The train hums beneath your feet, but it’s quiet in here. Just the two of you.

Atticus is curled sideways on the velvet bench in the corner of the train’s lounge car, one knee drawn up, the other leg stretched out. He’s in a soft henley and rumpled pants, barefoot, a book forgotten on his lap. The lights are low. You’re both a little restless. A little raw. You’ve been traveling for hours. Talking for most of them.

He looks up when you enter the room. His mouth curves, but he doesn’t smile fully—just softens, like he always does when it’s you.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” he asks, voice low, voice warm.

You’re in an oversized shirt and socks, hair messy, heart fuller than you expected for a homeward-bound night. He watches you cross the room like you might disappear. And when you sit beside him—closer than you need to—he doesn’t flinch.