The Security Guard's Watch
"She works late at the Canary Wharf office tower. He's the Somali security guard who walks her to her car every night. When the lift breaks down with both of them inside, twenty floors of darkness reveal what they've been hiding."
Every night at 11 PM, I call down to security.
"Ready when you are, Ms. Ibrahim."
"I'll be right down, Mahad."
It's our routine. Has been for six months. I work late because the office is empty and quiet. He walks me to my car because Canary Wharf is dark and lonely at midnight.
Tonight, the routine breaks.
The lift stops between floors 15 and 14.
No warning. Just a shudder, a groan, and then darkness. Emergency lights flicker on, casting everything in red.
"Ms. Ibrahim? Are you alright?"
"I'm fine." I'm not fine. I'm claustrophobic and my heart is racing. "What happened?"
"Power surge, probably. The backup generators should kick in." He pulls out his radio. Static. "Or not."
"Are we stuck?"
"Temporarily." He sits down against the lift wall. "The engineers will be here within the hour. Building protocol."
An hour. In a small box. With the man I've been pretending not to notice for six months.
I sit down across from him.
We've never been alone like this.
Our interactions are professional—elevator small talk, the walk to my car, polite goodbyes. I know almost nothing about him except his name, his job, and the way my stomach flips when he smiles.
"You're afraid of small spaces," he says. Not a question.
"Is it obvious?"
"Your breathing changed the moment we stopped." He reaches out, hesitates. "May I?"
I nod.
He takes my hand. Holds it firmly.
"Focus on my voice. Tell me about your work."
I tell him about finance.
About spreadsheets and projections and the tedium that keeps me here until midnight. He listens, asks questions, keeps holding my hand like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Why finance?" he asks.
"My father. He came to London with nothing, worked three jobs, said I should have something stable. Something safe."
"Is it what you wanted?"
"I don't know." I look at our joined hands. "I'm not sure I've ever asked myself that."
"What would you want? If you could have anything?"
"I don't know that either." I meet his eyes in the red emergency light. "But lately, I've been wanting things I didn't expect."
He knows what I mean.
I can see it in his face—the same confusion I feel every night when he walks me to my car and I wish the walk was longer.
"This is complicated," he says.
"Is it?"
"You're—" He gestures vaguely. "Management. Finance. I'm security."
"So?"
"So there are rules. Hierarchies. People would talk."
"People always talk." I squeeze his hand. "What do you want, Mahad? If you could have anything?"
He's quiet for a long moment.
Then: "This."
He kisses me.
In the red light of a broken lift, everything simplifies.
His mouth is warm. His hand moves from mine to my face, cupping my cheek like I'm precious. I lean into him, feel his body solid against mine.
"Amira—"
"Don't talk." I pull at his uniform. "We might have an hour. Don't waste it talking."
"We should wait—"
"I've been waiting six months." I straddle his lap. "Every night, watching you walk away. Every night, wishing you wouldn't."
"I didn't know—"
"Now you know."
He undresses me in emergency light.
My blouse. My bra. My skirt. Each piece folded carefully beside us—he's methodical even in passion.
"You're beautiful—"
"The light is red. You can't see anything."
"I've been watching you for six months." He kisses my breast. "I know exactly how beautiful you are."
His mouth moves lower.
I gasp.
He lays me on the lift floor.
It's cold. Hard. Nothing like a proper bed. But his tongue between my thighs makes me forget everything except the sensation building inside me.
"Mahad—"
"Let me—" He spreads me wider. "Let me worship you."
He does.
Patient. Thorough. Building pleasure slowly, the way he does everything. By the time I come, I've forgotten we're trapped. Forgotten everything except him.
"Please—I need you—"
He rises over me.
He enters me on the floor of lift seven.
Twenty floors up, surrounded by darkness, with an hour before rescue. He fills me slowly, watching my face in the red light.
"This is—"
"Don't think." I pull him deeper. "Just feel."
He moves.
Slow at first, then faster as I demand. The lift rocks slightly—or maybe that's us, our rhythm shaking the suspended box.
"Yes—Mahad—yes—"
"I've wanted this—every night—"
"Then take it."
He does.
Takes everything I offer, pounds into me while I cry out, while my back slides against the floor, while both of us forget about rules and hierarchies and everything except this.
"I'm close—"
"With me—" He reaches between us. "Together—"
We shatter together.
Just as the lights come on.
We dress quickly.
The lift shudders, starts moving again. By the time it reaches the lobby, we're fully clothed, standing on opposite sides of the car.
"The engineers arrived," someone says through the radio. "Everyone okay?"
"Fine," Mahad responds. His voice is steady. "Just a power surge."
The doors open. The lobby is full of concerned building staff.
"Ms. Ibrahim, are you alright?"
"Fine." I smooth my hair. "Mahad took good care of me."
No one catches the double meaning.
I catch his eye.
He smiles.
He still walks me to my car every night.
But now he gets in with me. Drives to his flat in Woolwich, or mine in Greenwich. We've stopped pretending.
"People are going to notice," he says one night.
"Let them."
"The company—"
"Can mind their own business." I kiss him. "I've spent six months following rules. Now I'm following this."
"What is this?"
"Something real." I look at him. "Something I didn't know I wanted until I was trapped in a lift with it."
"That's romantic."
"I'm a finance person. We're not known for romance." I smile. "But I'm learning."
He teaches me.
Every night.
One lesson at a time.