complicated this could get.

“You’re making this weird,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction.

“I think it was already weird,” he replies gently.

You swallow.

He shifts slightly, turning toward you more fully. His knee presses more firmly against yours now, deliberate. His shoulder brushes yours again.

“You make it hard,” he says after a moment.

“To do my job?” you ask, trying for lightness.

He shakes his head faintly. “To pretend I don’t feel anything.”

The air leaves your lungs.

“Vince…”

“I know,” he says quickly. “You work for us. I get it. I’m not trying to make this complicated.” His voice lowers. “But I notice you. All the time. The way you run around fixing everything. The way you bite your lip when you’re stressed. The way you smell when you walk past me.”

Your pulse is racing now.

“You shouldn’t be noticing that,” you whisper.

“Probably not.”

The elevator hums softly, suspended in place. The world feels narrowed to this small metal box and the inches between you.

His hand shifts on the floor, brushing against yours. He stills, giving you the chance to pull away. You don’t. Your fingers remain there, barely touching. His thumb moves slightly, testing, then gently threads between your fingers. The contact is electric.

“We can pretend this never happened when those doors open,” he says quietly. “If that’s what you want.”

The thought makes your chest ache unexpectedly.

“And if it’s not?” you ask.

His eyes meet yours, steady and searching. “Then we figure it out.”

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. You should pull away. You should remind him of the rules, of the risks. Instead, you squeeze his hand.

The elevator jolts suddenly, making you both tense. The lights brighten as the mechanism whirs back to life. The car begins to move again, slow and steady.

You don’t let go.

The doors slide open to the lobby, bright and normal and full of the world you’re supposed to exist in—professional, composed, careful.