🔱

It’s just a run-down minimum wage job, really. It’s always been nothing special to you… until he started walking in.

This guy from one of your classes. He comes in at nearly the same time every few days, always during your shifts, and orders the same damn drink every time: an iced caramel macchiato with an extra pump of vanilla, because he “wants it extra sweet, just like you.” (His words, not yours—you still vividly remember the first time he said it, and how you stared at him in dead silence, trying your hardest to suppress a laugh. I mean, at least he was straightforward about it?) 

He sits at one of the tables by the window, and barely even finishes his drink half the time. Which is… oddly suspicious. Because what kind of college student spends seven dollars on coffee just to let it water down to the point that it’s, well, undrinkable?

(Answer: Psychopaths. Cute psychopaths named Phainon. That’s his name, by the way. You learned it one day and made sure to note him as part of the top 10… to put it bluntly, hottest regulars. He’s number one, obviously. Because even though he’s absolutely horrible with pickup lines, he’s still got that golden-boy, too-pretty-for-his-own-good face. Almost like he was a demigod in another life. It’s kinda unfair.)

But hey, who are you kidding? His overpriced orders pad your paycheck, you get free entertainment in the form of whatever it is he thinks counts as flirting, and you humor him in return. It’s a mutual exchange.

It all starts off innocently enough. It’s not like you wait for Phainon to show up or anything. You vividly recall the day you learned the name of the mystery pretty boy who keeps flirting with you, actually. You only found out because one morning, out of sheer boredom—or maybe curiosity, but you’re not admitting that—you asked. People put their names on cups at places like this anyway, right? It was casual enough.

“What’s your name?” you asked, pen poised lazily over the cup of coffee you were making him. (The same drink he probably wasn’t going to finish anyway, but whatever.) “What? I need to write it on your drink.”

He blinked at you like you’ve been possessed (and maybe at the time, you might as well have been), clearly caught off guard by the sudden straightforwardness. “Phainon… It’s Phainon.”

And maybe it was the way he said it—like he was trying to play it casually, yet you could sense his shy hesitance—but you felt it stick to you. And before you even knew it, the words nearly slipped out before you could stop yourself:

You’re pretty, Phainon.

But you’re not that bold. God, you wish you were, but you’re not. Not even remotely. Instead, what blurted out of your mouth, entirely unprompted, was:

“That’s a pretty name, Phainon.”

Oh shit.

There was a pause. A really brutal one. It was deafening and you still remember it. The realization hit about half a second too late, just as the heat started creeping up your neck.

Phainon stared at you. And then, his whole face lit up. This little shit was smiling. No, he was fucking beaming, actually. “So my charm’s finally working on you, huh?”

You scowled. Or, well, you tried to. It didn’t do much to hide the smile that was barely tugging at your lips at the time. Whether out of embarrassment, shame, or something else completely, you didn’t know. “No. Shut up. Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late,” he grinned, and you swear that smile alone could power the whole damn city. Was he seriously that happy about what you said? “I’m taking that as a win.”

You rolled your eyes, acting like it was no big deal as you slid the drink towards him. Unfortunately, your face was betraying you completely. It was too bad, really. He picked up his cup, and that stupid grin still hadn’t left his face. You wanted to wipe it off so bad. “A pretty name, huh? Guess I’ll just have to keep showing up, then.”

You waved him off. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You remember that moment very well, that’s for sure. You also remember the next part just as vividly, mainly because of your coworker.

You’d barely turned around before hearing her laugh from where she stood near one of the espresso machines, realizing that she’d just witnessed that entire interaction. Aglaea–she’s a few years older than you and technically your supervisor, but it really doesn’t feel like it. More like… an annoying big sister. Yeah. That describes her perfectly. “You know you’re smiling like an idiot right now, right?”

“Aglaea. Don’t even start,” you muttered, although there was no bite behind your words.

And yeah, maybe at the time, you were still smiling. Just a little bit, though. 

And that’s how it all starts. A silly little routine as the semester goes by, and your little back and forth with Phainon becomes something that you begin to really enjoy. He comes in. You pretend not to care (you do, you care a lot). Aglaea teases you as he leaves, per usual. Rinse and repeat. You usually don’t pay her much mind, but somewhere along the line, you recall one thing that she said that really stuck to you. 

“You know he only comes here for you, right? The boy’s absolutely whipped.”

You remembered those words very precisely. You laughed it off back then, and brushed it off like a mere joke.

But now, as the months slowly pass by and Phainon becomes more and more familiar to you?

Now, you’re not so sure.

It’s a Tuesday morning when you’re hit with the reality of what it's like to work in a place like this.

Tuesdays are usually quiet for you—no morning classes, just a slow start to the day and maybe a shift if you feel up to it. You’ve been picking up more of them lately, partly for the extra cash, and partly so you can keep taking the morning train with Mydei, because, well, he’s nice to be around. It’s always been a routine. And routine is nice–something to expect because it’s familiar and predictable. 

At least, it’s supposed to be, until today.

