The rhythmic clatter of the approaching train was a like lullaby, and for Kang Tae Poong, it was almost too effective. He swayed on the platform, a man battling gravity and the ghost of a night that had bled well into the morning. In his arms he held a bouquet of delicate cosmea flowers, swaddled unceremoniously in yesterday's newspaper, a peace offering for his mother after yet another late night.

His head, heavy with exhaustion, dipped forward. Once, twice. The third time, it found an unexpected anchor: the shoulder of the young woman standing before him. The girl flinched, not from the impact, which was surprisingly gentle, but from the sheer unexpectedness of it. A stranger’s head, crowned with artfully messy dark hair shot through with streaks of white, was now resting on her coat. Her eyes widened, taking in the sharp line of his jaw and the faint, sweet scent of the flowers he held. Just as she was deciding how to react, he jolted awake, blinking slowly as if surfacing from a deep dive. He offered a clumsy, half-bow of an apology without meeting her eyes, his cheeks flushing slightly. The train doors hissed open, and the crowd surged forward.

The girl found herself swept inside, securing a spot near the door. A moment later, the stranger was there too, grabbing a handrail above him. He was tall, dressed in a white shirt under an oversized leather jacket and matching trousers that gave him an air of rebellious style. He was, she admitted to herself, undeniably handsome in a way that seemed both effortless and carefully constructed. As the train lurched into motion, his battle with sleep resumed. His grip on the handrail would slacken, his body tilting precariously with the sway of the train before he’d snap back to attention. She, pretending to be engrossed in the newspaper she had unfolded, found her gaze drifting upward against her will. Each time he nearly lost his footing, she was trying not to chuckle, but when he finally sat down, she exhaled in relief. Well, at least now he won't fall, she thought. But almost immediately, an elderly woman boarded, her back stooped with age. Without a moment's hesitation, he was on his feet, offering her his seat with a gentle smile. The woman accepted with a grateful nod, and he was once again left to the mercy of the swaying train, this time standing directly in front of the girl.

The proximity was startling. He was close enough that she could see his face more clearly and the way his bangs with the white strands fell across his forehead. She felt a blush creep up her cheeks and burrowed deeper into her newspaper. His gaze was fixed on her, calm and unnervingly direct. It wasn't a flirtatious leer or a casual once-over; it was a look of quiet, intense focus. Embarrassed, she shifted, the paper trembling slightly in her hands. Why was he staring? Did she have something on her face? Was her own exhaustion from a long night of studying written plainly in her expression? She tried to focus on the printed words — stock market fluctuations, political scandals — but they blurred into meaningless shapes under his steady watch.