At the back wall, Y/n has exactly five feet of personal space. Five miserable, hard-won feet. The curse has a radius, and right now it’s a luxury they can’t afford.

The doors slide open on the next floor.

Nanami Kento steps inside.

Tall. Blond. Broad enough that the crowd instinctively shuffles, resenting him for taking up space they don’t have. He thanks the person nearest the buttons, his voice low and even. Professional. Like he’s walking into a boardroom instead of a sardine can.

The doors close. The elevator lurches.

Someone stumbles. A woman yelps. A shoulder slams into Nanami’s side, and before anyone can apologize, the sudden shift sends him forward—straight toward Y/n.

His forearms hit the wall on either side of their head.

The impact is controlled. Deliberate. His body catches itself before his chest can press against theirs, leaving a sliver of impossible space between them. He smells like expensive cologne and the faint starch of a dry-cleaned suit.

And then his mind fucking explodes.

Oh shit.

The thought hits like a brick through glass. Sudden. Loud. Terrified.

Oh shit, oh shit, she’s right here.

Y/n could’ve heard a pin drop from three floors away. Inside their head, it’s a goddamn air raid siren.

Act normal. Just move when there’s room. Don’t make this uncomfortable for her.

His face remains calm. Composed. The kind of face that could sit through a six-hour audit without blinking. But the thoughts keep coming, rapid-fire, uninvited.

God, she smells good.

Is that her shampoo? Why am I thinking about her shampoo? Stop breathing like a fucking lunatic.

Another body shifts, shoving against the crowd. Nanami’s arm flexes beside Y/n’s head, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. Externally? Nothing.

Too close. Way too fucking close.

A pause. The kind that makes Y/n’s brain short-circuit.

…Not close enough.

Girl.

Y/n’s lips part. They can’t help it. The man looks like he’s reviewing tax law in his head, and his brain just said not close enough like it was reciting a grocery list.

Don’t look at her mouth.

His eyes flicker down. Just for a heartbeat. Then away.

Idiot.

He has a crush on them. Nanami Kento—the coworker Y/n was reasonably certain didn’t even know their first name—is standing six inches away, breathing steady, and mentally sprinting naked through traffic.

She’s so small from this angle.

Cute.

Fuck, she’s cute.

The elevator sways again. Nanami shifts, his body moving with the motion but still not touching. The space between them remains a careful, agonizing inch.

If this elevator gets any more crowded, I’m going to lose my mind.

His composure cracks. Half a heartbeat. Only someone watching for it would’ve seen it. His thoughts, however, become considerably less workplace appropriate.

Y/n stares at his tie. It’s a nice tie. Dark. Unassuming. The kind of tie that absolutely does not match the filth currently unfurling behind his forehead.

Don’t think about kissing her.

A pause.

I thought about it.

Another pause. Longer.

Again.

Y/n’s face is getting hot. They can feel it creeping up their neck, and there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to look. Nanami’s forearms are still braced beside their head, caging them in without a single point of contact.

She has bed hair today. That’s adorable.

Almost offended.

Wonder if she’s seeing someone.

And there it is. A sudden, ridiculously sulky edge to his thoughts, like a child denied dessert.

Probably.

Someone in engineering, maybe.

I hate him already.

There isn’t even a him. Nanami has invented a man just to hate him. In his head. While standing six inches away from Y/n in a crowded elevator.

The elevator chimes.

Y/n’s floor.

The doors slide open, and people spill outward like they’ve been held hostage—which, honestly, they have. The pressure eases. Bodies move. Space finally opens.

But Nanami doesn’t step away immediately.

His arms lower slowly, one at a time, as if he’s giving Y/n time to slip past. His expression remains calm. Unbothered. He adjusts one cuff with the kind of precision only a man who definitely wasn’t just mentally committing workplace violations could manage.

The moment stretches. The hallway beyond the elevator is full of early-morning noise—footsteps, conversation, the distant ping of another elevator. But in here, it’s still just the two of them, suspended in the remains of a five-foot radius that feels smaller than it’s ever been.

Nanami glances at them. A brief, questioning look.

The thought is so sudden, so soft, that it almost doesn’t register.

Just one more second.

His face doesn’t change. The question hangs in the air, polite and professional. The doors wait.

<Narrator> The elevator hums. Nobody moves.