The train rumbled along the tracks, its steady rhythm lulling most of the passengers into a quiet stupor. Among them sat Lena, her headphones snug over her ears as she stared out the window. She wasn’t listening to anything—just the hum of her thoughts. Rain streaked the glass in winding rivulets, smearing the city skyline into a muted watercolor. She was somewhere far away in her mind until a flicker of movement in the reflection caught her attention: a man across the aisle, sketching furiously in a small notebook, his gaze flickering toward her every so often.

Curiosity made her glance over, just in time to see him adding the final details to his drawing—her shoelaces, the intricate patterns on her socks, the frayed edges of her skirt. He didn’t even notice her watching him, too engrossed in the lines taking shape on his page. His name, though she didn’t know it yet, was Sam.

Lena observed silently, her lips twitching into an amused smile. His sketchpad and pencil gave away the reason for his lingering stares. She didn’t mind. In fact, she found it... interesting.

Sam finally leaned back, inspecting his work with a quiet satisfaction that made Lena chuckle softly to herself. “Looks good,” she said, breaking the silence.

Sam nearly dropped his pencil. His head snapped up, and for a moment, he looked like a deer caught in headlights. “Oh, uh—sorry,” he stammered, fumbling to close the sketchpad. “I didn’t mean to—well, I wasn’t trying to—”

“You weren’t trying to what?” Lena interrupted, arching a brow. “Draw me?”

He blinked at her, his cheeks flushing a soft red. “Well... yeah. But not in a creepy way. You just... have interesting socks.”

Lena laughed, crossing her legs and tilting her head in mock contemplation. “Interesting socks, huh? That’s a new one.” Her tone was teasing, but her curiosity was piqued. “So, do I get to see it, or are you keeping me in suspense?”

Sam hesitated for only a second before standing and sliding into the seat beside her, his confidence returning. “Here,” he said, offering the sketchbook.

Lena scooched over slightly and took it from him, her eyes immediately drawn to the impromptu masterpiece inspired by her socks. For a moment, she didn’t say anything, just tracing the lines with her gaze. Sam had captured her completely—not just her socks or the tatters of her skirt, but something deeper. It was in the tilt of her head, the way her shoulders carried the weight of both defiance and exhaustion.

Sam sat at the edge of his seat, waiting for her reaction. Finally, she said, “Is this what it feels like to be a muse?”

He relaxed slightly, a grin tugging at his lips. “Pretty much. Although, if we’re being honest, most muses don’t know they’re muses until way after the fact. You, on the other hand, got the VIP treatment.”

Lena chuckled, her fingers brushing the edge of the page. “VIP, huh? All because of my socks?”

“And the way you carry yourself,” Sam said with a shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. “You’ve got this... presence. Made me want to draw you.”

She looked back down at the portrait, feeling a strange mixture of pride and disbelief. “Well,” she said, handing it back, “I’m flattered. But now I’m curious—do you do this a lot? Draw strangers on trains?”

“Only the interesting ones,” he replied, his grin widening. “So, what do you say? Want to make my job easier and tell me your name?”

Lena arched an eyebrow, her smirk teasing. “It’s Lena,” she said. “Would you like to know where I buy my socks too, Mr....?”

“Sam,” he said, his smile turning his eyes into crescents. “And while I’d love to know where to find such majestic socks, I’m not bold enough to pull off that kind of fashion.”

“Pity,” she said, though the word lacked sincerity. Her attention drifted back to the sketch.

“What are you thinking?” Sam asked, his voice softer now, as if he didn’t want to break the moment.

Lena tapped her finger on the page. “I’m thinking... you’ve made me look cooler than I actually am. Like this girl could conquer the world or something.” She looked up, her grin returning. “Or at least the train.”

Sam chuckled, leaning back. “That’s the magic of art. It’s all about seeing people the way they don’t see themselves. You might feel like the girl with the cool socks and a tattered skirt, but I see someone... intriguing. Someone worth sketching.”

Her cheeks warmed slightly, but she brushed it off with a laugh. “Smooth. Do you say that to all your muses?”

“Only the ones who ask about my sock preferences,” Sam shot back with a playful grin.

Lena shook her head, amused. “Well, Sam, you’re lucky this time. I don’t usually talk to strangers who steal glances at me on public transport. But... I think I’ll let it slide. Just this once.”