She met him on a quiet, uneventful Friday. She was out in the city searching for work and had been refused by many houses. It had started to rain, and unenthusiastic, she marched back to the station and waited for her train. She'd find work eventually, she told herself. She just had to wait for that event to unfold before her. She knew it was hard.

Her new, expensive-looking dress was wet and wrinkled and there was a loose thread under the skirt that she couldn't wait to bite off when she got home. She might be able to save her hat, she told herself. So she stuffed it into her purse and waited on an empty bench. She sat beside an old black woman, scribbling phone numbers on a piece of paper. The station had a slow, soothing tune playing. It filled in the hollowness of the crowd. And she imagined all kinds of stories that women occupied, the changing songs somewhat inspiring.

Then she noticed him standing there, a few feet away from the tracks with his head bowed so low his little hat could have slipped off. He wore a fancy black suit and a tiny little blue bow that turned an awkward green under the yellow lights. She watched him rock back and forth on the balls of his feet. His lips sighed and pulled downward by the same force that bent his head low and devastated. How can someone so well off look this anguished, she wondered. She couldn't find any stories for him. A love affair? A humiliation? Or was it something more real? Greif? No.

The bells hollered and they stepped inside, but the older woman was still seated. She sat next to the young man, a lazy seat. It was right in front of them. They didn't have to look around.

She watched him peel open his book, flipping the pages for the familiar sentence or number. She couldn't tell what kind of reader he was, numbers or words. He was stiff enough for numbers but oddly humble enough for words. His book was a classic. One she's had sitting on her bookshelf for almost a year. She sat closer to him, sneaking a look at the pages. They were worn out and exhausted, filled with tiny scribbles she couldn't make out. She imagined he had had that in mind when writing them, to avoid people like her.

He smelled like aftershave and cigarettes. Not bold enough for harsh cigars but masculine and soft. She found herself drawn to the little sounds he made when he read something funny or poetic or whatever it was that was happening. She should have read that book sooner.

"Is it any good?" She asked him, calmly, her words carefully crafted and sewn together. It was quiet too, just for the both of them to hear over the toddler begging his mother for something.

He looked up. His eyes were a bright green color. It sent her heart thumping across her chest. She sucked in a breath and waited for an answer.

"Sort of. The main character is a prick, but the writing is mesmerizing." He spoke harshly. A tiny rasp to his throat. She imagined him reciting poetry in her ear, mumbling good mornings just before the alarm went off, and moaning into the pillow when she-

"Your cheeks are aflame," he noted.

"The rain," she choked out. "I am probably sick."

He reached out and touched her forehead. Nurturing, she noted.

He chuckled. It was low and soft.

"What?" She asked, defensively.

"You're not sick. Or a worthy liar," he told her, eyes returning to his book. He glanced at her when she didn't say anything back. He thought he had her all figured out. She didn't like how the roles easily switched.

"You rather stuck up," she whispered when she looked up and saw him staring. She crossed her arms below her chest, just to draw the attention away from her cheeks. His eyes stayed there for a moment.

"I'm reading." He convinced them both.

"I'm sick." She giggled.

"Then kindly, sit away from me. I have rather weak immunity." He told her, smirking.

She sat there speechless for a moment. "Well, who said I did not want to get you sick? I have a feeling you deserve it."

"Fair enough." He went back to his book.

"I heard he dies in the end." She lied.

"I know." He looked unfazed.

"His mother kills him."

"He's an orphan."

"His biological mother is alive. She comes back."

"He saw her die."

"He was five."

"Eight."

She didn't say anything for a moment. "You're a boring fella."

"Hm."

"Do you have a name, stranger?"

"I suppose everyone does, don't they?"

The train stopped and people flooded in and out. The doors closed again. She turned to him quickly, about to burst.

"I don't. But I know yours. You are an old Henry and you live in this big castle with three child-eating women. Except you, you're the servant boy Dracula realized he needed after Johnathan left." She clarified. She looked at him expectedly, waiting for the thread.

"And your Lucy. Bloodsucking and obsessive."

She gasped. "She was not. I liked her. She was sweet and fun and so good for Mina. It's a pity, really."

"Then your Morris. Irrelevant and irritating."

"He was fun! I was sad when he-"

"It's Dreyes. Will you leave me alone now?" He asked. His lips twirled in a smile. He knew she liked reading him inside and out.

She raised an eyebrow and leaned back. She twirled her hair with her fingers. "Guess." She ordered.

"Your name?" He chuckled. Then he looked around him. Almost like he didn't believe this was happening.

"Why not. I guessed yours."

"And that went terrible." He scoffed.

"Try."

"Sakura?"

"Stereotypical. I'm almost offended."

"Kiyoko. Safia. Nabi. Tuyen. Ji-wan." His pronunciation wasn't bad. She was impressed.

She looked down at her watch. "Hey, how about this? My stop is coming up. How 'bout I give you my number and we can finish this later? I want to see you turn forty before you guess my name."

He looked her up and down slowly. "I already passed my stop. I was hoping you'd take me home?"

"Oh." Her face was burning. And she bit her lip to try to stop the big, stupid smile that threatened her features. She regained composure in a matter of seconds. "Yeah. Let's do that. If you're good, I'll consider not getting you sick?"

He closed his book and stared at her. "I think now would be an appropriate time to tell me your name, though?"

She leaned in and whispered. "Soo-Jin. It means excellence."

"Show me, then." He put his hand on her thigh. The skin under his touch burned.

She breathed through her nose and nodded. He lightly pressed a kiss against her jaw as she pulled away.