“Much better,” she says softly, close enough that her perfume hits me square in the chest. “May I take a picture?”
I nod, trying not to show how rattled I am. She snaps one and turns the screen toward me. Her hat’s black, and in white cursive on the front it readsBoss Babe.
I can’t help it, I laugh loud enough to turn a few heads. She just beams wider.
“Nobody cares what you wear here. I just don’t want you recognized. You should be able to enjoy this properly.”
I look at her, my chest doing that maddening thing again. “And where are we going, then?”
She grins, eyes glinting with mischief. “We’re going to have a really, really good hot dog.”
Half an hour later, we’re still on the same train. People have come and gone. Students, suits, tourists, but she’s been steady beside me, scrolling, humming under her breath.
Stops flash by. Times Square, Union Square, Prince Street, Canal.
Then the car tilts hard left, sharp enough to send my stomach south. Rails shriek, and it feels like we’re about to fly off the bloody track. I grab the pole nearest me, holding tight.
She doesn’t even blink.
“This means we’re nearly crossing into Brooklyn,” she says, calm. Then she nods toward the far end. “Come on. Let’s move, you’ll want to see this.”
She stands, trench brushing my knee, and moves a few seats down. I follow, clumsy as a first-year.
The car’s nearly empty now. She steps up by the doors, one hand on the rail, and I take the spot just behind her. The ceiling bar’s too low, so I end up holding the one right above her head.
She’s tiny beside me but somehow fills every inch of space. Her perfume drifts up, something warm, clean, and sweet, and it’s driving me half mad. I want to close the distance, breathe her in, but I don’t. I can’t. Not yet.
If she asked me to follow her off this train and into the sea, I think I would.
Then the darkness breaks. Light floods the car, and the city explodes open. All around us, the city thunders past, but it feels like it’s only the two of us breathing. The Brooklyn Bridge stretches ahead, golden in the afternoon sun.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she says.
“Aye,” I murmur. “It is.”
But what I’m really watching is her reflection in the glass, soft, golden, alive.
“I’ve always wanted to walk across it,” I say quietly. “You can still do that, right?”
“Oh yeah,” she says, turning toward me. “It’s a big tourist stop.”
She catches me still standing close, arms braced around her like I’m built to shield her, and something flickers in her eyes.
I ease back a step. She slips into the seat again, her coat brushing my arm as she passes.
I sit opposite, just watching. God help me, watching her might be my favorite thing.
“Are we almost there?” I ask.
“Another fifteen minutes or so.”
I glance up at the map, tracing the dots.
“Are we going to… Coney Island?”
And she smiles, slow and dangerous, the kind of smile that could ruin a man in one heartbeat.
And I know, without a doubt, I’m already past the point of return.
