A/N: Hello! This is my first story for this fandom, though you may know me from "The Mentalist" or "Moonlight," among others. I have loved "Sleepy Hollow" from the beginning, but it has only been the last two episodes, where I feel we are moving closer to a romantic relationship between Crane and Abbie, that I have felt inspired to write for them. Here is a tag of sorts for "Incident at Stone Manor" and "Kindred Spirits." I think others have had similar ideas, but hopefully mine is different enough to still be enjoyable.

Spilt Milk

Ichabod Crane had no idea what had awakened him; he only knew that one moment he was riding in the snow on a cold winter's day in 1777, and the next he heard Abbie's soft cursing coming from the kitchen of their shared home. He sat straight up in bed, his heart pounding in startle, somewhat disoriented. Crane's dreams were usually very vivid, especially when they included memories from his past, and it would sometimes take him hours after waking to readjust to the atmosphere of the twenty-first century.

At the sound of a particular vulgar word he'd never heard emanating from his housemate's lovely lips, Crane had no trouble remembering the present, and he reached for the dressing gown at the end of his bed.

"Lieutenant," he whispered urgently into the darkness.

He tied the sash of the robe as he walked, cringing as his bare feet hit the ice-cold wooden floor. He flinched at the brightness of the rest of the house; Abbie had been given to turning on every light if she woke in the night.

When he arrived at the kitchen and saw what had been the cause of the commotion, his hand came up to cover his laughter. Abbie Mills squatted amidst a pool of milk, shards of a shattered bowl, and what appeared to be the soggy remnants of her favorite cereal. Her typical nightwear—sleep pants, t-shirt and socks—were liberally spattered or alternatively soaked with milk.

When she sensed his presence and looked up from the catastrophe surrounding her, Crane removed his hand from his mouth, his expression neutral, though his blue eyes still sparkled with humor.

"I believe the expression is that one should not cry over spilt milk—therefore, it would follow that cursing over the wasted substance is of even greater futility."

She frowned up at him, too annoyed with the whole situation to see the humor in it, at least not yet. "Would one kindly shut up and get me the mop…please."

"Certainly," he said despite her sarcasm, but he grinned as he retrieved the item from the utility closet in the hall. He approached the scene with trepidation, given his bare feet and the broken bowl, and he reached one arm out to tentatively mop up the milk at the very edge of the spill.

"Oh, give me that," she said impatiently, having succeeded in picking up the largest pieces of the broken china and setting them in the trash under the sink.

Crane watched as she efficiently began mopping up milk and cereal, depositing the whole mess in the sink. In the meantime, Crane had retrieved his slippers from his bedroom and now gallantly walked into the fray to pick up the distressed damsel and deposit her in a chair at the dining table. She protested heartily, but he would hear nothing of it, removing her wet socks and tossing them handily into the sink. He retrieved a clean dishtowel from a drawer, but she drew the line at letting him dry her bare feet.

Silence ensued as Abbie finished the job and absently folded the towel before laying it on the table. He stood by, watching her, suddenly taking note of the intimacy of the early morning hour and the darkness outside the windows. He swallowed awkwardly, moving a step away.

"Thanks," she replied at last, oblivious to his mood. "Sorry if I woke you."

His expression grew serious. "You still have not acclimated to the lack of daylight?"

"No."

Nearly a year in the catacombs, with never-ending sunlight, had severely damaged her circadian rhythm. That Crane was concerned was an understatement, for he had heard tell of those who actually went mad for want of sleep. No sense frightening her with that tidbit, however.

"On the bright side," he ventured with a smile, "your appetite has been restored."

She met his eyes, smiling wistfully. "There is that."

"Although," he couldn't resist continuing, "it would be much better were you to choose a healthier form of sustenance."

He picked up the cereal box from the counter, grimacing at the picture of a sea captain in his bright blue uniform.

"It's my only vice," she said defensively. "I deserve at least one."

"That you do," he readily agreed. Aside from her love of sugary cereal, she seemed very near perfect to Crane.

After retrieving a new bowl from a cabinet, he shook the cereal box, intending to pour her another helping. "Well, sadly, you are out of the fine captain's crunchy fare, though I must say this so-called cap'n is a fraud."

She raised her eyebrows, mentally preparing herself for the litany of analysis directly from The Age of Enlightenment.

"Oh?"

