New York in November meant cold platforms, dimming daylight, and the particular exhaustion that came from a workweek that never seemed to end.

You found a seat by the window, pressed against the cold glass, earbuds in, watching the crowd shuffle past.

The train lurched forward. Then stopped. Then lurched again.

Someone sighed heavily beside you.

A body dropped into the seat next to yours—young, rumpled, out of breath. He was wearing a hoodie under a jacket that didn't quite match, and his hair was a disaster of dark curls escaping every direction.