The Elevator Rule

Ahaan stood frozen in front of the towering glass building, Romano Tech gleaming like something untouchable. His palms were already sweating.

Why did he agree to come here?

This wasn’t a café, it was a shark tank. Everyone here wore money like perfume — and he was in his cleanest thrifted shirt, sleeves slightly too long.

He stepped in.

The marble lobby was colder than he remembered, but somehow, it felt like the world had shifted slightly — because this time, he was expected.

The receptionist barely looked up. “Top floor. Elevator 3.”

As he stepped in, the mirrored elevator reflected everything he hated seeing: the nerves, the slouch, the wide-eyed fear of someone who never felt like he belonged.

The doors began to close.

Then — they opened again.

A hand.

Matteo Romano.

The same cold, tailored presence from the café walked in like he owned gravity itself. He didn’t even glance at Ahaan. Just pressed the top-floor button, sharp jawline tight, lips in that unreadable expression.

The air felt thicker in seconds.

No music. No talking. Just silence and scent.

Matteo smelled like expensive leather, citrus, and trouble.

Then he spoke, casually.

“Your collar’s crooked.”

Ahaan turned, startled. “Huh?”

Matteo stepped closer, one hand reaching up — fingers brushing against Ahaan’s throat, slow and deliberate.

He adjusted the collar, but his touch lingered too long.

Just a second too long.

Ahaan’s breath hitched. His skin burned.

“Better,” Matteo murmured, stepping back with a faint smirk.

Before Ahaan could even recover, the elevator dinged. Matteo walked out without another word.

But then, he paused.

Without turning around, he said coolly,

“Rule number one: don’t speak unless I tell you to.”

And disappeared down the corridor.

---

Matteo’s private office was sleek and intimidating — all black wood, glass, and shadows. Ahaan stepped in cautiously, but Matteo didn’t offer a seat.

“You’re not here to make coffee,” he said, back turned, facing the city view.

“Then why am I here?” Ahaan asked quietly.

Matteo turned, eyes sharp.

“Because I want to see what happens when someone sees you.”

Ahaan didn’t reply. He couldn’t.

Something twisted in his stomach. Was it fear? Or… something far more dangerous?

---

That night, Ahaan couldn’t sleep.

Again.

He rolled over in his bed, sheets tangled, eyes wide open. The apartment was dark, but the memory of Matteo’s fingers at his collar kept replaying like static in his brain.

At some point, he drifted off.

And the dream came.

---

He was back in the elevator.

But this time, it wasn’t silent.

It was Matteo’s breath in his ear.

“You never ask to be touched,” Matteo whispered.

Ahaan turned — but before he could speak, Matteo pressed him against the mirrored wall.

Fingers grazed his chest, traced lower, slowly, teasingly. Ahaan gasped as Matteo’s hand slid to the waistband of his pants, fingers slipping just under the edge.

“You said you’d last,” Matteo murmured.

“Prove it.”

Ahaan arched into the touch — heart pounding, breath shaking — but just as Matteo’s lips brushed his neck—

---

He woke up.

Sweating.

Hard.

Embarrassed.

Panting like he’d run a marathon.

He stared at the ceiling, face burning.

It was just a dream.

Just a dream.