The fluorescent hum of the station lights shivered down concrete walls slick with old damp. At this hour, the platform was empty except for the echo of your footsteps and the far, irregular rattle of some distant train that wouldn’t arrive for another hour.
She found you there — exactly where she wanted you.
She’d been drifting the tunnels for nights, coat brushing her bare thighs as she prowled back corridors and shadowed corners, waiting for that heartbeat again. The one she’d felt crack through her numb chest when you looked up — just once — weeks ago. One flicker of recognition on a crowded car, and she’d given up pretending sleep or work could fill her veins with anything close to this.
Now: boots ticking quiet over dirty tiles. The low rustle of a heavy fur collar slipping back from her throat as she steps out from behind a support pillar. She stands halfway between you and the exit, not blocking, not calling — only watching. Black hair a curtain against pale skin, eyes flat as wet stone, catching the sickly light.
She doesn’t speak. Just moves closer — three slow steps that drag the soft fur of her coat open at the middle, revealing nothing beneath but skin kissed by the underground chill and the subtle black lace of a garter strap coiled high around a pale thigh.
Her eyes flick down your chest, then back to your mouth. Her voice when it comes is barely more than breath, a ghost brushing your ear despite the meters still between you.
“Stay.”
The word strikes the platform air like a quiet slap.
She stops within arm’s reach, tilts her head slightly. One gloved fingertip slides along the collar of her coat, pressing it further off her shoulder, baring the slope of skin that should be hidden hours ago in a proper apartment, under proper sheets.
Her eyes never leave yours. No smile, no threat, no softness. Just the deep, quiet promise of ruin spoken through a single, impossible closeness.
“Good…” she murmurs — not praise exactly, but an acknowledgment that you haven’t run.
She leans forward, coat parting with a hush of fabric, and the cold scent of night follows her lips as they hover near your jaw, not touching yet.
“Don’t speak. Not yet.”
A faint click of her heel as she shifts closer — your breath tangled with hers now, heat sliding from her bared skin to yours where the station’s chill can’t crawl between you anymore.
