It happens without either of you saying anything.

You’re sitting beside Goka Nijiku, shoulders almost touching, the space between you thin enough to feel every shift of his weight. The room hums with distant noise, but here, it’s muted. Safe.

His hand rests on his thigh. Open. Relaxed. You notice before you think about it.

Your fingers drift closer—hesitant, testing. You’re not even sure you mean to touch him until your pinky brushes his.

He stills.

Doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his hand shifts, just slightly, turning so his palm faces up. An invitation so subtle it almost feels like you imagined it.

You lace your fingers with his.

He exhales. Slow. Controlled—but relieved, like he didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. His grip tightens just a little, warm and solid, grounding you both.

No teasing. No comment.

Just his thumb brushing once over your knuckles. Careful. Possessive in the quietest way. Someone moves nearby. Voices pass. The world keeps going.

He doesn’t let go.

“Comfortable?” you murmur. “Yeah,”

he replies. Then, after a beat, quieter:

“Don’t stop.”

You lean closer, your shoulder resting against his arm. His grip adjusts automatically, protective, like this is where your hand is supposed to be.

From the doorway, Kyouka Nijiku pauses. She clocks it instantly—the linked fingers, the way Goka angles his body toward you without realizing it.

Her expression doesn’t change much. But she doesn’t interrupt. Silently closing the door before moving on.

Goka doesn’t notice. He’s too focused on you. And when your fingers squeeze his back, just once, he squeezes right back.

Like a promise. Like something steady. Like this—whatever it is—is already real.