We glare at each other across the threshold.
Behind us, I can feel the weight of approximately forty eyeballs boring into our backs.
Sila (Shithead Silass ,not either of the other ones) is definitely chewing sunflower seeds again. I can hear the crunch-and-spit from here.
Andrew steps into the waiting elevator. "Get in."
"Make me."
I regret the words the instant they leave my mouth, because the air between us goes nuclear, his pupils dilate, and my breath catches.
Then he reaches out, wraps one hand around my wrist—not tight, never tight, but firm enough that resistance is clearly futile—and tugs me into the elevator.
The doors slide shut.
Just like that, we're alone.
"You can't just—" I start, but he releases my wrist and jabs the button for the lobby so hard I'm surprised the glass doesn't shatter.
"I can, and I did." He crosses his arms over his chest.
"Fine," I say.
"Fine," he says.
I cross my arms to match his.
