The heavy doors of the private elevator slide open with a soft, mechanical chime, and the moment Locke steps out, I can see the deep line of tension carved between his brows.
He looks completely worn out. His eyes are shadowy, his jaw clenched so hard the muscle in his cheek ticks, and his broad shoulders carry the sharp, dangerous weight of a man who’s been fighting fires all day and still feels the heat on his back.
He lets out a long, heavy exhale, running a hand down his face with a low, frustrated grumble as the elevator doors slide shut behind him.
I’m leaning against the wall, arms loosely crossed over the front of my long, floral-print dress.
“You okay?” I say. “Rough day?”
"I just spent five straight hours in church, listening to Cobra and the other officers tear each other