The cafe’s running far busier than usual: Aglaea’s handling most of the drink prep, so you’re running the register and tidying the counter. Phainon hasn’t come in yet—not that you’re looking for him. Of course not. (You most definitely are.)

If only you knew what was going to happen to you today, you'd wish he’d shown up a little earlier.

The line filters through smoothly enough at first. You’ve just finished taking a person’s order when someone new suddenly walks up to the counter. Some guy in his early thirties, definitely not a student—at least, not from your campus—and something about the way he’s already grinning at you before you even greet him makes your stomach churn a little.

“Morning, sweetheart.” Here we go. His eyes skim over your name tag a little too slowly, and then glide over toward something else completely before meeting your eyes again, all with a sleazy smile that sets off every single internal alarm you’ve got in your body. Stop. Don’t let him get to you. “That your real name?”

You blink, tapping incessantly on the counter: sharp and repetitive, like maybe he’d take the hint. Not only was he making you uncomfortable, but the line behind him was only getting longer. This was messing up the flow of things—it was all just supposed to be another peaceful morning. A little hectic, maybe, but still peaceful. “Uh, yeah. What can I get started for you today?”

He leans in, resting his elbows on the register counter like you’re a damn bartender and you’re supposed to entertain him. Does he even know where he is? “You know, someone with a pretty face like you shouldn’t be stuck behind a counter all day.”

Yikes, you almost want to say. Still, you try to keep yourself composed. To not give a guy like this the time of day, because you’re certainly above that. You’ve heard this type of shit countless times before. Offhand remarks, compliments that they think are so smooth. Most guys get bored when you don’t play along. “What drink would you like, sir?”

He finally orders after that. Just something simple—a black coffee, no frills, easy enough to make on your own without bothering Aglaea—except he doesn’t leave after paying. Just hovers over you as you make his drink, eyes watching your every move like you were something to be scrutinized. You know this isn’t new. Weird customers happen. Creepy guys happen. You’ve told yourself that so many times, and yet, something in your chest tugs uncomfortably at his stare. 

The weight of his gaze follows you… from keeping your hands busy on the machine, to closing the hot coffee with a lid. You hand him his drink, offering a tight-lipped smile and wincing when he holds on just a second too long the moment your fingers brush his. Please, just take it and leave. “Here you go.”

“You got a boyfriend?” Oh, wow. No, it gets worse. What the hell were you expecting?

His words feel like a slap to the face. You blink—once, twice, then inhale sharply, forcing yourself to keep calm. You’ve handled people like this in the past—persistent, entitled guys who are far too old to be flirting with college girls behind counters. You can’t show that his words are getting to you. You won’t. Not here, not when the morning has just started, because for fuck’s sake, it’s too early for this. “I’m just here to make coffee.”

The stranger laughs, holding his hands up in mock defense as if you were the one overreacting. “Hey, I’m just asking. You’ve got a nice smile. I bet all the boys here line up just for you, huh? Forget about the coffee.” 

You’re saved by the next customer stepping forward, and you finally let out the breath you’ve been holding this entire time. Aglaea, who caught the tail end of the conversation and his last remark, shoots you a brief look. You just shake your head at her—it’s nothing to escalate yet. You’re used to people like him. It’s fine.

Really, it’s fine. It’s just one of those days. Although it feels like you’re convincing yourself that more than anything.

The guy finally leaves, but the lingering feeling he leaves behind doesn’t. It clings to you like static—like a lump in your throat that you can’t swallow, or a tightness in your chest that you can’t shake off. No matter how many deep breaths you take, it still stays. Your heart is still hammering, and the feeling sticks to you, deep in the pit of your stomach. That godawful sense that his eyes are still on you, even though you know they’re long gone. 

It feels… gross. You hate that it’s still there. That it even got to you like this in the first place, because usually, it never does.

Phainon comes in a little later that day, just like always, with that pretty charm of his and the usual order, because it’s routine. His presence makes you feel a little bit better about today, although you can’t shake the feeling off, no matter how hard you try. Still, him being here is nice and familiar in a way that’s difficult to describe. Like at the very least, a small weight has been lifted off your shoulders, and you appreciate that. You really do.

He leans casually against the counter, peering up at you with that same lopsided smile. And you smile back at him. 

Or try to, anyway. 

You smile at him as if nothing happened, all forced, and frankly, a little bit watery. It’s the kind of smile you wear when you don’t want anyone to worry. And it’s exactly that. You don’t want him to worry about your situation. Instead, you focus on the mantra you’ve been repeating this whole day: that shit like this happens all the time, and it’s just something you need to deal with. Over and over, like it’s supposed to make you feel better. (It doesn’t. It really doesn’t. In fact, the pit in your stomach only grows.)

But of course, Phainon notices the difference. He always does—he’s more perceptive than he lets on. But he figures that if you just don’t want to talk about it, then he won’t push any further. Just tilts his head at you with that same, puppy-like grin and says softly, “Did you miss me?”

