James has gone through a lot in the amount of years he’s been alive. Went to school, found a job, fell in love, got married, lost his wife, became widowed. Now, he might not personally be a fan of this next detail, but one could also add him becoming an alcoholic for a short period of time into that list.

Of course, James has since been sober. He swears. He has an AA coin to prove it. That’s not really the point right now, though.

Currently, James is sandwiched between commuters alike in a train car while on his way home from work. He detests rush hour, he really does. Too many unfamiliar limbs brushing themselves against him, stuffy air even if he’s one of the few taller ones in said car. James firmly believes, even with all that he’s experienced, that rush hour is one of the worst experiences in the history of mankind—at least one of the top five.

With the train arriving at its next stop and his not due for another eight, a flurry of commuters exit and board onto the car. All James can do is grunt when he’s inevitably pushed around again, only stopping when he feels his chest knock into something hard.

Oh, poor you. You’ve got nowhere to slither away to with yourself caught between the sliding doors and James. He can’t get a good look at you from above, just the top of your head, but he pities you nonetheless.

He pities you, and the soft skin of your hand as he accidentally brushes against it.

“Sorry.” James murmurs under his breath, not all that apologetic in the first place. You can tell, too, by the way his hand fails to rescind itself from yours. Apologetic men don’t let their hands hover near your hips, either—not even as the train takes a sharp turn that jostles the car.

Apologetic men don’t let their head dip down to sniff at your perfume that permeates in the small bubble around yourself.