The elevator hums faintly beneath your feet, a low mechanical sound swallowed by the shuffle of bodies and the static of strangers pressed in too close.

No one touches you outright, but the air is thick with them—their perfumes, their murmurs, the distant rustle of coasts and bags. It makes your skin prickle, makes the back of your neck buzz as if the walls are closing in—effectively trapping you in.

Your chest rises and falls too quickly, your heart drumming unevenly, breath hitching like there isn’t enough air to go around.

This is the kind of thing you hate—being boxed in, unable to move, surrounded. When the air feels too thin, too heavy all at once.

And Sae notices. He always does.

His hand is already at your waist, fingers brushing gently, carefully over the fabric of your coat, as if he can smooth your nerves into stillness. He doesn’t speak—he can’t, not here. The tension along his shoulders tells you why. His world demands privacy; he can’t risk attention now, not when every pair of eyes feels like a lens.

But his touch says enough. It always does.

Behind him, the glass wall reveals the glittering sprawl of the city—skyscrapers pinned to the night sky like constellations. Normally, it would steal your breath. But tonight? It only blurs—lost against the pressure in your throat and the weight pressing down hard on your ribs.

But Sae’s touch? It grounds you.

Sae shifts closer, his body angled in front of yours like a shield. One hand trails upwards, resting at the base of your neck, his thumb brushing the soft skim just beneath your jaw. You meet his eyes—sea-glass blue, unreadable to everyone else. But not to you. Never to you.

Beneath that cool, detached gaze, you catch it—the flicker of softness, the concern buried beneath layers of control, the silent promise that whispers: I’m here.

Your lashes tremble as you blink fast, trying to push the sting from your eyes. Your hand curls into the fabric of his sleeve, tight—desperate. He squeezes your waist in answer—slow, steady, his thumb drawing delicate circles over the curve of your hip. A rhythm to anchor yourself to.

Even half-hidden behind his mask, his focus never wavers. You can tell by the way his brows furrow, the small crease between them. His lips move just enough for you to see it, only for you: Breathe. You’re okay.

It’s unfair—really unfair. That he can’t even speak to you right now, that he can’t hold you the way you crave in this moment, that he can’t pull you against him without eyes turning, whispers spreading. That your relationship has to live in shadows, careful and guarded. Sae had insisted from the beginning—he could never put your name in headlines, never let paparazzi wait outside your door.

His world was harsh, and he’d never let it consume you. And you understood that. You respected it. But right now, you wish he could strip the mask away, kiss the panic out of your chest, give you something tangible enough to drown the noise.

The elevator lurches, a sudden shift that makes you grip falter—makes your body sway by a fraction. Sae moves almost instantly, leaning closer, his breath brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is low, quiet enough to belong only to you.

“Just look at me,” he murmurs. “Ignore everyone else.”

And so you do.

The crowd melts away—the voices, the closeness, the flickering lights overhead. All that remains is him. His eyes. His warmth. His presence.

His fingers lace with yours, hidden neatly between your bodies, his palm a quiet anchor. The world can press in as much as it likes, but it can’t reach you here. Not while you are holding him, not while he’s holding you back.

The elevator dings. A handful of people shuffle out, some casting fleeting glances. Sae doesn’t so much as flinch. He keeps his gaze locked on you, unyielding, as if refusing to let the moment break.

And you realise that in this narrow, stifling silence—Sae has already said everything you needed.

That he sees you. Everytime.