The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the place in a graveyard of long shadows and biting chill. She had forgotten her watch that morning, and her thumb mindlessly brushed the bare skin of her wrist, a phantom limb she’d been reaching for all day.

As she passed the equipment shed, a sliver of light cut through the gloom. The door was ajar. His cart sat outside, abandoned with his phone and backpack. From within, the low, melodic hum of a song she didn’t recognize drifted out. A wicked grin touched her lips. She crept toward the opening, ditched her papers and belongings in his cart, and pounced.

“What are you still doing here?” she demanded.

He jumped, spinning around with wide eyes that quickly melted into a warm, chocolate glow. “I could ask you the same thing,” he retorted, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the small space.

He turned on the air compressor to fill the last of the footballs. The mechanical whine filled the shed, making conversation a shout. “I thought I was the last one!” she yelled. A stray lock of hair fell across her eyes in the wind, he watched it, his fingers twitching as if fighting the urge to reach out and tuck it behind her ear.

Then, the world exploded.

Distracted by her presence, he’d overfilled the ball. It burst with a violent crack. The rubber bladder shot out like a projectile, and she recoiled, tripping backward into a metal cart. The bladder struck the roller door’s tension chain with a sickening snap. The heavy steel door thundered down, sealing them in total darkness before the overhead light flickered back to life.

He killed the compressor. The silence was sudden and heavy.

“Whoa, are you okay?” He was over to her in a second, his hands hovering before he hauled her up.

She ignored the throb in her leg, rushing to the roller door. She gripped the handle, straining until her knuckles turned white. It didn’t budge. He stepped in, shedding his jacket. He heaved against the dead weight, she found herself paralysed by the sight, the light grey fabric of his shirt straining against the broad expanse of his shoulders, the corded muscles of his arms flexed to the limit.

He caught her staring. A slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Asshole,” she breathed, though her heart was hammering against her ribs for a very different reason.

“I can’t lift it,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “That chain is snapped. That’s two hundred kilos of dead weight. There’s no way we are lifting that. And nobody’s here until morning.”

Panic flared, then shifted. She reached for her phone, but her hand met only the curve of her own backside. “I left my phone in your cart.”

His gaze darkened. The realization that they were truly alone, trapped in the freezing dark, hung between them like a physical weight.

“You’re bleeding.” He pointed to a blossoming crimson stain on her tan trousers.

“Shit”, she hissed as she looked down.

“Sit down,” he commanded, gesturing to the stack of blue gym mats in the corner of the shed.

“No, it’s fine”, she snapped. “We have bigger problems.”

“Those problems aren’t going anywhere”, he retorted, “let’s make sure you’re okay first.”

“I said I’m fine”, she spat.

“You’re clearly not! Why are you so stubborn?” he spat right back “It won’t kill you to accept help!” he said tersely.

She levelled an icy stare at him, and he stood his ground, levelling one of his own right back. She let out a long-suffering breath and said in a soft mumble.

“I ... I haven’t shaved my legs” She dropped her gaze to the floor.

He stood silent for a second, then he let out a rich, throaty laugh that sent a tremor through her. He stepped closer, his hand heavy and warm on her shoulder. He didn’t ask, he just pressed down, his voice dropping into a growl. “I don’t care. Now sit, and do as you’re told for once.”