"Yes." He moved toward her again, his momentary awkwardness forgotten as he warmed to his topic. "See here the stripes upon said captain's jacket sleeves—how many do you count, Lieutenant?"

"Three," she said, the shared revelation dawning.

"Quite. Your cherished captain has actually only attained the the rank of Naval commander, not in fact, that of a captain as falsely advertised on this very box." He thumped the cardboard for dramatic emphasis.

"Huh," she said in wonder, taking the box from his hands. "I never noticed that before."

"And how do you explain the Napoleonic influence of his cap, mademoiselle?" Crane affected an exaggerated French accent "Is he in fact, French? Have the Americans stooped so low as to allow this-this—pirate to peddle their céréales en sucre to an uninformed public? Oh, the outrage!"

By then Abbie was grinning at Crane's antics, effectively lifting the melancholy pall that had settled about her since her return.

"There's Cocoa Puffs in the pantry," she said.

"Well, there's a step up, although, I must say, the creature pictured upon that box resembles a cuckoo bird not at all…"

Abbie's smile faded as she waited for Crane's return, hating the fact that she had brought Crane once more unwittingly into her problems. Her clumsiness with the bowl was only part of it.

But we are a team; your problems are mine, he would surely say if she mentioned it, falling once more into the habit of imagining his replies. She was still doing it, even though it had been a week since she'd escaped the catacombs, and he was right there, blessedly ready to answer her in person.

But she couldn't tell him how the darkness now terrified her, despite how much she had longed for it for months. She couldn't tell him that, while her body craved food once more, now everything tasted like the cardboard boxes that it came in. She forced herself to eat things that were extremely sweet or eye-wateringly spicy, in hopes that she might awaken her taste buds along with her flagging spirits. She was depressed, and she couldn't seem to lift herself out of it.

"Lieutenant," Crane called suddenly, his voice somewhat muffled from the inside of the small closet off the kitchen. "I see no Cocoa Puffs, nor are there Pebbles of Fruit or that deplorable Irish-trickster inspired confection, which, I might add, is also wholly inaccurate in its depiction. Leprechauns were in fact known to deceive children, not to induce them to eat their breakfast, though, come to think of it, the choice of such a character might be a stroke of genius—"

"Have you moved things around on the shelves, Crane?" she interrupted. "You know, sometimes you have to look for what's behind the obvious; I would think a man who liked to dig as deeply into things as you do would have no problem looking behind a few boxes and cans…"

"While your advice is appreciated," he said wryly, ignoring the veiled insult, "I assure you, you will find neither hide nor hair of your beloved Cocoa Pops upon these shelves."

With a long-suffering sigh, Abbie padded to the pantry. She had a pretty good idea where the cereal was, but knew that it would take less time if she located it herself. She found him hunched over, peering at a lower shelf. He was looking with the light off, so it was no wonder he couldn't find anything. She flipped on the switch, but nothing happened.

"Oh, the bulb has expired," he said helpfully, still squinting into the darkness in search of her snack. The door was propped open and offered some light from the kitchen, but Crane's tall frame effectively filled the room and she would need to step inside to join the quest.

As she moved to stand beside him, she stubbed her toe on the metal doorstop, effectively dislodging the heavy door. Cursing for the second time that evening, she hopped on one foot, losing her balance and falling into Crane, who fell against the shelves, sending boxed goods, paper towels and a package of toilet paper raining down upon them. Both of them were too distracted to mind the door, and it swung closed with a heavy bang.

They were locked inside—the prevention of which was the other reason the door remained propped open. Since the old key had recently broken in the lock, it had stayed locked from the outside, but so far they had avoided being locked inside. Well, until now.

"Bloody hell," swore Crane, as they stood in the darkness.

His uncharacteristic profanity made Abbie laugh a little hysterically.

"Lieutenant," he said, reaching out to her, instantly recognizing her distress. "Are you hurt?"

She was so frightened she couldn't speak.

"Lieutenant," he said again, and she felt his warm hands suddenly roaming her body in search of injury. She shivered involuntarily.

"You're trembling," he whispered in surprise.

And like the other half that he had become to her, he realized what was wrong.

"The darkness," he said.

He felt her nod. Without thinking more, he gathered her into his arms.

"I'm here," he said into her soft hair. He moved their embracing bodies so she was facing the door. "Look, there is light coming from beneath the door. Keep your eyes upon it, and I will figure a way out of here."