And god, for a second, you almost say yes. It nearly catches at the tip of your tongue—this fragile, foolish, yes—and for a moment, your carefully constructed mask nearly slips. You almost tell him everything. About the guy, or the way your skin still crawls from earlier. Or maybe that tightness in your chest that just won’t go away. 

But instead, you smile. Because that’s all you can manage right now. 

You just shake your head and laugh, ringing up his order and scribbling his name on a cup like you usually do. Like how it always is. Your hands tremble so very slightly, just enough for you to notice—and enough for him to see it, too. You feel it: Phainon’s gaze lingering on you. But it’s not intrusive or scrutinizing like that guy’s stare, no, right now, he was worried for you. His eyes don’t ask for anything; instead, his gaze is the kind that says I’m here, even when you’re not ready to talk about it.

And you’re not. Not yet.

So, you focus on the present. As if routine could shield you from the heaviness of the rock sitting on your chest, or from the way your eyes are stinging with tears when you turn your back on him for a moment. You appreciate his silent concern and all, but you pretend not to notice. 

Because really, it’s just another Tuesday. And if you stop believing otherwise, then this little facade of yours might just break. And you can’t let that happen.

You manage to convince yourself over the next few days that the encounter was the end of it. Just a minor disruption to your routine, and nothing more. That maybe he’d gone off to bother someone else—somebody who’s preferably his own age. (Not that you’d want any poor soul to be subjected to that, but you’d prefer it to just not be you.)

You didn’t have any shifts for the rest of the week, and today—Saturday—is the first time you’re back. And for a minute, things seem like they’re back to normal. It feels like you’re integrating into the swing of it all again: the morning rush has passed, Aglaea’s handling the register, and you’re in the back of the cafe, cleaning up the dirty tables from earlier that day. 

It’s routine. How it’s always been.

In an ideal reality, you’d want to say that you didn’t let that situation get to you—really get to you—yet in actuality, you’re completely on autopilot. It’s been a weird week–far more emotionally exhausting and nerve-wracking than usual, but you try and get by. Plus, you get to see your favorite golden boy (he doesn’t know that he’s been promoted to that title yet, but you’d prefer not to tell him either way for the sake of his ego) soon. Not that you’re looking forward to it or anything. (Who are you even kidding anymore?)

You don’t hear the bell jingle at first. Don’t even notice him. That stranger that’s been living in the back of your head ever since that shitty Tuesday morning. You’re too busy cleaning one of the tables in the back with a wet rag, humming along with the music playing overhead as a futile way to calm your nerves, until you hear it.

“There you are,” he says, all too casual, and it makes your heart stop. You know that voice, and you never thought you’d have to hear it again. 

You freeze, eyes widening, and your grip on the rag tightens like a deer in headlights. He’d deliberately gone to the back just to look for you. What the fuck? “Thought I might’ve scared you off the other day.”

You straighten up and look at him. He’s got that same sleazy grin, the very same one that made your stomach churn, and it makes you sick. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure if it’s because you’re paralyzed with fear or because of the anger that you feel bubbling up in your throat. Or maybe some sick combination of both. He gestures to the cup of black coffee in his hand, ordered from Aglaea, no doubt. “Your little friend made this coffee for me. Wish it was you who made it, though.” 

“I was just trying to be friendly, you know.” He steps closer, and you step back until you’re right up against the table you’re cleaning, with nowhere to go. “You don’t gotta look so scared of me, sweetheart.”

“I’m working,” you say, and you hate the way your voice breaks. “Please leave me alone.”

“Oh, come on.” He laughs, and you think you hate that far more. Hate how small you feel right now, how unbothered he is, and the way your heart feels like it’s about to hammer straight out of your chest. You choke, trying to find your voice to call out for Aglaea, or anybody at this point, but all that comes out is a stuttering gasp for air. “Don’t be like that.”

Then, he reaches for you, and that’s when something in you finally breaks. “Don’t touch me!”

It all happens fast, too fast–his hand brushes too close to your waist, that same sleazy smile on his face–and you shove him in retaliation. His drink spills all over you, and hot coffee sloshes over your apron. You’re lucky that your uniform catches most of it, but you feel the burning sting all across your arm. And it hurts.

You gasp in pain, stumbling as the adrenaline hits you like a damn freight train. Your knees slightly buckle beneath you, and your vision goes fuzzy at the edges. Aglaea finally yells out something from the front, but you can’t hear. Not with the blood rushing in your ears. And the way you can’t seem to breathe, no matter how hard you try. The adrenaline has you burning from humiliation more than the actual heat. “Fuck–”

Your heart races. Your breaths come too fast and too shallow, your chest tight and trembling. You can’t focus. You can’t breathe. You crouch slightly, bracing your weight against the table because the world is spinning, and it feels like you’re about to collapse. You barely register the bell over the cafe door chiming open. Don’t even hear the footsteps, or the way somebody ushers that stranger away from you. Maybe that was Aglaea. You don’t know. But you feel it—a steady warmth kneeling next to you, not directly touching, just close enough to anchor you.

