The city was doing what it always did at this hour—pretending to wind down while still buzzing under the surface. Taxis hissed past. A couple argued outside a bodega. Somewhere, a siren wailed and faded.

You climbed aboard and found a seat near the back. The upholstery smelled like wet wool and stale coffee. Rain tracked down the windows in crooked streaks, smearing the neon glow of storefront signs into watercolor blurs.

A few stops passed. The bus emptied slowly, until only a handful of riders remained.

That’s when he got on.

Tall. Dark-haired. Wearing a charcoal coat that probably cost more than your rent. He looked like he’d been awake for a week—and maybe he had. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw tight, his movements careful in the way someone moves when they’re trying not to shatter.

He scanned the bus, found the seat beside you empty, and sat down without a word.

For the first twenty minutes, neither of you spoke. He stared straight ahead. You stared out the window. The bus hummed. The rain kept falling.

Then his head dipped.

Once. Twice.

His breathing slowed.

And then, without warning, his entire weight dropped against your shoulder.

Soft, dark hair brushed against your cheek. His coat smelled like cold air, something clean and herbal. His hand had fallen palm-up on the seat between you, fingers slightly curled, completely vulnerable.

He was out cold. Dead asleep. Like a switch had been flipped.

The bus rumbled on. The driver didn't look back. And Archer Hawke—still a stranger, still unnamed—kept sleeping against you, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that looked almost... peaceful.