In the El Train

Lydia is mentally cursing.

She'd never let anyone know, of course, but she is doing so all the same. There's a carefully written note in her perfect scrip resting on her notepad, under her tapping fingernails. She would be rethinking her almost casual use of Archaic Latin if she wasn't carefully staring at the spot above the note-recipient's head.

His awake head.

Chicago rushes by the window, but she's seen it before and remains unimpressed. The landscape is just a countdown to her stop now, to what now seems to be an inevitable reveal. Her note is time-sensitive, and her chances of seeing him on the ride home are 30% at best.

She takes a deep breath-

-and lets it out as he looks around, sighs, and then settles down into a very terrible impression of someone asleep.

He's clever, but she won't fall for it. She knows his sleeping tells by now, and she knows he doesn't have siblings else he'd know how to fake those tells.

Lydia rustles her papers as she stands, starting to queue for the door. His eyes are cheating open, trying to find her. She won't give him the satisfaction - not until she's sure he won't mind a partner who can outthink him at 7am before coffee, even if his writings betray an intelligence she may be underestimating. She also doesn't want to get stabbed by a very determined creeper, so when the door opens and he's looking away, she smashes her note into his face, covering his eyes.

She gets to see half a second of him flailing before the tide of people carries her away and from his sight. His next note will be cross with her, she's sure, and her next will tease him.

She's looking forward to it, now.