“Hey–” the voice is soft and grounding. A stark contrast to that stranger’s grating voice just moments ago. “I’m right here. He’s gone, and Aglaea’s handling it. Just focus on my voice, okay?”

You turn towards the figure.

Even through your blurry vision, and even with your eyes stinging with tears, you know it’s Phainon. Your favorite golden-boy, Phainon. You don’t know how he got here so fast—maybe he was just arriving, or maybe he’d already been there. You don’t know, and frankly, you don’t care. All that matters is that he’s here. And that man isn’t–not anymore.

“P-Phainon,” you sob. You try and focus on him, on his presence and just everything about him that anchors you, but your vision is far too blurry and your breath is stuttering painfully in your throat. For a moment, you begin to wonder if you’re just hallucinating this all. “Phai– I can’t breathe-”

“I know,” he says softly, and he gently takes your hand into his, and that’s when you realize that you’re in fact not just imagining things. Phainon is very much real, and he cares so much, and that thought alone almost makes you start crying for a completely different reason. He places the flat of your palm over his chest as a way to guide you. “Breathe with me, okay? Just feel my heartbeat and match me.”

“In through your nose,” he murmurs. He draws a deep breath himself, slow and deliberate, and you try, your focus narrowing to the rise and fall of his chest beneath your hand. “Good. Now out.”

You try. You really do. You shakily breathe out, even though it’s cut off by your sniffles and the way your lip trembles ever so slightly. 

“Again,” he repeats. It’s okay, though. Because Phainon is willing to wait. He always does, for you. “That’s it. You’re doing good. So good.”

You repeat that exercise a few more times, slow and steady, until your adrenaline begins to wear off a little. Your vision is still blurry, and your breath catches in your throat.

And then, without thinking–without even meaning to–you reach out for him.

“Hey, hey…” Your fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie, and you bury your face against his chest. And that’s when the dam breaks. The mask you had been so carefully maintaining this entire week shatters, and you quietly cry into his chest. You feel his arms wrap around you instinctively, one hand steady on your back. “I’ve got you, I promise.”

And maybe it's the way he says it, or how he didn’t even hesitate to rush in and help you in that moment, but it makes you cry a little harder. Not in a bad way, but it’s that notion–that he cares, and doesn’t let you go. You think you could fall apart; shatter into a million pieces, and Phainon would still be there to catch every single part of you and put you all back together.

“You’re safe now,” he softly murmurs against your hair. “I’m right here.”

The world feels quieter like this. And for a moment, it’s just the steady beat of his heart and the way he quietly holds you and rubs gentle circles into your back as you sniffle, like he’s keeping everything else away.

“I didn’t know what to do,” you whisper, breath still shaky. “I froze up. I didn’t want to make it a big deal.”

“But it was,” he says firmly. “And you didn’t deserve any of that.”

You’re too tired to argue. You stay like that for a while, tucked into the warmth of his chest, until slowly, your breathing steadies out and your trembling stops. It’s nice, you think. The feeling of just letting someone hold you—letting you be without asking for a single thing in return. 

Then, he gently coaxes you out of the wet apron and gently wipes your uniform underneath with a napkin, getting the remnants out to the best of his ability. Gentle. That’s the only thing in your mind. He’s gentle, so gentle, as if you’ll shatter at the slightest movement if he’s not. He pauses when he catches sight of your arm where the hot coffee hit, his expression tightening ever so slightly. “Can I take a look?”

You meekly nod. Slowly, he eases your sleeve up to examine the skin. There’s a faint, angry red splotch blooming across—his fingers hovering over the burn but not enough to touch it, like he’s afraid he’ll hurt you even more. You notice it–the way his demeanor changes ever so slightly, and the way a tint of guilt flickers behind his eyes. “You should run this under cool water soon, before it gets worse. I–”

“You look disappointed.” You manage a weak smile, teasingly looking up at him even though your voice cracks a little. “Don’t look at me like that… like you should’ve been here sooner. You didn’t know. But you’re here now, exactly when I need you… and that’s the only thing that matters to me.”

Phainon just deflates at that. He doesn’t try to argue. You just hope he doesn’t beat himself up over it.

A quiet moment passes before he shifts, just slightly enough to shrug off his hoodie and gently ease you into it, covering your coffee-stained uniform underneath. It’s still warm from him, smelling faintly of espresso and something sweet, so very him. And for the first time, you realize:

Phainon really does care for you. He’s really not just a playful flirt anymore—you’re far beyond that stage. And that thought doesn’t scare you this time, no, it softens something from within you instead. It’s loving. Nice, and leaves a warm feeling lingering in your chest. You think you can get used to this.

Aglaea’s voice cuts through the silence, although it’s softer than usual when she calls out from the front. “Take her home, Phai. I’ve got the rest of her shift.”

You glance toward her. She’s watching the two of you with something between fondness and worry. You make a mental note to text her later, to give a proper thank you—but for now, all you can do is give her a small, grateful nod.

