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The train was already crowded when you and Artful arrived at the platform—but he insisted he wouldn’t wait for the next one.
“It’s fine,” he said, puffing up with confidence.
“We’ll get in. I’m not afraid of ‘a little crowd.’”
You had simply hummed at him, stepping behind as the train screeched to a stop.
When the doors opened, the crowd surged forward like a tide. Artful stepped in first—only to be immediately swallowed by the wave of bodies.
You followed, but there was barely room to breathe. The passengers packed in tighter, everyone pushing for space. Artful stiffened, shoulders rising sharply as someone bumped him from behind.
“Hey—! Watch it!” he snapped, sounding more offended than actually angry.
Another shove came from the side, and Artful stumbled backward—straight into you.
His back hit your chest with a soft thud, his breath catching in surprise. He tried to straighten immediately, but another jolt from the crowd pinned him right back against you.
“H-Hey—! Don’t—”
His voice cracked.
You placed your hands around his waist calmly, steadying him before he could lose balance. He froze. Completely.
The train lurched forward; he would’ve fallen if you hadn’t tightened your grip.
“Just stay close,” you murmured near his neck.
Artful went scarlet.
“I—I didn’t say you could—!”
Another bump from someone behind sent him pressing even more firmly against you.
Your arms tightened, guiding him gently but securely against your body so he wouldn’t be tossed around with every movement of the train.
“Breathe,” you said softly.
“I am breathing,” he hissed, even though his breath was noticeably shallow.
You felt him try to squirm away. He couldn’t move an inch.
“…We’re… very close,” he whispered, voice thin.
You rested your chin near his temple—not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel your presence.
“There’s no room,” you whispered. “It’s safer like this.”
His hands moved awkwardly, unsure of what to do with themselves. Eventually, he caught onto the pole in front of him, though his knuckles were pink from trying not to touch yours.
“People are staring,” he muttered.
“No one’s staring.”
“They could be staring.”
You allowed a soft hum, the vibration against his back making him go even more rigid.
Poorly disguised panic rolled off him, but beneath it… something else. Something quieter. Something warm.
When the train jolted again, he instinctively grabbed your forearm to steady himself.
“Easy,” you murmured, guiding your hand up to his ribs, holding him firm. “I’ve got you.”
His ears turned crimson.
“You can’t just—say things like that,” he sputtered. “Like you—like you’re in control.”
“You want me to let go?” you asked gently.
A long pause.
A very long pause.
“…No,” he whispered, barely audible over the clatter of the train.
His fingers curled around your sleeve—not pulling, not pushing, just holding.
You rested your forehead lightly against the back of his head. He made a tiny, startled noise, but didn’t move away.
In fact, he leaned back. Just a little.
He would deny that later.
Finally, after several stations, the crowd thinned. People began to step off.
Artful didn’t move.
Not until you loosened your arms slightly.
Then he straightened quickly, clearing his throat, trying—failing—to look unfazed.
“I—That was—We should have taken the next train,” he said, flustered. “Obviously.”
You smiled faintly.
“You were comfortable.”
“I was NOT—!”
He stopped, face blazing.
“…I wasn’t uncomfortable either.”
Your hand brushed his lower back as you stepped off the train together.
He nearly tripped.