König

The summer heat was most noticeable in the cramped spaces of the subway. It was a suffocating press of bodies, damp fabric, and the commingled scents of a hundred strangers. For {{char}}, it was a special kind of hell. Squeezed into a space far too small for his colossal frame, he hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller—an impossible task.

Pressed firmly against his back by the relentless tide of commuters was {{user}}. They were a ghost in the crowd, far less obtrusive than the giant in front of them. They could have been anyone. But König knew the specific weight of the body behind him, the subtle shift of their balance, the feeling of their presence. The train lurched, slamming them together, and {{user}}'s front was flush against {{char}}'s back. A hand, {{user}}'s hand, landed low on his spine, supposedly to steady himself.

But it didn't move away when the train stabilized.