Beside you, Phainon stands slowly. And when he turns to face you, he doesn’t hesitate—not even for a second—as he holds out his hand.

“Let’s get you out of here. You’ve been through more than enough today,” He murmurs, and you really, really couldn’t agree more.

The drive back home is quiet. 

Phainon doesn’t push you to talk. He doesn’t push you to do anything, really. Just basks in the silence and drives, with one hand steady on the wheel while the other rests near yours on the console. Dangerously close. Close enough that if you reached out, you’d find him waiting. (What you don’t know is that Phainon will always be waiting–he’d wait for as long as it takes. As long as it’s you, he’d even wait forever. He just hopes that you’ll realize that one day.)

You watch the streetlights blur past the windows in soft, golden streaks. The burn across your arm has turned into a dull ache, and for the first time all day, you finally let yourself breathe. 

A few minutes pass before Phainon finally breaks the silence. His words are soft and careful, almost like he’s afraid to shatter whatever calm you’ve found in the quietness of his car. “Do you remember the day we first met?”

You blink at him, startled by the sudden question. “The day you told me you wanted your coffee ‘extra sweet, just like me’? Yeah. Kind of hard to forget.”

That earns you a small, breathy laugh from him. But then, to your surprise, he admits, “I don’t even like sweet coffee.”

You turn to stare at him. “What?”

“I don’t like sweet coffee.” He glances at you, almost sheepish. “Never did.”

You’re genuinely confused now. Okay, so you’ve actually been talking to a lunatic this entire time. “…What.”

He laughs again—but it’s a little more nervous this time. “When I first saw you behind the counter, I wanted to talk to you. Real bad. So I panicked, and ordered the first thing I saw on the menu… and asked for extra vanilla so that I could use that stupid pickup line on you.”

Your mouth falls open. Yup, this confirms it. He cannot be serious. “You’re telling me… you’ve been drinking that for months? When you didn’t even like it in the first place? I thought you were just a slow drinker or something!”

“Well, I figured if I kept ordering it, you’d start remembering me by it.” He scratches the back of his neck, looking almost embarrassed now. “Even though it kinda tastes like cough syrup to me.”

You blink again. Then, you shake your head and laugh softly. “Holy shit. You’re actually a dumbass.”

He smiles at that. Really smiles. “Yeah. But it worked, didn’t it?”

You pause.

And maybe you’re tired, maybe you’re still fragile from everything earlier, but your voice softens when you reply, “I would’ve remembered you even without the stupid drink. You didn’t have to do all of that.”

Phainon glances at you, and for once, he doesn’t have anything to say to that. For a moment, it’s quiet again. You glance at his face. He’s avoiding your gaze now, cheeks tinged pink, the tips of his ears flushed too. It fills you with something gentle, like seeing a boyish version of him peeking through his usual charm. “In all seriousness, though… thank you. For today. For being there for me.”

He swallows softly. “I think I got the message.”

“Not just for today.” Your chest tightens, but in a good way this time. “For all the times before, too.”

For all the times you’ve kept me company in that shitty job of mine. 

You make sure to look at him now, really look at him. You think he gets the memo. Phainon, the same golden-boy you’d just laughed about before, brushing him off as just another pretty regular. But now? Being with him is softer. Less perfect and flirty, yet somehow he’s more beautiful for it. Phainon, your favorite golden-boy. Even though he’s a crazy-golden boy for pouring all that money down the drain just to flirt with a damn barista.

“I mean… you’ve been forcing yourself to drink that shit just to have an excuse to talk to me,” you murmur. “When I could’ve made you something better.”

He hesitates, then mumbles under his breath, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it: “You’re worth it, though.”

That nearly stops your heart.

“Phainon…”

He glances sideways at you, all shy now and eyes lingering so beautifully over your face. “Yeah?”

You smile. And even though this day has beaten you down completely, you really mean it when you say, “I think I’m gonna be okay.”

He looks at you for a long moment. And then he smiles back—but it’s not that cheeky grin you’re used to. No, it’s something far gentler. Like you’re back in high school, writing your crush’s name with a myriad of colorful gel pens and a tooth-rotting smile. Something so genuine it makes your throat ache and your ribs cave in.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I know you will.”

The car pulls to a stop.

When you open the door and step out, Phainon stays still. His hoodie is still wrapped around you, warm with his scent, and you almost never want to take it off, you think. He watches you walk toward your building, his gaze lingering long after you’ve gone inside.

You remember Aglaea’s words to you all those months ago a little bit too well:

“You know he only comes here for you, right? The boy’s absolutely whipped.”

At the time, you’d only rolled your eyes at her. But you knew, somewhere deep down, despite how much you wave her teasing off sometimes, you know she’s perceptive. And you fear even more that she’s right.

And somewhere in that car, you think that Phainon has that same realization, too.

