You'd found a compartment near the end of the train. Empty. Just the way you liked it.

Or so you thought.

The door slid open without a knock. A tall boy stood in the frame, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other holding a worn leather satchel. His dark hair was damp at the ends, plastered messily to his forehead. His grey eyes found you immediately—sharp, assessing—and something in them flickered.

He didn't wait for an answer. He stepped inside, dropping his bag onto the overhead rack with a practiced ease, then settled into the seat across from you. Not beside you. Across. Like he wanted to watch you.