Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Madison
I stare at the stairs and keep telling myself I can do it.
On a standard Tuesday, I’d be up them in twenty seconds, probably while responding to a work email and balancing a coffee. Tonight, just looking at them makes my back seize in protest.
I shift my weight, a jagged spike of white-hot pain shooting up my spine. “Son of a—”
“You okay there, Madi?”
Harold’s voice drifts over from the front desk. He’s been the fixture of this lobby far longer than I’ve lived here.
“Just preparing myself, Harold.”
“For what?”
“Possible death. Tell my family I went out bravely.”
He chuckles. “You’re not dying, Miss Madison.”
“Don’t be so sure. If I attempt those stairs, I’m not making it past the first landing. I’ll collapse somewhere near 1A, and you’ll have to explain to the morning dog walker why I’m a permanent part of the carpet.”
He steps out from behind the desk, his eyes scanning the rigid tilt of my shoulders and the way I’m guarding my right side. “Hurt your back again?”
“It’s pissed off,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
“You know, we do have a functional elevator. It’s a modern marvel.”
“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.”
“Try closing your eyes and stepping in. I’ll press the floor. When you hear the ding, it’ll be over. Easy.”
I don’t remember telling him about my fear of elevators, but Harold is a professional observer.
I mutter a curse, square my shoulders, and pivot toward the silver doors.
I tell grown men what to do every day. This should be easy.
With my pulse thudding a frantic rhythm in my throat, I step inside. My back isn’t easing up, and the air already feels too thin.
Give me a break, body. Just one.
“You’re doing great,” Harold encourages.
I nod, even though my skin is starting to hum with a heat that has nothing to do with pain.
I try to breathe. I try to count. One. Two. Three.
The doors begin to slide shut, and panic rushes through my veins. My throat tightens. My lungs lock up. My entire body braces for an impact that hasn’t happened yet.
Just as the doors are about to seal, the sound of flesh hitting metal echoes through the small space. My eyes fly open. A hand is wedged between the doors, forcing them back.
Beckett’s eyes lock onto mine, a dark brow arched. “Thought today was the day you’d face your fears?”
“Shut up,” I wheeze.
Because today hasn’t been humiliating enough, I’m now poised for a full-scale meltdown in a confined space with Sexy Mr. Thuddy as my only witness. He looks exhausted, but even with the five o’clock shadow and the rolled-up sleeves of his button-down, he’s still annoyingly composed.
“Just get in,” I say.
“Keep an eye on Miss Madison,” Harold calls out as Beckett steps inside.
“I’ve got her.”
I’m not looking at him, but I can feel him filling the space. I crack one eye open to confirm my floor is lit, then squeeze it shut again.
I can do this.
“Deep breaths,” I whisper, mostly to convince my lungs they still work.
Beckett stays silent, which is worse. Silence gives my brain room to wander, and my brain is currently a very bad neighborhood.
It’ll be over soon. Today can’t get any—
The thought is cut off by a violent jerk. The elevator stutters, a mechanical groan vibrating through the floor, and then nothing. The lights flicker before plunging us into absolute, suffocating darkness.
The hum beneath my feet dies. The air turns stagnant.
My heart slams against my ribs, hard enough to bruise.
No. No, no, no.
I suck in a breath that stops at my collarbone. I can’t breathe. Not here. Not again.
The smell hits me. Hospital disinfectant. Cold plastic chairs. The low, electric drone of a vending machine.
I’m seven years old, and my dad’s hand is a vice around mine. He’s telling me it’ll be fine, but his voice is shaking. Men in uniforms brought my mom in earlier. Her eyes were too bright. She was talking too much, and then she wasn’t talking at all. No one explained anything properly.
I went to the vending machine because Mom loved chocolate, and chocolate would help, but when I turned around, the hallway was a labyrinth of white linoleum, and I couldn’t find my dad.
Maybe they’re on another floor. Maybe I’m lost.
I remember pressing the elevator button with trembling fingers and stepping inside alone.
What if I go to the wrong floor? What if I never find them? What if the doors never open?
You’re a big girl, Madi. You can do it.
But halfway down, the world stopped moving.
I remember screaming for my dad. For my mom most of all. I remember covering my ears because my own sobbing was too loud. I remember thinking I was never getting out.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, the memory fracturing into the present. “Oh my God.”
“Madison.” His voice cuts through the static like a blade. “Look at me.”
My brain is spiraling, but the sheer authority in his tone forces a pause.
“You need to breathe,” Beckett says, closer now. “You’re having a panic attack.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, because that is my default setting even when I’m dying.
“Bullshit,” he growls. I feel a firm, warm grip on my chin, tilting my face up. “Take a deep breath for me.”
I shake my head, the movement jerky. “I can’t. I need to get out. Get me out.”
His phone flashlight clicks on, carving his silhouette out of the dark—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, eyes that are locked onto mine. He looks at me like a patient about to bolt, and he’s clearly decided he isn’t going to let me.
“The power is out. It’ll be back on. You’re safe.”
“No, I can’t—”
“Madison.” His voice drops an octave, vibrating right under my ribs. “Look. At. Me.”
I want to look anywhere but the man witnessing my unraveling. But his light follows my face. He steps into my personal space until there’s nowhere left to go.
“Hey. I need to see those eyes. Look at me.”
A stray tear slips out, hot and humiliating. I hate this. I hate that my body is a traitor. Most of all, I hate that he’s the one holding the flashlight. When I finally meet his gaze, it’s a collision of green and brown. He catches the tear with his thumb, the contact brief but grounding.
“Focus on my voice,” he instructs. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
“I can’t breathe,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
“You can. In. Now.”
It isn’t a suggestion. My body, desperate for a pilot, finally listens. I suck in a shaky, shallow breath.
“Good,” he says. “Again.”