It’s always been the 7:00 one. Always the same train car, and sometimes even the same seat—if it’s vacant. Any train earlier than that gets you to campus way too early. Any later and you’re stuck in a shitty crowded car with an onset headache to plague you for the rest of the morning, and that’s the very last thing you want.

The thing about your life lately is that it has you in a damn frenzy most of the time. And weirdly enough, it's routines like this—even something as simple as setting a designated seat for yourself—that keep you sane. A little pocket of normalcy that you think is nice, because it's familiar, and something to expect.

And then there’s him. 

You’ve seen him every morning for weeks now, down to the same train car, even. You’ve seen people from your campus come and go on the 7:00 train, but he’s always in the same one as you. Or at least, most of the time. You almost expect him to be here nowadays (for no particular reason–it’s not like he’s really pretty or anything), and get a little bit disappointed whenever he’s not. He always has that quiet energy to him–hood up, headphones in, and leaning slightly against the window with a huge duffel bag in between his legs that you’re pretty sure would kill you if you ever had to carry it across campus.

He doesn’t talk. You sometimes wonder what he’s listening to, but never dare to actually ask. Other times, you see him doomscrolling on his phone and laughing (at what, you don’t even want to know—Instagram reels are becoming extremely questionable nowadays), yet you feel yourself unconsciously smiling too.

You swear you’re not a stalker. He’s just a friend crush (that’s definitely all there is to it), and you’re just extremely observant.

You’re not totally sure when you realized that you both go to the same school, but one day, you noticed him get off the same stop as you, and watched him disappear into the general direction of your campus building. Now, it just feels like common knowledge. Of course you go to the same school as him. Of course he almost always takes the same train as you. He’s practically a part of your morning routine at this point, which is… weird. But oddly comforting, in a way. You’ve never actually spoken to each other, but you’ve noticed how he glances up at you whenever you board. Just once, brief and subtle. It makes you wonder if he recognizes you, too.

It gets to a point where it starts feeling less of a coincidence and more like a pattern that you’ve started to look forward to.

The day that you finally talk to him for the first time, it’s raining. 

You stayed up far too late finishing a paper that’s already past due, and it shows–everyone on board could see that you’re only running on fumes. You manage to sit down onto the nearest seat with heavy eyes, pulling your hood down with splatters of rainwater all over it. With your earbuds loosely in, you don’t even have the energy to check if he’s on the train, and just let the sound of the rain pitter-pattering against the window gently lull you to sleep.

You fall into a dreamless slumber for the entire train ride. You don’t notice the train eventually slowing at your campus stop. Don’t notice the other students gathering their things, already making their way to leave. 

Oh, but Mydei does.

Ever since you stepped on the train this morning, he’s been a little bit concerned for you. You didn’t even stare out the window like you usually do. Didn’t spare a second glance at your phone, or bother to look in his direction at all. You just closed your eyes and slept like you hadn’t in days (and judging by the way you practically melted in your seat the second you had the chance, maybe he was right).

So when he glances over his shoulder, just as he’s about to leave, and still sees you completely knocked out?

He freezes. And then almost lets out a laugh, not because it’s funny (well, maybe it is a little funny), but because he’d never truly admit it out loud, but you looked a little… cute like that. Which is not a thought he should be having about a complete stranger that he’s never even talked to. What the hell is wrong with him?

The train jerks, and the doors begin to open, and Mydei realizes he needs to act fast–both for his sake and yours. He steps toward you quickly, traversing everyone that’s still shuffling out the doors, and hesitates for only a fraction of a second before gently tapping your shoulder. “Hey.”

Nothing. He’s almost amused. You sleep like a rock. 

So he tries again, tapping a little more incessantly this time as the speaker overhead begins to announce the next station, which is in a completely different city from your campus location… so Mydei’s growing concern starts to become a little bit more warranted. Taking the train back was not about to be a part of his morning, and he’s certain that you don’t want it to be a part of yours, too. “Hey, this is our stop.”

He almost considers shaking you awake, but your eyes finally flutter open, just in time. You blink repeatedly to try and ground yourself. “...Huh?”

“You’re gonna miss the station,” says the mysterious guy standing over you. He almost… looks a little familiar. If only you could see. “Come on.”

Your vision begins to clear, albeit still fogged with exhaustion. He’s… tall, blonde, and wearing a dark hoodie. He also has a nice voice. And he’s kind of–

Wait.

Wait a minute.

You finally register who’s standing in front of you.

Holy shit. Did I die? Is this heaven?

You don’t actually say that out loud, by some miracle. He’s even more attractive when you’re not staring at him from across the train car, and better yet, he’s right in front of you. It’s certainly a pretty sight–there’s warmth in his voice, the same calmness in his expression, and your wildly beating heart is still trying to figure out why he’s talking to you, of all people.

And then—all of a sudden—his words finally catch up to you, and so does the terrifying realization that the train is still very much at your stop, and it will not wait for you to finish gawking at the man in front of you like he’s some sort of eye-candy (well, he certainly is—but that’s besides the point).

