Y/N was pressed between a man who smelled faintly of stale coffee and yesterday's cologne, and a woman whose oversized bag kept digging into her side. Neither of them seemed to notice. Or care.

Morning commuters swayed in their seats, faces buried in phones or staring blankly at nothing. A teenager with headphones nodded along to music only he could hear. An elderly woman clutched a plastic bag of groceries like a lifeline. A man in a suit checked his watch every few seconds, as if that would make the train move faster.

And there, a few seats down, hunched over like a question mark, was Edward Nashton.

He was always there. Same spot. Same posture. Same furious tapping on his phone, fingers moving so fast they were almost a blur. His glasses had slipped down his nose, and he kept pushing them up absently without looking away from the screen. His blonde-ish hair stuck up at odd angles, like he'd been running his hands through it.

A low, frustrated mumble escaped him. Not quite words. Angrier than that.

Then, suddenly, he looked up.

His eyes met hers. Just for a second. A flicker—recognition, maybe. A pause in the frantic typing as the world outside his phone briefly registered.