But they both knew from previous experience that there was no way out, that the door was too heavy to break down, that there was nothing in this pantry that could be used to knock off the doorknob. They had both meant to replace it, but had put it off; there were always much more important things to do. Things like saving the world, or at least the residents of Sleepy Hollow. No, they realized, they were stuck until someone came over and found them, for neither of them had carried their cell phones with them in their pajamas.

Despite that, Crane felt valiantly around the small enclosure in search of some tool he could use, if only to comfort his floundering friend. Abbie stared at the thin strip of light at their feet, Crane's movements within the tight space threatening to unhinge her further. She much preferred the comfort of his arms around her. Warmth suffused her cheeks at the thought, and she found she was suddenly calmer.

"Stop," she said into the darkness. "It's no use. We may as well get comfortable. Jenny was coming by to go running with me at seven, so we only have a few hours to wait."

She speaks, he thought thankfully. He wasn't quite used to an hysterical Agent Mills, though he'd certainly seen her emotional and frightened before. Usually, it was because something was coming after them, however.

He reached for her hand and she let him hold it. Much like the day a week before, when she had escaped from the hell of the catacombs and called him back from his astrally-projected purgatory, he held her cold hand between his. The longing he felt revisited him, knocking him hard in the chest as it had that day, when he knew without a doubt he would have kissed her, had Miss Jenny and Master Corbin not been present. God knew he adored her with all his heart, a feeling he had very nearly put into words before making a lame joke about chess.

He should have kissed her anyway, and damn the consequences, he thought, not for the first time in the past week. He should have at the very least pulled her into his arms and let her feel all the relief and gratitude he felt that she was back safely, that they were together again. In those weeks after she had disappeared, he had nearly gone mad with worry and grief. He'd become obsessed with finding her, to the point that he'd ruined his chances with Zoe, shamefully neglecting her. But not even the regard of that good woman could have induced him to stop searching for Abbie Mills: his fellow witness. His other half.

He held her hand once more, pleased she had stopped shaking and that her hand had warmed considerably.

"Deep breaths," he said softly, still sensing her agitation. For once, she took his advice without argument. It made him smile.

"Your suggestion to get comfortable was sound," he told her. "Let's find those paper towels, and you may have the uh—the other paper product as a cushion."

He could almost feel her smirk at his embarrassment. "Good idea."

They felt around the floor for the displaced items, but despite her newfound calm, Abbie didn't let go of his hand, which was perfectly all right with Crane. The pantry was perhaps seven feet long, five feet wide, which, with the shelves, left a mere two feet of width for them to sit upon the floor. By unspoken agreement they arranged the paper products as pillows, bumping into each other awkwardly in the tight space. Crane chivalrously removed his dressing gown-under which he wore a respectable set of pajamas-throwing it over them as a blanket as they lay down together.

They soon realized that in such close quarters, they could either face each other, awkwardly spoon, or he could enclose her in his arms once more, which is what he did. Funny how it didn't occur to either of them to sit at opposing ends of the pantry, but instead he welcomed the warm, sweet comfort of her body pressed close to his.

Neither of them could relax, of course, given they were both unused to sleeping with someone else, each sadly out of practice. Not to mention that the pounding of their hearts prevented anything close to relaxation.

"Are you quite all right now, Lieutenant," he asked tentatively, his rich voice sounding loud in the darkness.

"Better," she said. "I'm sorry about this. Second time I was clumsy tonight. I don't know what's gotten into me."

"Lack of sleep dulls the senses," he said sympathetically. "Besides, I believe you asked me to pick up a new doorknob at the hardware shop. I fear I forgot in your absence."

"No," she countered, "I had said that we should go to the hardware store and pick one out together."

Perhaps it was as she remembered, but he would rather take all the blame for this. She had enough on her plate than to assume responsibility for such a trifling matter.

"Spilt milk, Lieutenant," he said gently.

"Spilt milk," she agreed, though her toe still throbbed painfully where she'd stubbed it on the doorstop. She flexed her foot, inadvertently rubbing it against his equally bare one. She shivered again, but for an entirely different reason, and he instinctively held her closer to his warmth. She was forced to rest her head on his chest, where she could hear the rapid pounding of his heart beneath her ear. He wasn't as unaffected as he seemed. Oddly, this relaxed her, she smiled against the thin cotton of his pajama top.

