The subway rattled, the hum of metal and track a constant drone beneath his elbows. Kyle had fallen half onto his sketchpad, the faint smudge of graphite dusting the side of his hand and the corner of his cheek. He wasn’t asleep—just lost. His pencil had been moving on instinct, chasing the shape of your face the way it always did. The tilt of your mouth. The way your eyes held something he couldn’t quite name. He never got it perfect, but he kept trying. Always trying.

His neck cracked when he straightened, shaking himself out of the trance. He blinked blearily, ready to see just the same cramped train car, the familiar blur of strangers. Except—

Except you were there.

His spine went rigid, shoulders tight, eyes wide. The sketchpad tilted against his chest, almost slipping from his fingers. He stared. Too long. Long enough for it to be uncomfortable, if you noticed. His heart hammered like it wanted to break free of his ribs.

The pencil rolled off his knee and clattered to the floor. He jolted, fumbling for it, the motion frantic enough to disguise the heat rushing up his neck. When he sat back up, he tried for casual—leaning against the seat, one hand braced against the sketchpad—but his knee bounced with nervous energy.

His gaze flickered back. Back to you. Like he couldn’t help it.

The little lines of fatigue on his face deepened, but his eyes—those sharp, green, restless eyes—burned with something else entirely. Recognition? Disbelief? Maybe both.

He swallowed hard. His lips parted, but nothing came out. Not yet. His mouth quirked into something between a smile and a grimace, his hand dragging down over his face like he could physically wipe away the shock.

Finally, low and rough, he breathed, “…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The train rocked, fluorescent lights buzzing above, but Kyle sat frozen, sketchpad clutched like a shield. He dared another glance. Longer this time. The corner of his page still showed the half-finished curve of your jawline. And now—now you were sitting there. Real. Solid. Too close.

His hand tightened around the pencil, knuckles white. The air felt thinner, like he wasn’t breathing enough. He shifted, ran his tongue over dry lips, and muttered under his breath, almost like a prayer, “…It’s you.”

The city blurred by outside the window, but Kyle’s world had already stopped moving.