I keep telling myself the lift is just a lift. Four walls, a button panel, the faint smell of whoever used the cleaner that morning. Nothing special. Yet this afternoon it somehow turned into the most dangerous little box in the whole bank.
One of the lads from my team stepped in just as the doors were closing. He is one of the quieter ones, always on time with his numbers and never the type to push back when I have to be firm. Today he looked up, caught my eye, and smiled. Not a big showy grin, just a soft, proper one that reached his eyes for a second longer than it needed to. My face stayed exactly the way it always does on the floor. Stern. Steady. The supervisor mask locked in place so none of the under-25s ever see a crack. Inside though, something silly and warm fluttered straight up into my chest and stayed there.
I managed a short nod, the same one I give when someone hands me a finished report. The lift moved. Two floors. That was all. Yet every second felt stretched out, and I could feel the heat creeping up the back of my neck even while my expression stayed cool. When the doors opened on our floor I walked out first, shoulders straight, already thinking about the next set of figures that needed checking. He followed a few steps behind, and I made sure not to glance back.
The rest of the afternoon I stayed extra sharp with everyone. Corrected a couple of small mistakes louder than usual. Kept the meetings short and no-nonsense. It felt safer that way, like if I held the strict version of myself tightly enough the butterflies would eventually get the message and settle down. They did not. Every time I looked across the open plan I caught myself wondering whether he was still thinking about that lift moment too, which is ridiculous because of course he was not. He is just a lad on the team. I am the one who signs off their hours and reminds them about deadlines. Crossing that line is not an option, and I would never want it to be.
By half five most of the floor had cleared. I stayed. Told myself there were still a few sheets that needed a final look, even though they were already fine. Really I just did not fancy the walk to the station with those silly butterflies still bouncing around. The idea of sharing the pavement with him, or even catching the same train, felt too exposed. So I sat at my desk a little longer, pretending the extra hour was pure professionalism while the quiet office hummed around me.
When I finally locked everything up and headed out the evening air was soft. I walked the long way round, past the canal path, letting the quiet stretch out. Part of me felt a bit foolish for making such a fuss over one smile. Another part, the softer one I only let out at home in my baggy hoodie, could not help smiling at how easily my heart still does these little flips. I know the perfect man is still out there somewhere, tall and dark and steady enough to keep me properly in check while still giving the cuddles and foot rubs I daydream about. Until then these tiny, harmless sparks are just reminders that the romantic side of me is still very much awake under all the bank toughness.
Tonight I will put a film on, make a cup of tea, and let the whole thing fade into a private little joke I can laugh at later. The stern face will be ready again tomorrow morning, same as always. But for now, sitting here with the window open and the city lights starting to blink on, I will admit it felt rather lovely to melt just a little, even if only for the length of two floors.
