The emergency lights flick on, washing the whole car in sickly yellow light, and August blinks at Jane suddenly right there, a breath’s space between their faces. She can feel the soft juts of Jane’s hip bones against her, see the buzzed hairs on the nape of her neck and the soft amusement tugging at one side of her mouth.

August has never wanted to be kissed so badly in her life.

A garbled voice crackles over the intercom for thirty indecipherable seconds.

“Anybody catch that?” says the guy in the business suit.

“We’re delayed on account of electrical problems,” Jane says. Her hand is still settled on the small of August’s back. “Indefinitely.”

A collective groan goes up. Jane offers a commiserative smile.

“You speak MTA?” August says.

“I’ve been taking this train for a long-ass time,” Jane says. She removes her hand and strides to an empty seat, slumping into it. She looks at August and nods next to her. “Might as well make yourself comfortable.”

So, there they are. The two of them and a train full of strangers, trapped.

August shuffles over and takes her spot, and Jane smoothly stretches an arm across the back of the seat, behind her shoulders. She has this way of moving through the world like she owns every place she walks into, like she’s never once been told she can’t do something. She carries it well, because she probably has been told what she can’t do—plenty of times—and doesn’t care.

A sideways glance: Jane in profile, chin tilted up to the emergency lights. Her nose is rounded at the tip, kissable. August cannot keep thinking about kissing if she wants to make it out of this alive.

“So, you’ve never mentioned where you’re from,” Jane says toward the ceiling. She’s still got her head back, like she’s sunbathing in the dark.

“New Orleans, originally,” August tells her. “Well, right outside it. What about you?”

“New Orleans, huh?” she says. She lowers her eyes finally, and when she cuts them over, August forgets she ever asked a question. Or what questions are. Or the entire process of speech. “What brought you here?”

“Um, school,” August says. The lighting is already unflattering, so it can’t be helping the shade of red she turns when confronted with significant eye contact from butch girls in leather jackets. “I transferred. I’ve tried a few schools in different cities, but I’ve never really fallen in love with any of them.”

“You’re hoping you fall in love here?”

“Um—”

“Hey, maybe you will,” Jane says, and she honest-to-God winks. August is going to take out a full-page ad in the Times to scream about it. The city needs to know.

“Maybe so.”

Jane laughs. “How’s Billy’s?”

“It’s all right. I’m starting to get the hang of it. I kind of scammed them on my references, so I had to fake it until I figured out what I was doing.”

She raises her eyebrows. “I hadn’t pegged you for a scammer.”

“Well,” August says. “Maybe you’re underestimating me.”

It surprises a laugh out of her, a good laugh, deep in her chest.

Jane nudges her shoulder and leans in, close enough that the creases of her leather sleeve brush August’s arm. “So, what do you think’s their story?”

She jerks her chin toward the professional-looking pair a few seats down. He’s in a razor-sharp suit and she’s in a deep blue dress, her heels practical and pointed at the toe, and he’s laughing at whatever story she’s telling him.

“Those two?” August examines them. “Well, I’ve never seen them before, so maybe they don’t usually take our train. They’re both wearing wedding bands, and she’s got their bags under her feet, so I’m guessing they’re married. They commute together, so maybe they work at the same place. Maybe they met there.” She squints through the low light. “Oh, the cuffs of his shirtsleeves are damp—someone forgot to put the laundry in the dryer last night. That’s why they’re not on their usual train; they’re running late.”

Jane lets out a low whistle.

“Damn. That was … detailed.”

August cringes. She did the thing—the stupid detective thing—without even realizing.

“Sorry, bad habit. I grew up on true crime so I, like … notice stuff.” She twists her hands in her lap. “I know, it’s creepy.”

“I think it’s cool,” Jane says. August turns to check her expression, but she’s watching the couple. “I was imagining them as Soviet spies in deep cover.”

August bites the inside of her cheek. “Oh. Yeah, okay, I can see that.”

“Okay, Nancy Drew. What about that kid over there? The one in the red jacket.”

And August, who was pretty convinced this was the most unattractive side of her, sits back and lets Jane have it.

“Taller than his friends, more facial hair. Had to repeat a grade, but it made everyone think he’s cooler because he’s older—look how they’re all facing him, he’s the gravitational center of the group.”

“Interesting. I think he’s Spider-Man.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, he’s got the build for it.”

August snorts. “He does look aerodynamic.”

Jane laughs, which is rocketing straight up August’s list of favorite sounds in the universe. She’s gonna trap it in a shell like a sea witch. It’s fine.

“Okay,” August says. “The pregnant lady. What’s her story?”

“Not pregnant. Smuggling a big bag of pierogies.”

“A bold suggestion.”

“Yep. She reminds me of this Polish lady in my building who makes the worst pierogies ever.” August laughs, and Jane pulls a face like she’s tasting them all over again. “I mean it! Oh man, they’re so bad! But she’s nice so I eat them anyway.”

“Well, I think she’s a seamstress.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Magnifying glasses sticking out of her purse,” August points out. “Way too young to need those unless she does fine detail work. And look, the bottom of her right shoe is more worn off than the left. Sewing machine pedal.”

“Holy shit,” Jane says, sounding genuinely impressed. “Okay. A seamstress and a pierogi smuggler.”

“Every woman a universe.”

She hums under her breath, letting a comfortable lull swell between them, until she turns to August and says, “What about me?”

August blinks at her. “What about you?”

“Come on, what’s your guess? If you have one for them, you must have one for me.”

And of course August has a mental file on her. August has spent weeks ticking off a list of clues about Jane, trying to parse the buttons on her jacket and the patches on her backpack to figure out how she’d kiss August if she got her alone. But Jane doesn’t need to know that part.

“Um,” August says. “You—you have a super regular commute—every morning, every afternoon, but you’re not a student, because you don’t get off with me at the BC stop. Almost the same outfit every day, so you know exactly who you are and what you’re about, and you don’t work anywhere formal. Past of working in food service. And everyone you meet seems to love you, so—um, so. You work the breakfast-to-lunch shift at a restaurant off this line, and you’re good at it. You make good tips because people like you. And you’re probably only doing it to fund some kind of passion project, which is what you really want to do.”