They were silent a moment, and he tried to stay still so she might drift off, but it was a hopeless proposition for them both.

"Pawn to Queen 4," he said at last.

The image of a chessboard floated behind her closed eyelids. She grinned, and then she considered the answer to his opening move.

"Pawn to Queen 5," she countered, accepting his gambit.

They played this way for about an hour, until Crane had waited too long to suggest a move, and she didn't reply with hers. He could both hear and feel her steady breathing beside him, and while his back ached to switch positions on the hard floor, he didn't dare. He'd slept often enough on the cold ground as a soldier; whiling away the night on the floor with a beautiful woman was certainly no hardship by comparison.

Crane willed his body to unwind, though it was difficult with the smell of her hair tantalizing his senses, the dark curls tickling his nose when he bent his head slightly to inhale. Night blooming jasmine, he thought idly, remember the scent that infused the air on summer's evenings in eighteenth century New York. He could hold her like this forever—would do if she would let him.

It occurred to him that he hadn't felt this way for anyone since Katrina when they were first married, but even then it had been different. He had been much younger then, of course, when physical love had been new to them both. He allowed himself to ponder that time seriously a moment, and when he found it was no longer painful, merely bittersweet, he smiled and returned his focus to the woman currently in his arms.

Zoe had been right. He was ready to move on, to find love again, but she was correct also that, despite her seeming suitability for him, they would have only suited on a surface level. She reminded him of the genteel young ladies he had known in his own time. Her love of history had drawn him further in, and had grown to admire her deeply. But he could see now that he could never love her, at least not in the way she deserved. If he were to be completely honest, he had never really been physically attracted to those perfect models of womanhood. He found that he in fact had a pattern of desiring ladies of a much more…spirited temperament. They were women whom he feared just a little, whose adventurous natures set his heart stirring and his loins—he shifted self-consciously and tamped down that line of thought. At any rate, his greatest passions had been for women who had successfully seen beyond the proper exterior he presented to the rest of the world.

Katrina. Betsy Ross. And…

Zoe, in her inimitable way, had correctly implied that there was someone else that he cared for more than her. He was forced to confess to himself (if not yet to the woman in question) that he was in love with her. He had suspected it for some time, but there had been a myriad of obstacles that had prevented even considering the rightness of it. With no foreseeable romantic interlopers on the horizon, he was running out of excuses. And so there, on the uncomfortable floor of Abbie Mills's pantry, he stopped making them.

He loved Abbie Mills.

No—he would no longer hide from it. He was in love with Abbie Mills.

His fellow witness.

His best friend.

His Lieutenant.

His soul mate. Crane was astute enough to recognize this was not merely a trite term for what they shared, for their souls had mated on more than one occasion, and no poet could begin to capture that level of intimacy.

Heart racing, he turned on his side to face her, no longer mindful of allowing her to sleep. The feelings he had so long denied were welling up inside of him, and he couldn't wait to let her know his true feelings, whether by his words, or by a deed he had hopelessly longed for.

"Abbie," he whispered, the unfamiliar sound of her name tasting sweet on his tongue.

She shifted a bit in sleep, her small, capable arms wrapping blindly around his torso.

"Abbie," he said again, and this time he sensed her eyes had fluttered open, felt the weight of her sleepy gaze attempt to focus on his face.

"Yes," she breathed, and he took that as an invitation.

His mouth dipped down to hers, the first touch of her full lips beneath his practically his undoing. She was all lushness and richness, tasting of sugar and vanilla and nothing else he could have possibly conjured in his imagination. She made a little moan in her throat, her breath hitching as he deepened the kiss.

He should have been more teasing, more seductive. No gentleman would behave this monstrously, especially not the first time a lady had granted the favor of her kiss. But for once in his incredible life, Ichabod Crane had relinquished his tightly tethered control, and so, it seemed, had Abbie Mills.

Her hands found their way to his hair, and she seemed to revel, not find revulsion, in his unrestrained passion. She tilted her head so he could plunder her mouth deeper still, and when her tongue caressed his, a wave of white heat suffused him. He knew he must be panting like an animal, pawing desperately at her lithe body, caressing her delectable derriere with large, fumbling hands, but since she was not protesting—indeed, she was returning his passion in kind, he could not find his way to stop this beautiful madness.

