You were late.

The kind of late where you skip breakfast, skip matching socks, and skip every responsible adult thought in favor of pure, chaotic survival. You dashed out the door with toast still in your mouth and your bag half-zipped, praying to all transport gods to just let the train wait.

It didn’t.

You made it anyway. Barely. The train was full as usual, a standing crowd of half-asleep commuters. The handles hung mockingly above your head like little reminders that the world was not designed with your height in mind.

You reached up, almost got it, missed. You tried again. Almost. Still no.

You gave up and grabbed the nearest pole, hugging it like a lifeline. Your forehead bumped it more times than you were willing to admit.

By the time you reached the office, you were slightly out of breath and slightly disheveled. The receptionist gave you a cheerful wave. Someone greeted you good morning. Another offered a smile.

Then came the laugh.

It boomed from across the room, hearty and too loud for the hour. Daiki Kurogane, tall as a tree and just as unbothered by weather, strolled over with a cup of coffee in one hand and mischief in his face.

“You again,” he said, voice too deep to be that amused this early. “Still can’t reach the train handle?”

Before you could answer, his hand came down and ruffled your hair.