Two Hours to Burn

The first thing I noticed was that the coffee machine had stopped mid-brew. Not the power. The machine itself, a hulking stainless steel thing that had been gurgling through its cycle, just quit. The little green light blinked twice and died.

I was standing in the break room of Meridian Financial Solutions, third floor, holding a ceramic mug with a chip on the rim, and I was watching the last drops of dark liquid drip into the carafe with the kind of focus usually reserved for bomb defusal. It was 2:47 on a Tuesday. I know because the digital clock on the wall, the one that had been stuck at 12:00 for three years, had suddenly corrected itself. It now read 2:47 in angry red numbers.

"Eric."

Kelsey's voice came from behind me. I turned. She was standing in the doorway, her white cane folded in her hand, pink handle catching the fluorescent light. Her head was tilted, the way it always did when she was listening for something specific. Her blonde hair was loose today, falling over her shoulders in waves that made my fingers twitch. She wore a green dress that hugged her hips and dipped low enough at the neckline to make a monk reconsider his vows.

"The power's out," I said. "Whole building, I think."

"No." She stepped into the room, cane tapping once against the linoleum. "The power's not out. The elevators are still running. I heard them. But the coffee machine died, and the clock fixed itself, and my phone won't connect to anything except this one emergency broadcast that keeps repeating."

I set the mug down. "What broadcast?"

She pulled her phone from the pocket of her dress. The screen was bright, too bright, showing a single line of text in stark white against black. I crossed the room and took it from her. Her fingers brushed mine. Warm. Always warm.

The text read: *Impact in 1 hour 58 minutes. This is not a drill. Seek immediate shelter. Further instructions pending.*

I read it three times. Then I read it again.

"That's not funny," I said.

"Do I look like I'm laughing?"

She didn't. Her jaw was set, her sightless blue eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder, and her hand had found the edge of the counter, gripping it hard enough that her knuckles went pale. Kelsey was the most unflappable person I'd ever met. She'd once talked a drunk investor off a ledge at a company retreat by describing the sound of his own voice. She didn't panic. Ever.

"You're scared," I said.

"I'm terrified." She let go of the counter. "But I'm also standing in a break room with the only person in this building I actually like, and we have less than two hours to live. So I'm trying to decide what to do with that."

The fluorescent lights flickered. Outside the window, the Boston skyline was unnaturally still. No planes. No helicopters. The usual hum of traffic had dropped to almost nothing. I hadn't noticed until now.

I looked at Kelsey. Really looked. The way her lips parted slightly when she was thinking. The curve of her waist. The way she always stood with her weight on one hip, like she was posing for a photo she couldn't see. I'd been looking at her for three years, from my desk in the corner of the open-plan office, watching her laugh at other people's jokes and answer phones and walk past my cubicle with that cane clicking against the floor. Three years of wanting her and saying nothing.

"Okay," I said. "What do you want to do?"

She smiled. It was the smile she used on stage, the one that made audiences lean forward in their seats. But there was something underneath it now. Something sharp.

"I want to know what you taste like," she said.

The words landed like a punch to the sternum. I didn't move. I couldn't. My brain was still processing the emergency broadcast, still stuck on the numbers counting down, and now this. Her. Saying that.

"Kelsey."

"I'm serious." She stepped closer. Her cane tapped once, twice, then she folded it and set it on the counter. "I've been thinking about it for two years. Maybe longer. The way you move. The way you smell. You smell like cedar and something else. Something warm." She reached out, her hand finding my chest, fingers spreading over my shirt. "I've wanted to know what that smell tastes like."

My heart was hammering. I could hear it in my ears, a drumbeat that drowned out the hum of the dying building.

"You're blind," I said. Stupid. The dumbest thing I could have said.

Kelsey laughed. Not the polite laugh she gave clients. A real laugh, low and throaty. "I'm aware. That's why I notice everything else. And I've noticed you, Eric. The way you stand. The way you breathe. The way you go quiet when I walk into a room." Her hand slid up to my collar, fingers curling around the fabric. "You think I can't tell? You think I don't know what it means when a man's voice drops half an octave the second I get close?"

I caught her wrist. Gently. She didn't pull away.

"Two hours," I said.

"One hour and fifty-four minutes, according to the broadcast." She tilted her head up. Her lips were parted, her breath warm against my chin. "Is that enough time for you to stop pretending?"

I should have said something about safety. About finding a basement, a shelter, a way to survive. But the truth was, I'd been dead for years. Walking around in a suit, answering emails, going home to an empty apartment. The only time I felt alive was when Kelsey walked past my desk and I caught her scent, something floral and clean, like rain on pavement.

"Not here," I said.

"Where?"

"My apartment. It's four blocks. We can walk."

She smiled again. That sharp smile. "Lead the way."

I grabbed her hand. Her fingers laced through mine like they'd been waiting for it. We left the break room, left the dying coffee machine and the red numbers on the clock, and walked toward the stairwell. The hallway was empty. Everyone else must have been glued to their phones, reading the same broadcast, waiting for instructions that weren't coming.

The stairwell door closed behind us with a heavy click. Concrete walls. Echoes. Kelsey's hand tightened around mine.

"Eric."

"Yeah."

"When we get there, I don't want you to be gentle."

I stopped on the landing. Turned. She was one step below me, her face lifted, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. She looked like a painting. Like something I'd dreamed and forgotten.

"I don't know how to be anything else," I said.

"Then learn." She reached up, found my face with her free hand, traced my jaw with her thumb. "We have two hours to be honest. That's longer than most people get."

The building shuddered. A low rumble, like thunder under the floor. The lights in the stairwell flickered and went out, leaving us in darkness. Kelsey didn't flinch. She just pulled my face down and kissed me.

Her lips were soft. Warm. She tasted like mint and coffee and something sweeter underneath. I kissed her back, one hand finding her waist, the other bracing against the wall. She made a sound low in her throat, a sound I felt in my chest.

When she pulled back, her breath was ragged. "Four blocks?"

"Four blocks."

We ran.