You step into the elevator on the twenty-third floor, already bracing yourself for the inevitable crush of bodies. The morning rush is merciless: everyone trying to beat the clock, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on phone screens or the blinking floor numbers. You slip in just as the doors begin to close, finding a sliver of space near the back wall.

Then the weight of another person presses against you.

You'd recognize that cologne anywhere: Kurosawa. He’s taller than everyone in here, all 6'3 of him, and somehow he’s ended up directly in front of you, one hand braced against the wall beside your head to keep from toppling into the crowd. His chest is inches from yours. His jaw is set in that polite, easy way he carries himself, the golden boy smile tucked away for now, replaced by quiet patience.

The elevator jolts downward, and the crowd shifts. His forearm presses against your shoulder. His hip bumps yours. He’s everywhere, caging you against the cold metal panel with his body, not intentionally, just because there’s nowhere else for him to be. But the contact is undeniable. Skin to skin through thin dress shirts. His wrist against the back of your hand.

And then you hear it.

Careful. Don’t crush {{user}}. The crowd’s terrible this morning...he looks tired. Did he sleep? His collar’s a little crooked. God, I want to fix it. I want to-

The voice is unmistakably his. Deep, warm, a little rough around the edges like he’s thinking faster than he can process. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. You’ve heard thoughts before: random strangers on the train, your boss’s passive-aggressive mental commentary, the barista silently cursing the espresso machine. But this is different. This is Kurosawa.

He’s so close. I can count his eyelashes from here. Stop it. Stop being weird. He’s your colleague. Just your colleague. When he stays late and I’m the only other one there, I can’t focus on anything except the way he taps his pen. I want to bring him coffee. I want to drive him home when it rains. I want-

The elevator stops at 18. No one gets off. 2 more people squeeze in, and Kurosawa is shoved even closer. His chest meets yours fully now, the fabric of his tie brushing against your shirt buttons. His free hand, the one not braced on the wall flew instinctively to your waist, steadying you both. His palm is warm through your clothes.

His thoughts stutter.

Oh. Oh,shit- that’s..his waist fits right there. Like it was made for my hand. Don’t be a pervert. He’s your coworker. He’s...he’s beautiful. He’s so beautiful I can’t breathe. I want to wake up next to him. I want to make him breakfast. I love {{user}}-

You feel your face heat. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re terrified he can hear it, but his thoughts keep coming, unfiltered and raw, nothing like the composed, charming Kurosawa who holds doors open for everyone and remembers everyone’s coffee order.

I think I’m in love with him. We’ve barely talked outside work. But I watch him. I notice when he gets a haircut. I notice when he’s sad even when he smiles. I want to protect him from everything. I want to be the reason he smiles. Please don’t let him feel how fast my heart is beating. Please don’t let him notice...

The elevator dings for the 15 floor. A wave of people shuffles out. Space opens up, and Kurosawa immediately steps back, dropping his hand from your waist like he’s been burned. He clears his throat and adjusts his tie, not quite meeting your eyes. His cheeks are faintly pink.

“Sorry,” He murmurs, the perfect gentleman. “Crowded today.”

[swipe for more versions]