He kissed her until things began to reach a point of no return, which, it turned out, was when her small hands ventured to his fly. Crane wanted her like he had no other woman, wanted this, yet distantly it occurred to him that their first time together should not be on the floor of a kitchen pantry. She deserved much better than that, and they both deserved time to think more clearly.

It shouldn't have surprised him that Abbie came to this conclusion at the exact same moment.

"Crane," she said haltingly. "We-we…should…stop."

"Yes," he said, "of course." His hand withdrew reluctantly from her waist, and he gently disentangled his long limbs from hers, sitting up before sliding his hands shakily through his disheveled hair.

For a few fraught moments, the only sound in the room was their labored breathing as they both willed their pulses to slow, their bodies to cool enough to speak.

"Well," he said, filling the awkward silence. "That was…unexpected."

"Yeah," she agreed. "I'm not sorry though."

"Nor am I."

"And I don't want an apolo—what?"

"You heard me, Lieutenant," he said, amused at her assumption, which, two hours before, might have been a logical one to make of him.

She laughed, and she found that she was no longer afraid of the dark—just incredibly impatient with it all of a sudden. She felt his hands go to her shoulders, and she wished with all her heart she could look into his beautiful blue eyes.

"But while it could be that this—tryst of ours was ill-advised," he continued, "I find that I would like to see if it seems just as…meaningful in the light of day."

"That's a practical test. If we ever get the hell out of here."

"We will," he said, moving to stand, stretching his back after their exertions on the floor. "In the meantime, I think it best we steer clear of one other, for propriety's sake…and because I don't know if I can find the strength to resist you should you touch me again."

"Too much for you to handle, Crane?"

Her tone was laced with humor as well as something else. Happiness, perchance? It was difficult to tell in the dark, but somehow he sensed she was no longer afraid…of anything.

"Perhaps," he replied, but she could hear the smile in his voice.

"Hmph." Her confidence filled him with desire again.

He walked impatiently to the other end of the pantry, his boot bumping into a box that had fallen from the shelves earlier. He picked it up, recognizing by its size and the sound when he shook it that he had discovered the illusive box of Cocoa Puffs.

"Are you still hungry, Lieutenant?"

He sat down beside her again, mindful not to touch her, and opened the top of the box, then the inner plastic bag. He took a handful before handing the box to her. They munched the chocolate cereal and tried not to think of the sweeter taste of the other's mouth.

"Needs milk," she said, mouth full.

"Hmm," he said in agreement. "Or perhaps the removal of the artificial flavorings and colorings." He refused another handful of the stuff, and she was happy to keep the box to herself.

"It's dark. What does the color matter in here?"

"It matters not in the least. I have merely proven it would taste like a rubbish heap even to a blind man."

"If you're going to be an American, Crane, you have to embrace the artificiality of the modern world."

"I do not. On the contrary, I owe it to the patriots who fought for our liberty to protect myself from such influences, even if it comes from those near and dear to me. General Washington would not have allowed himself to fall prey to the subversiveness of commercial advertising."

He could practically hear her eyes rolling.

"You put old George in front of the TV for a day, and I guarantee you he'd want tacos and candy bars for breakfast."

"I have thus far resisted. I have faith that he would be similarly strong-willed."

"Ha. I saw the box from the shopping network you tried to hide from me. What did you order, Crane? The commemorative coins with the presidents' heads on them?"

"Gold is a sound investment, Lieutenant. You should be thinking of your future—"

"Capitalism. It's the American way."

This was why he loved her. She challenged him. Excited him. Aroused-

I believe it's your move, Crane," she said.

"What?" he replied, swallowing hard.

"Our chess game. Your move." She made the mistake of nudging his arm. A jolt of desire shot through him.

"Very well," he managed. "Bishop to Queen 4."

"Well that was reckless," she said. "Queen takes bishop. And now you're in check, by the way."

"Is there any beer in here?" he asked suddenly, his throat dry.

He didn't have to see her grimace. "If you like warm beer, sure. Bottom shelf on your right."

"If you'll recall, we had no refrigeration in my time. Warm ale was the norm."

"I'd rather have a room temperature bottled water. There's a case of it right next to the beer, if you wouldn't mind."

"Not at all."

They opened their respective beverages, each taking a grateful swig.

"Feeling better," he asked.

