Chapter 6 #2
The platform was scattered with people but mostly empty.
A stranger in a hoodie cat-called me—“Mami,” he said, dragging it out as if he owned me.
I didn’t react. Didn’t even glance his way.
Men like that thrived on attention. You snapped back, and they were encouraged; you ignored them, and suddenly, they were insulted. Either way, you lost.
My feet ached in my heels, and I leaned against one of the metal pillars, clutching my purse tighter than necessary. The train couldn’t come fast enough. The longer I waited, the more exposed I felt, like anyone could look at me and know exactly how fragile I’d become.
I could still feel the stranger’s eyes on me, crawling all over me, when someone stepped into my line of sight, blocking him completely.
A sleeve brushed lightly against mine, close enough for me to notice but not panic.
I blinked, startled, and let my eyes drift upward, following the line of a dry-cleaned coat lapel, the faint shadow of stubble along his tense jaw . . .
It was him.
That American boy.
The lawyer.
“What, are you stalking me?” I asked quietly as I looked up at him.
He kept his attention down, on me.
“Stalking implies I knew you’d be here,” he replied, annoyed he even had to explain himself. “I didn’t.”
Well, that was disappointing.
I mean, not that I expected some grand declaration of undying obsession from a man who looked like he ironed his shirts twice before leaving the house, but a little intrigue wouldn’t have killed him.
I tugged my coat tighter. “Lucky coincidence then?” I offered dryly.
He nodded slowly. “If anyone here qualifies as a stalker, it’s the guy who called you mami,” he said, almost as if he were annoyed it had happened.
I decided to have fun with it. He had called me a damsel in distress earlier, hadn’t he? Maybe it was petty, but seeing him bothered, even slightly, was oddly satisfying.
“What?” I asked innocently. “I thought he was being sweet.”
His jaw tightened enough to let me know he wasn’t a fan of my answer. “Yeah, sweet. Nothing says romance like unsolicited nicknames.”
I shrugged. “Some girls might call that charming.”
“Some girls,” he repeated. “And which are you?”
I tilted my head, feigning thought. “Oh, I’m the kind who doesn’t need a lawyer to lecture her about subway etiquette. Thanks though.”
The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close. “Subway etiquette. That’s what you’re calling it.”
“What would you call it?”
He glanced toward the hoodie-wearing stranger, now pacing awkwardly at the far end of the platform, pretending very badly he wasn’t staring our way. “I’d call it bad judgment. Yours, mostly.”
“Ouch,” I said softly. “And here I was, thinking lawyers weren’t supposed to judge.”
“Lawyers judge professionally.”
“So does half of New York,” I shot back lightly. “Congratulations. You fit right in.”
He didn’t appreciate my answer—I could tell by the way his eyes fell down the length of my body. He was judging my coat, the leopard-print bag I probably should’ve retired years ago, and my smudged lipstick.
I was a mess, and he knew it.
The silence stretched as if he wanted me to feel it.
Mission accomplished.
The train pulled into the station in a rush of air and noise, breaking whatever awkward tension had settled between us.
I stepped into the car quickly, relieved to be swallowed by the crowd.
But relief lasted only a second, because a moment later he followed, dropping down into the empty seat right beside mine.
He took up a lot of space too. With his legs spread wide, his knee brushed against mine when the train lurched forward.
Normally, I’d say something—politely at first, then not so politely if the message didn’t land. But with him, I didn’t say anything.
Honestly, a part of me didn’t mind.
Which was weird, because I was usually very big on personal space.
He didn’t bother talking to me. Instead he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.
I watched him for a moment—maybe a moment too long. It felt strangely intimate to see him like that, eyes shut, his face blank in a way that felt private, almost vulnerable. He seemed tired in a way I recognized immediately because I felt it every single day.
I wondered briefly what made someone like him tired. Was it the suits and the responsibilities that came with them, or something deeper—something he hid as carefully as I hid everything I carried around?
I tore my attention away quickly, staring at the dirty subway floor instead.
It wasn’t my place to wonder about him. He wasn’t my friend or my confidant.
He was barely more than a stranger—one who’d given me cigarettes and unwanted lectures about my life choices.
And yet here he was, sitting so close our knees touched, relaxed enough to let himself drift off somewhere else, even just for a minute.
I shouldn’t have felt comforted by it, but somehow, quietly, secretly, I did.
If the wall was as comfortable as it looked, I’d have fallen asleep right here too. But the truth was, my body ached, my mind ached, and his arm? His arm looked like it would do just fine as a pillow.
So I used it—since he was already taking up half my seat anyway.
The second I rested my head against his shoulder I felt him stiffen. He seemed uncomfortable, rigid even, like I’d violated some invisible boundary he’d set. But he didn’t move away.
“You’re in my space,” he murmured softly, eyes still closed, refusing to look up.
“You’re in mine,” I whispered back.
He let out a quiet breath, a sound of reluctant surrender, and stayed exactly where he was. I wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or amused. Probably a little bit of both.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I was crossing a line or just desperately craving some small human contact that didn’t involve hospitals or heartbreak.
He smelled good—clean, like that ocean-breeze fabric softener. The warmth of his arm felt impossibly solid against my cheek. I could hear his steady breathing, feel the careful rise and fall of his chest beside me, and something about that was comforting in a way I hadn’t felt in far too long.
Or maybe I was just really tired. Exhaustion made everything feel comforting—even lawyers with judgmental tendencies and annoyingly nice-smelling coats.
Either way, I stayed exactly like that, head resting against him, stubbornly silent, the entire ride home. He didn’t move or speak again, and neither did I.
When the train finally pulled into my stop, I stood quickly, brushing myself off as if the moment hadn’t just happened. I didn’t bother saying goodbye. Goodbyes were pointless. Besides, I had a feeling I’d see him again soon.
After all, someone had to judge my life choices.