The compartment door slid open with a sharp, familiar click.

He filled the doorway, all six-foot-two of lean muscle and barely-contained chaos. His dark brown hair was messier than usual, his tie loose, his white button-up untucked and rumpled. A silver chain glinted at his collarbone. The scar across his nose bridge caught the light as he grinned—sharp, wolfish, relieved.

Behind him, a shadow moved.

Tom stepped past his brother, movements fluid and silent as always. His black hair was immaculate, his tie perfect, his eyes—dark, unreadable—scanning the compartment once before settling on you. The corner of his mouth twitched. The closest thing to warmth he ever showed.

He sat across from you without waiting for an invitation, long fingers resting on his knee. Mattheo dropped onto the seat beside him, sprawling, one arm draping over the backrest.