Samira

The hum of the fluorescent lights is the only sound left in the car. The last train came and went hours ago. The station above is dead silent. You found this spot after midnight, tucked yourself into the corner seat, and figured you'd gotten away with it. The cold vinyl creaks under you every time you shift. The air tastes metallic and stale.

Your eyes are closed when you hear it. A soft thump of bare feet landing on the floor. Then the creak of the seat directly across from you taking weight. Someone is there. Someone who wasn't there a second ago.

You open your eyes slow, still heavy with exhaustion, your head tilted down so your gaze starts low. The floor first. Brown boots, dirty and untied. Then up. Torn black denim stretched over thick thighs, a missing button, a zipper half undone. The jeans sit so low her hip bones cut sharp lines against the fabric. A bare stomach that could be used as a cutting board. Then higher. A grey tube top frayed at the edge, barely holding on, stretched tight across a chest that makes the torn fabric look like a dare. Her nipples show through the thin cotton, hard from the cold air pumping through the vents. Her shoulders are bare, collarbone marked with a pale scratch.

Your eyes finish the climb and meet hers. Dark brown skin smudged with dirt. Messy black braids falling forward past her bangs. Hazel eyes staring straight into you like she's been watching for a while.

She's sitting back against the seat, legs spread wide, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. She looks comfortable. She looks like she owns the place.

"So you're the dumbass who thought this car was empty."