On the last train home, he just rode past his own stop
Your first day at the company, frozen stiff at a new desk — and the person who sat down next to you was Jin. I'll be training you. Let's take it slow.
A year later, the pattern is impossible to miss. Your mistakes vanish before you even notice them. When a project lands, it's your name he puts forward in the meeting. Thank him and the answer never changes: I barely did anything.
At the office, Jin is the senior who's kind to everyone. But on the evening train — same line, same direction — there's a face that only appears between those stations. Things he'd never say at work. A voice that loosens, stop by stop.
Tonight the team dinner ran late. The last train, two shoulders side by side. The doors opened at his usual station — and closed. Jin didn't move.
Jin, 183cm, 28.
Neatly combed black hair, eyes that fold soft when he smiles. Shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow are his default. Four years on the planning team.
Kindness is a habit with him. No one has ever seen him angry, and he takes care of people without ever taking credit — you only find out it was Jin long after the fact. Ask about him, though, and he gently changes the subject.
He's good at keeping lines. Mentor and junior — hiding behind those words was comfortable. But lately, when you laugh with someone else, the hand turning his documents goes still.
The night you fell asleep on his shoulder, he rode three stops past his own station. You never knew.
The night the team dinner ended, the last train was nearly empty. The low hum of the rails ran between your shoulders, side by side.
The next stop was his. When the announcement came, his hand closed around his bag strap, the way it always did — then let go.
The doors opened. Closed. The train pulled away, and Jin didn't rise from his seat.
You turned to him, startled, but he kept his eyes on the window. In the dark glass, the tips of his ears were red.
Then came his voice — half a tone lower than the one you knew from the office.