I try.
“Out. Slow.”
I blow it out. It stutters, but the edges of the panic are starting to blur.
“Again.”
The gallop in my chest slows to a heavy trot.
“You need to sit,” he says.
“I can’t sit,” I snap, the fear flaring again. “If I sit, I’m stuck. I have to be ready to run.”
“You’re not running anywhere, and you’re going to pass out if you keep locking your knees. Your back is already shot.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. Sit.”
“It’s really hurt this time,” I finally admit, the exhaustion winning.
“I know. I’ll help you down.”
“I’m not—”
“Madison. Sit. Now.”
There it is. The doctor voice. The one that expects obedience because it’s the only thing standing between you and a disaster. My pride puts up a fight, but my legs give in first.
He moves in close, supporting my arm with one hand and bracing my back with the other. The contact is clinical, and yet it makes my skin feel five sizes too small.
I lower myself to the floor, legs bent awkwardly. The pain is brutal, but sitting takes some of the fight out of my muscles.
Beckett crouches in front of me, the phone light angled to illuminate his face. “Stay with me. You’re okay.”
“I’m not,” I breathe, the truth finally leaking out. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.” He doesn’t break eye contact. “In through the nose. Out through the mouth.”
I follow his lead. The tears are still coming, and they make me angrier than the elevator ever could.
“Ugh, I’m crying. This is great.”
“So what? Keep breathing.”
The air begins to feel like air again, rather than lead. When my heart finally decides to stay in my chest, I swallow hard and blink up at him.
Naturally, the first thing out of my mouth is pure nonsense. “You’re not in scrubs.”
His mouth twitches. “No.”
“And you’re not in your slutty gray sweatpants, which is unfortunate for me.”
A quiet breath of amusement leaves him. “I had a meeting.”
I blink, still foggy. “Yeah? What kind of meeting?”
His gaze flicks over my face, like he’s checking I’m really back. “Lunch with my mother.”
I frown. “You call lunch with your mother a meeting?”
He shakes his head, looking slightly dazed. “I have no idea why I said that.”
A laugh bubbles up in my throat. “Do I make you nervous, Doc?”
He watches me for a long beat, his expression unreadable. “You’re terrifying,” he says softly, finally letting go of my chin.
“I get that a lot.”
He reaches out, his fingers brushing a stray hair from my cheek with a gentleness that makes my stomach flip.
“Do you think it’ll take long?” I ask.
Before he can answer, the elevator hums. The lights flicker to life, and suddenly the box jolts, resuming its climb.
“Thank God,” I whisper.
I try to stand when the doors slide open, but my back immediately screams in protest.
“Ah.”
Beckett’s hands are on me before I can even pretend to be fine.
“I sneezed earlier,” I mutter, leaning into him despite myself.
“That’ll do it,” he says, helping me straighten. “Especially if you didn’t let it heal the last time. Which I’m guessing you didn’t.”
I swallow hard because… yeah. That sounds like me. Never letting anything fully heal. Just powering through until my body physically brings me down.
I shuffle out, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “Uh… thanks. For the… breathing.”
He steps out behind me.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m helping.”
“No. Absolutely not. Go home and let me wither away in peace.”
“Can’t do that. Took an oath.”
Oh, screw his oath. “Your oath is to do no harm. This is harm. I’m dying of embarrassment.”
He exhales. “If I leave you like this,” he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register, “I’ll stress. And when I stress, I run, and run, and run, and—”
“Okay,” I give in. “Jesus. I get it.”
He walks beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. I hate how much I want to lean on him. When we reach my door, I fumble with my keys, my fingers clumsy and shaking. Before I can get frustrated, he reaches past me, takes the keys, and unlocks the door.
He steers me toward the couch. “Sit.”
I feel like a well-trained dog.
He adjusts the cushions, sliding one under my knees until the tension in my spine finally hits a dull roar. He looks satisfied with his handiwork.
“You’re very bossy.”
“You’re very injured,” he counters.
He slips my jacket off and eases my shoes away. The care in his movements hits me harder than the panic attack did. I stare at the ceiling, waiting for the lump in my throat to dissolve.
“Where are the painkillers?”
“Kitchen. Top drawer.”
I sink into the sofa, listening to the sounds of him moving through my apartment. Water running. Drawers clicking. It’s too domestic. I don’t like it.
He returns with a glass of water and the bottle. I’m mortified. “This is… a lot.”
“It’s basic care, Madison.”
“It’s humiliating.”
His expression shifts, the teasing gone. “Listen to me. That wasn’t humiliating. That was your body hitting a limit. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I swallow hard. “Thanks.”
“Before you take these—when was the last time you ate?”
I open my mouth, then close it.
“Madison.”
“Breakfast,” I admit.
He gives me the look. The I am a doctor and you are a disaster look. “You’re kidding.”
I shake my head.
“Well, you’re in luck.”
“How’s that?”
“You’re having dinner with me.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You need to eat.”
“I’m not even hungry.”
On cue, my stomach lets out a treacherous, audible growl.
“What the fuck,” I mutter.
He’s already heading back to the kitchen.
“Beckett! What are you doing?”
“Cooking,” he calls over his shoulder. “Relax.”
“That feels like a threat.”
I hear him raiding my fridge, muttering to himself.
I drop my head back against the cushion. “This is deeply inappropriate,” I yell.
“You’re injured. It’s dinner. Let it go.”
“I hope you’re not expecting sex after this.”
There’s a pause, followed by a dark chuckle. “Madison, you can barely sit upright.”
“You must be very adventurous if your sex involves being upright, Doc.”
Silence follows, and then the sound of a pan hitting the stove.
I am never taking the elevator again. And I am absolutely going to kill my neighbor.
Eventually.
Right after I finish whatever he’s making for dinner.