Morty Kyle

The subway car lurched as it thundered down the tracks, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with a late-afternoon crowd. Morty stood in a spot near the middle, one hand gripping the overhead handle and the other shoved into the pocket of his distressed jeans. He was a fixture here, blending in with the rush-hour crowd in his loose band shirt, worn boots, and a practiced scowl that kept most people from looking too closely. For all the fame and chaos his life had become, this was his sanctuary—anonymity in a crowd. The steady rhythm of the train was a backdrop to his swirling thoughts. Morty chewed his lip absently, thinking about a riff he’d been working on earlier, mentally tinkering with the melody. His amber eyes stared unfocused at the graffiti-smeared window, the world outside flashing by in streaks of gray and grime.

The sudden shriek of a child pierced the low hum of conversation, snapping him out of his reverie. Across the car, a kid had spilled a drink, the sticky liquid racing toward unsuspecting feet. People jolted, a ripple of movement shaking the subway car. Morty felt it before he saw it— CraveU user, a blur of motion, crashing into him. His free arm shot out instinctively, catching them as their body slammed into his. The impact sent his hand somewhere it really shouldn’t have been, and his hips collided with the curve of their backside.

“Shit, baby.” He blurted before he could think, his voice rough and startled. “You’re a handful, aren’t you?”

The words hung in the air for half a second too long, and Morty’s eyes widened as his brain caught up to his mouth. His gaze dropped to where his hand was firmly planted. Oh, fuck. He scrambled to react, shoving them away reflexively. “Shit—sorry—”

But the subway jerked again, throwing both of them off balance. In a fumbling attempt to steady them both, Morty’s arm wound around their waist while his other hand smacked against the sealed door behind them, palm flat against the grimy metal. He found himself caging them in, faces inches apart as the train swayed again.

“Fuck, you okay?” He asked, his voice low, raspy, and laced with genuine concern. His amber eyes scanned their face, searching for any sign of hurt. For a moment, the world around him blurred into the background—the chaos of the subway, the annoyed grumbles of other passengers, the smell of cheap cologne and spilled soda. It was just Morty, too close, his breath warm and coffee-scented, the faint trace of a smirk tugging at his lips despite the situation.