"Much. And when we get out of here, in the light of day, we need to talk about this—whatever this is between us."

His heart skipped a beat. "Yes," he agreed. "Indeed."

He took a long swig of his warm beer.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Abbie! Crane! Up and at 'em!"

The distant knock, then louder doorbell and call of her sister awakened the trapped couple. They lay once more in each other's arms, though that had not been their intention, and the immediate desire that sprung between them had them rising awkwardly to their feet. It was somewhat brighter inside the pantry now, the quality of the light beneath the door having changed with the morning sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. Crane could just barely make out the wild disarray of Abbie's hair, and, feeling his own, he knew he must look no better. His back was killing him, and he rose gingerly, like an old man. Also, after the two beers he'd consumed the night before, he was in desperate need of the privy.

Abbie went to the door of the pantry and pounded as loudly as she could.

"Jenny! We're stuck in the pantry!"

She wasn't sure her sister could hear her, but she knew that even if she couldn't, she would see that Abbie's car was still in the driveway, and, given their penchant for finding trouble, she would soon use her key to let herself in. A few minutes more of fruitless pounding and ringing, and Jenny unlocked the front door.

"Abbie?" she called again, once inside the house. They heard the door shut behind her, and Abbie imagined she was drawing the gun she carried in the concealed holster beneath her jacket.

Crane took his turn in summoning her.

"Miss Jenny! We are trapped inside the pantry. Might you be so kind as to let us out?"

"Crane?" They could hear her laughter. "You and Abbie are both in there? How the hell did that happen?"

"A long story," replied Abbie dryly. "The key was broken in the lock, so you're gonna have to break off the doorknob."

"Hmm," said Jenny. "This is an interesting predicament. I could really milk this situation to my benefit."

"Miss Jenny," piped up Crane in warning. Not that he could do anything about her mischievousness.

"Let me borrow your new black dress, Abbie. Joe is taking me out for a fancy dinner on Valentine's Day."

"I just bought that dress," protested Abbie. "I was saving it for my 15th class reunion this summer. I got it on sale—"

"I know," said Jenny. "It'll look great on me, too."

"But—"

"Lend her the dress, by all means," muttered Crane, the pressure on his bladder becoming unbearable.

Abbie sighed, then gave the verdict to her sister. "Fine. But you are responsible for taking it to the cleaners afterwards."

"Deal."

"Good, now get that sledge hammer from the garage and—"

"Wait, I'm not finished. Crane?"

"Yes, Miss Jenny," he said, barely restraining his sarcasm. "How might I be of assistance?"

"I need a Latin tutor."

"Latin?" he said in surprise. "Since when have you an interest in what you once termed a dead language?"

"Since I signed up for a few classes at the university. I had to take a foreign language, and I thought Latin might be helpful with what we seem to run into around here."

"Seriously?" exclaimed Abbie excitedly. "That's great! Good for you. I can help you study—"

"Ladies, please! Miss Jenny, as your new tutor, might I offer you your first Latin phrase: tempus fugit!"

Jenny chuckled. "All right all right, I know what that means. I'll be right back."

Abbie grinned, then noticed how Crane seemed unable to stand still.

"Doing the pee pee dance, Crane?" she asked with some amusement.

"For want of a more couth expression—yes."

She moved closer to him, stood on tiptoe to plant a swift kiss upon his cheek. She misjudged her aim in the dimness, and her lips landed instead on the corner of his mouth.

"What—what was that for?" he asked softly, barely resisting the urge to pull her against him and ravage her mouth.

"For being here for me. For your patience and understanding. Once again, you found a way to save me."

He didn't point out the fact that he couldn't save her from the dark pantry, but he knew what she meant, and he accepted her thanks gracefully.

"It was my pleasure—except for the cereal and the warm beer. I find I prefer my beer chilled these days. I fully enjoyed the company."

She patted his cheek, kissing him once more, this time, squarely on the lips. Her aim had been true.

"I'll make a modern man of you yet."

"God, let us hope not," he said with a shudder.

But before she could argue, Jenny was telling them to step back from the door, counting down to the heavy swing of the sledgehammer…

A/N: Thank you for reading. I know the "stuck in the closet" trope might be a cliché, but elevators and locked doors tend to force certain emotions, I have found, so yes, I admit to shamelessly utilizing it here. Please let me know what you think.