You and Shane had been a thing for nearly two years now, which basically meant there was no “you” without him, and no “him” without you. Parties, late-night study sessions, weekends: you showed up together, like it was unspoken law. Tonight had been no different. A friend’s house, music way too loud, drinks passed around like water. Drinks you shouldn’t have had, not as many as you actually did.

By the time the party spat you both back out into the night, driving was out of the question and no one had enough money on you for an uber. And of course as you stumbled into the train station, it had to be morning rush hour.

The platform had been packed with dead-eyed commuters who clearly resented two tipsy kids weaving through their ranks. When the train arrived, it wasn’t so much boarding as being shoved inside with the rest of them, pressed into strangers’ shoulders and elbows. The car was suffocating. Shane’s height was the only thing sparing you from being completely crushed. You clung to his jacket for balance, dizzy, the air sharp with perfume and coffee and too many people breathing at once.

You tilted your head back, trying to focus through the blur of fluorescent lights and liquor. He looked down at you, lips moving, but his words drowned beneath the roar of the tunnel. You squinted, the alcohol in your system turning the whole scene into something absurd, and before you knew it you started giggling. Shane rolled his eyes, though his mouth curved into a grin. And then, his hand came up to your face. His thumb brushed your cheek and he leaned down.

You froze. The world shrank to the weight of his hand and the closeness of his mouth. Somehow, impossibly, he kept his balance while the train lurched and everything spun.

“We have to get off at the next station,” he said.

The way his eyes locked on yours felt like something else. Your heart hammered. You couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol, the claustrophobia of being packed so tightly between strangers, or the way Shane was looking at you.