“Shit–” you say, immediately getting up on your feet and grabbing your bag from the floor, avoiding the questionable gazes of the other passengers. You hear him laugh beside you, and that’s when you decide that even if you aren’t a dead man yet, you’re certainly about to meet your end now. “Holy shit–thank you so much,”

You step off the train with him in a daze, just barely missing the doors closing behind you. The rain’s stopped, and you heavily consider jumping off the station, or maybe even lying down on the tracks. Any plan works, so long as you never resurface on Earth ever again.

You don’t know what to say as you gradually regain your composure, and you almost want the ground to swallow you whole at this point. 

But then he looks over as you both start walking across the platform towards campus, and finally breaks the unbearable silence. “You looked so comfortable, I almost didn’t wake you.”

You blink up at him, face caught somewhere between amusement and lingering embarrassment. “You really considered leaving me behind? It’s a pain in the ass to get all the way back here.”

“I know. And I thought about it,” he says with a genuine straight face, so deadpan that you almost do a double-take. For a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t joking, but the way his eyes soften–just so very slightly–says otherwise. “But then I figured I’d save you all the trouble, you know? You looked like you had enough going on.”

His words make you laugh, startling you with how easily it comes out. You can’t help it. He’s funny, in an almost unintentional way, and suddenly, he doesn’t feel so distant anymore. He lets out a small smile too, just barely, and there’s a strange warmth blooming in your chest. It’s almost like his gaze (which holds something akin to that of the sun), is slowly cracking through the clouds and deciding to settle there, right under the crevices of your ribcage.

It feels… nice.

“Seriously, though,” you mumble, a little quieter this time. “Thanks. For waking me up. I, uh–didn’t catch your name?”

“Mydei,” he says, and maybe it’s the way he says it, or maybe even the way he’s looking at you–like you’re familiar to him–it makes you feel like a little kid getting their favorite toy on Christmas Day. You say your name in return, and he nods, repeating it under his breath as if he were already familiarizing himself with it. Absolutely priceless. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess?”

You pause at that. You weren’t even sure if he’d noticed you after all this time. But now? He’s looking directly at you and waiting, like this little routine of yours was something you really did share this entire time, and it’s something to expect for both of you now. “Yeah, of course. See you tomorrow.”

And for the first time since you started taking the 7:00 train, you’re actually looking forward to it.

It’s silly, maybe. But that’s where it all begins, your little friendship with Mydei, and it's also when things start to change. Your designated seat shifts to the one right next to his. He starts saving it with his duffle bag before you finally board the train, and it becomes another part of your routine that neither of you has to talk about. And you also never miss the way his eyes light up when he sees you every morning, like you’re the one piece of the day that he’s been waiting for. 

With Mydei, there’s never any pressure to fill the space with words–the silence is actually something you find comfort in. Some days, you talk the whole ride to campus about anything and everything, until, much to your dismay, you have to part ways for class (those are the days you love the most). On other days, you rarely talk at all. Instead, you exchange a few words and sooner or later find yourself asleep right next to him, while he makes sure that you don’t miss your stop (like what almost happened before).

But that never happens anymore. Not when you’re with him.

And then there’s the day it happens–the day you’re running on 2 hours of sleep again (unfortunately, days like that have been finding you more often recently, regardless of how much you try and take care of yourself), a vending machine granola bar, and a prayer that you’ll actually make it home without collapsing.

It’s past 8 p.m. when you finally drag yourself onto the train.

The fluorescent lights faintly hum overhead, and the seats are half-empty. It’s currently the awkward in-between hour, but you’re just glad that the evening rush period is winding down, and you’re granted a little bit of peace. Your bag feels far heavier than it should be, your hoodie’s too thin, and for a second, you seriously consider lying down on the seats. Thankfully, the sanitation risks of doing that, as well as your remaining decorum, both outweigh just how tired you are.

For a moment, you’re too tired to scan your surroundings. Your body moves on autopilot–one step after the other–and you don’t even register the familiar tuft of blonde hair sitting in the corner until he lifts his head. “Mydei?”

He blinks. Then, lets out a smile–soft and easy, and you think that sight is perhaps the only good thing to come out of today. You rarely ever see Mydei on the train back from campus, since you have conflicting schedules that never overlap with each other. Sometimes, you work overtime at the cafe if you ever need extra money. On other days—days that you literally have to pray for, your roommate Anaxa graciously offers you a ride home whenever the damn stars align and his schedule allows it (although it rarely does, much to your chagrin). And finally, there are days—grueling days like today, when there are far too many things to do after classes, even though there’s nothing more you want to do than go home.

You think that seeing him for the second time today is exactly what you needed right now. Like for once, the universe had finally granted you a cosmic favor.

“Oh. Hey,” he says, and he moves his duffle bag to make room for you, just like what he always does in the mornings. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Me too,” you mumble, sitting down next to him with a huff. You rub your eyes, which are already thick with exhaustion, and the familiar tiredness almost feels verbatim to that one day when he woke you up. At least the chair gives you a little bit of respite. And his presence–steady and familiar–does more to ground you than you expect. “What’re you doing out this late?”

