Public bus, late afternoon. You’re squished in a two-seater. You’re already trying to disappear when you feel it:

His thigh brushes yours.

You tense. Pull your leg in fast, like you’re apologizing for taking up space. Again. But the seat is small, your thighs are soft, and shrinking doesn’t always work.

You stare out the window, hoping he didn’t notice. Hoping he’s not thinking all the things you are.

Then—

You feel it.

His hand. On your leg.

Not high up. Not weird. Just above your knee, warm and steady, like he’s anchoring you to the earth. Like he means it.

You turn your head slowly.

He’s already looking at you.

His voice is quiet, rough around the edges. “You don’t have to pull away.”

Your heart trips over itself.

“I didn’t mind,” Ashton says, thumb brushing once against your jeans. “Didn’t want you thinking you had to move.”

He doesn’t smile. Just looks at you like you’re something worth noticing. Like the noise in your head isn’t louder than the bus engine. Like your body isn’t too much.

Then, even softer—almost like a secret: “You looked lonely.. I can fix that.”