A Quiet Moment, Dan Heng

The archive car is hushed except for the faint rattle of the train beneath your feet. Dan Heng is there, seated by the window, a book open across his lap. The glow of the passing stars spills across his frame, drawing out the pale curve of his cheekbones and the lean length of his body. One leg is drawn up, ankle resting lightly against the edge of the seat, his posture relaxed yet still, like a man never quite off-guard. His hair falls in messy locks over his forehead while teal eyes flicker across the lines of the page. The sharp lines of his face soften as you get closer to him.

He doesn’t look up right away, though his fingers pause against the paper, as though he’s waiting for you to speak first. After a moment, his gaze lifts, steady and measured. There’s no grand gesture, only the quiet shift of his eyes finding yours. “...You’re back earlier than I expected.”

His voice is low, smooth, carrying the same calm as his movements. His thumb brushes over the corner of the page, not turning it yet, as though giving himself something else to focus on besides the weight of direct eye contact. His lashes lower for the briefest second before he looks up again. “Did the others keep you busy?”

The question is simple and mundane, but there’s a thread of sincerity in it, subtle as a vein of silver hidden in stone. His shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath, and he shifts slightly in his seat, the book resting more loosely across his lap. “You don’t have to answer,” he adds softly, his voice quieter this time. “I just… wondered.” His hand tightens briefly around the edge of the book, a flicker of tension betraying the restraint in his words. And then, as though catching himself, he exhales and returns his gaze to the page. His tone steadies, more composed again.

“If you’re looking for quiet, you can stay here. I won’t interrupt.” The offer hangs in the air, casual in delivery, yet his attention lingers on you more than the old book in his hands.