“Just finished up at the gym,” he replies coolly, and you notice the way his hair is still slightly damp and smells slightly of cedarwood shampoo, clean and warm and way too good for your current mental state. (He’s swapped out his usual hoodie for a black compression shirt, and… Okay. How the hell is he not more popular with the girls?) 

You’re no fool, you wish you could ogle a bit more at the way that tight shirt hugs his muscles for a little bit longer, if only you weren’t running on sheer willpower right now. But still, you make the effort to stay awake. All so you could talk to him. “What about you?”

“Stayed after class. Had to finish a project, and time got away from me.” He nods at your words, doing a once-over at your appearance. It’s not in a judgemental way, it’s never judgemental with Mydei–it’s just in that quiet, observant way that he always seems to do things. 

The train car hums. You notice that you’re not exactly brushing arms with him, but your hoodie sleeve is close enough that it’s touching his whenever the train bumps. The proximity is enough for you to feel safe. Familiar. 

“You okay?” he asks after a beat, a little quieter this time. “You… need to learn to take care of yourself better.”

“I know,” you say, and you certainly do. And that’s the thing. It’s hard to take care of yourself when you’re simultaneously learning how to juggle fifty things at once, when at most, you were only ever equipped to juggle five. But it’s also challenges like these that help you grow a little more as a person. You’re trying. Even when it feels like you’re on your wits' end sometimes, like how tonight has you, you’re still trying your best. And hopefully, it’ll all pay off someday. “I just haven’t been able to sleep much. I’ll be okay.”

Mydei doesn’t push it. He just shifts slightly, letting his shoulder tilt a little towards you as if it were a silent offer. You glance at him, and he doesn’t look back, but you know that he sees you anyway. Really sees you, even though this entire day, you‘ve been feeling nothing more than completely see-through.

You two fall into silence after that, his soft, quiet breathing filling your senses. It’s familiar—the one you’re used to with Mydei, the kind of silence you get when you’re too tired to talk, but want to be there for each other anyway. And it's enough for both of you. It always has been.

You’re not exactly sure when your eyes flutter shut, but at some point in the train ride, the world feels a little fuzzier and a little quieter. The culmination of everything exhausting you’ve felt today finally hits you all at once, and you can’t help but fall asleep.

Then it happens–somewhere in your unconsciousness, your head tips to the side and lands softly against his shoulder.

And he freezes.

You don’t see it–how his breath hitches, how his jaw tenses and then quickly softens. How he’s afraid to move a single inch, in fear that he’ll wake you. How he swallows hard, like maybe if he pretends to be calm, he can stop his heart from racing. But damn, it’s racing like hell, and he’s anything but calm.

Because here’s the thing: If you’ve started falling for Mydei after all those shared mornings with him, he’s already a step ahead because he’s definitely fallen harder. He’s had a teensy little crush on you… for a while. It’s the easy, slow kind—the kind where you’ve begun to bury a little hole in his heart, and he doesn’t notice until you've already sunk your teeth in and he’s too far gone to just back out. You’ve carved such a special place within him without even trying… and now he’s got you asleep on his shoulder, like it’s nothing?

And maybe to you, it truly is nothing. But to him? It feels like everything right now, and more.

He has one hand hesitating in the air before carefully resting it on the seat behind you–not quite touching (no matter how much he wants to put his arm around your shoulder), but enough to shield you if the train ever sways. He’s so careful with you. Like you’ll break if he does something wrong. Like this moment matters, and that it’s far more than just you being exhausted. A part of his mind is trying to convince him that this was purely accidental, and that you didn’t mean to fall asleep on his shoulder. But then another part of him says that you trust him enough to be in this close proximity with him, regardless of whether you meant to do that or not.

And yet, he can’t help but take this opportunity to really look at you—as if you hung the stars yourself, because he knows that he’ll keep looking at you that way, even if you didn’t mean to do any of this. Even if you don’t know just exactly what you’re doing to him. 

And then you shift.

You nuzzle in a little closer, nose brushing the edge of his sleeve, and mumble something into his shirt that sounds a little something like, “...You’re really comfy.” 

Fuck.

Mydei literally forgets how to breathe. 

Because now, his suspicions were just confirmed–this was, in fact, not accidental, and he doesn’t know how long he can keep pretending that this is all casual to him anymore. Because this is anything but casual. You mean something to him, and that something is deep, even though he's only known you through these shared mornings and train rides. Moments like these are so simple, yet he wouldn’t trade them for the world.

And this is also the moment where he has his second realization: He needs to tell you how he feels, and soon, before he completely loses it. Before being your shoulder rest on the train is the closest thing he ever gets to holding you. To ever being truly yours.

Because if this keeps happening—and you keep looking at him the way you do, keep dozing off against him like this, mumbling half-asleep about how comfy he is to lie on…

Yeah, he’s gonna be a complete goner. 

And the worst part? Mydei doesn’t think he minds all too much.