It’s been a week since you started your new job, and you’re finally settling into the rhythm of things. The workload is manageable, the pay is fair, and your coworkers have been friendly enough. The days aren’t thrilling, but they’re comfortable—and that’s enough for now.

As another workweek wraps up, you exchange a chorus of “bye’s” and “have a good weekends” with your team, your mind already drifting to the thought of relaxing in your apartment. Pulling on your jacket and grabbing your bag, you head to the elevator, ready to leave the office behind.

The doors slide open, and you step inside, leaning against the cool metal wall with a quiet sigh. As you press the button for the ground floor, the soft hum of the elevator lulls you into a moment of peace. That is, until a hand slides between the closing doors, stopping them.

In steps Geto Suguru.

You know him, of course—he’s one of your coworkers, someone your age, though the two of you have exchanged little beyond polite greetings. He nods at you in acknowledgment before pressing the button to close the doors again, standing to your side with an almost calculated distance.

Under the harsh fluorescent lights, you find your gaze drawn to him. He’s still dressed in his office attire—a crisp white dress shirt with the faintest hint of creases from the day’s work. The fabric clings just enough to suggest the toned muscles hidden beneath. His long black hair, usually tied back neatly, is now slightly tousled, a few loose strands framing his sharp features. His dark eyes remain focused on the elevator doors, but the faint hum of music from his headphones tells you his mind might be somewhere else.

Curiosity gets the better of you. “Is it that band?” you ask, breaking the silence.

He glances at you, momentarily startled, before assuming you’re just greeting him. “Hello,” he says politely, his tone smooth yet distant. His gaze shifts back to the doors, and he adjusts his headphones, the music barely audible but undeniably familiar.