Rush hour. A term that usually meant bodies pressed together, a sea of tired faces and dangling straps. But here, in this particular car, the seats stretched out in generous, unoccupied rows. Just you, your phone, and the muted glow of the world passing by outside.

He sat diagonal from you, legs crossed, head tilted back against the seat. Ash-blond hair, messy and unkempt, caught the overhead light. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his cheeks, and his expression was... soft. Carefree. A rare thing in a city that never seemed to slow down.

The scenery outside blurred into streaks of gray and neon, but somehow, it felt like it had stopped. Frozen. Just for a moment.

Your heart gave a strange little flutter. You swallowed, looking back down at your phone.

The train began to slow.

The boy's eyes blinked open—crimson, sharp, cutting through the haze of your fumbling thoughts. He stretched, a languid movement, and stood as the doors hissed open.

He stepped off. The doors slid shut with a soft fssh.

You sat there, phone in hand, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen. Your heart sank, a quiet, ridiculous disappointment settling in your chest.

The train lurched forward again. You exhaled slowly, letting the moment dissolve into the hum of the carriage.