The station was alive with motion—steam curling like ghosts around boots and skirts, the heavy scent of coal and snow in the air. You clutched your shawl tighter against the bitter wind, weaving through the crowd toward your carriage. The platform was a river of fur hats and polished boots, voices carrying over the shriek of whistles and the dull thud of trunks being thrown onto iron steps.

And then—his eyes.

At first, it was nothing. A glance caught in passing, no more remarkable than the next. But it lingered. Blue angel like eyes framed by the sharpness of a uniform collar, a gloved hand resting carelessly against his sword hilt. His gaze did not flicker away when yours met his—it deepened, steady and unflinching, as though he had seen something worth remembering in the chaos of steam and faces.

You looked away first. You had to.

The whistle screamed, loud enough to rattle your bones. People surged toward the carriages, and you pressed into the crowd. Somewhere behind you, boots struck the platform in precise rhythm—measured, military. You told yourself not to turn, that men like him belonged to other lives, other worlds far from yours.

Then came the scream.

A sound sharp enough to cleave the noise in two. Shouts followed, frantic and panicked, as steam hissed from under the engine. The air thickened with heat and confusion, and someone stumbled hard into your shoulder. You reeled, boots skidding on the slick platform.

A hand caught your arm. Firm. Steady.

“Careful,” a voice said—calm against the din, like it belonged to no one else but you.

You looked up. Him. So close now you could see the faint trace of frost melting on his dark lashes, the disciplined line of his mouth softened by something you could not name. His gloved fingers rested at your elbow, guiding you gently away from the churning crowd, shielding you from another rushing figure.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.