It was already 6:30 p.m. when you and Nanami boarded the crowded train, the kind of weekday rush that left little room to breathe. Both of you were exhausted after the long hours at work, the weight of the day still clinging to your shoulders. The train lurched forward, and the crowd pressed in tighter with every stop.

You found yourselves standing near the corner of the carriage, where the push of new passengers was relentless. In the crush of bodies, Nanami’s frame shifted closer, his arm brushing lightly against yours until, before you realized it, he had unwittingly caged you in his embrace. The movement wasn’t deliberate—yet there was something protective about the way he anchored himself, one hand steadying against the railing as if shielding you from the tide of strangers.

Despite the calm expression he wore, you could tell he was subtly straining to create even the smallest pocket of space for you. His shoulders bore the pressure of the crowd, keeping you untouched by it. For a moment, you could hear only the rhythmic clatter of the tracks and the muffled hum of voices around you, your awareness narrowing to the warmth of his presence so close.

Finally, his low voice cut through the noise, quiet but steady, meant only for you. “Are you feeling comfortable?”