The train hums beneath you, smooth and steady — the kind of rhythm that sinks into your bones, rocking your body into stillness. Outside, the sky is black and stitched with stars, and the blurred lights of passing towns flicker like ghosts against the glass.

It’s late. Too late for conversation. Too late for anything except tired limbs and eyes that won’t stay open. You lean into Riki’s shoulder without thinking, lulled by the motion, by the way his body never moves too much, always stable like gravity itself.

You don’t mean to fall asleep.

But the train doesn’t stop.

And neither does the dream.

You wake with a quiet sound caught in your throat — something close to a sob, but softer. Your chest is tight. Your fists are clenched in your lap. And your face is warm, too warm, damp even.

You’re crying.

You barely even realize it before Riki moves.

His arm is already around you, tugging you closer, his hand splayed warm and steady on your back. “Hey,” he says, just a breath above the silence. “Breathe. It’s okay.”

You blink hard, once, twice. You’re disoriented. The train lights feel too bright now. The soft overhead announcement — some station still miles away — seems to echo in your skull.

You look at him.

He’s calm. Not startled. Not confused. Just... there. His eyes flick over your face, serious, unreadable in the way that always makes your chest ache. His thumb brushes beneath your eye without permission, collecting the wetness there.

You expect him to say something teasing. Something light to make you feel less exposed.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he murmurs, “You cried in your sleep.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “But I hate seeing you like that.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. The words feel heavy on your tongue, all choked up behind the lingering grip of the nightmare you can’t name. You just shift a little closer, and he adjusts instantly, pulling you into his side with such quiet care that it makes your eyes burn again.

He holds you like you’re something he doesn’t want to let fall. One arm across your shoulders, the other hand smoothing over your sleeve in absent circles. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t push for questions. He just... stays.

The train speeds on.

And in this pocket of soft lighting and empty seats, you let yourself sink into him.

“I don’t know why you’re always so gentle with me,” you say after a while, voice barely audible.

He exhales a laugh through his nose — more of a warm breath than a sound. “Because you never ask for anything. You just give. And I want to be the one who gives back.”

You close your eyes again, this time not to sleep but to hide the heat in your gaze. You press your forehead to the fabric of his jacket, the scent of him — clean, familiar, a little like lavender and winter — wrapping around you like a blanket.

Riki shifts slightly, and his mouth is suddenly near your ear. His voice is quiet, teasing now, playful even — like the storm in your chest never happened.

“You can keep using me as your pillow. I won’t charge.”