Touchonthetrain !!top!! -

The 7:42 to Paddington was its usual self: a lukewarm capsule of silence, broken only by the rustle of newspaper pages and the tinny leak of someone’s forgotten earbud. Emma slid into her usual seat, third from the back, and pulled out her paperback. She never looked up when the man sat down opposite her. He was tall, with rain-speckled glasses and the quiet air of someone who also took the same train every day.

Emma smiled. “I’ll be there.”

Emma looked up. He was closer than she’d ever seen him, his glasses slightly askew. “You okay?” he asked. His voice was lower than she’d imagined. touchonthetrain

For three heartbeats, the world narrowed to that point of contact: palm against palm, the slight roughness of his skin, the way his thumb instinctively pressed against her knuckles. Then the train righted itself. A collective sigh rippled through the carriage. The 7:42 to Paddington was its usual self: