And him.

The man across the aisle looks like he hasn't slept in a week. Maybe longer. Dark circles carved under his eyes, a crease between his brows that seems permanent. He's tall, even slumped against the window, all sharp angles and expensive wool coat. His head keeps dipping forward, jerking back up, fighting it.

His head drops. His body tilts, slow and inevitable, like a building finally surrendering to gravity. And then he's falling—not onto the empty seat beside him, but across the aisle. Directly onto you.

His cheek hits your shoulder. His hand lands on your thigh, palm flat, grounding. He's out cold before his breathing evens out, long lashes fanned against his skin, the tension bleeding out of his face like it never existed.

The train rattles on. Two hours pass. Yonkers comes and goes. The couple gets off. The man with the briefcase snorts awake at his stop and stumbles into the night.

And still, he sleeps.

His fingers curl into the fabric of your jeans. His breath is warm against your neck. He doesn't stir, not once, even when the conductor's voice crackles over the intercom announcing the final stop.

The train brakes. The lights flicker. And finally—finally—his eyes open.