I didn't see him coming.
Not in the way people mean when they talk about love, but in the literal sense. A blur of leather, cologne, and sharp laughter cut across the subway platform, and then he was right there, shoulder slamming into mine like the city itself had shoved him into me.
My books scattered, papers flying into the dirty wind of the arriving train. Curses ripped from my throat before I could stop them. I bent down, scrambling to catch my briefs before they disappeared under stomping shoes.
"Watch it," I snapped, not even looking at him yet. My hands shook with anger more than fear.
The train screamed into the station, brakes screeching, air gusting hard enough to push my hair across my face. I tucked it back roughly, eyes narrowing on the stranger who had collided with me.
And then I saw him.
Perfect hair, expensive jacket, smirk painted across his mouth like it was permanent. He wasn't even picking up my papers. He was just standing there, watching me kneel on grimy cement like I was entertainment.
"Seriously?" I said. "You knock into me and just stand there?"
His smirk widened, the kind of look that could buy forgiveness in clubs and boardrooms but meant nothing here underground. "You're welcome."
"For what? Destroying my notes?"
"For making your night less boring."
I wanted to slap him. Or maybe shove him in front of the train. The doors slid open and people pushed past us, rushing for seats. I gathered the last of my papers and stood, my chest tight with fury. He was taller up close, his presence big enough to block the harsh lights overhead.
"Do you get off on being an asshole?" I asked.
His laugh was quick, unbothered. "Sometimes. Depends on who's asking."
I turned my back on him and stepped into the train. I found a spot by the pole, clutching my folder like a shield. The crowd pressed in, shoulders and elbows rubbing against me, the air thick with sweat and perfume. I prayed he wouldn't follow.
But of course he did.
He slipped inside right before the doors closed, sliding into the space opposite me. He leaned casually against the pole, one hand in his pocket, the other brushing his hair back. People looked at him, not the way they looked at everyone else. He carried that glow—money, confidence, arrogance.
And then his eyes landed back on me. Dark, steady, too calm for someone who had just wrecked my night.
"Law student, huh?" he asked, nodding at the folder in my arms.
I stiffened. "What makes you think that?"
"You were holding a casebook. Civil Procedure, unless my eyes are worse than I thought."
I blinked. He was right. "So what? You can read."
His grin deepened. "More than most people assume."
I hated him already. Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. Like nothing in the world could touch him. Like the city belonged to him.
The train jolted forward, throwing us all sideways. I gripped the pole tighter, steadying myself. He didn't even stumble. Of course not. People like him never lose balance.
"Do you always pick fights with strangers?" he asked.
"Do you always knock women over and call it flirting?"
He laughed again. It wasn't forced. It wasn't even charming. It was just easy. And that was worse.
"I'm just saying," he said, "maybe this was fate. You, me, this train."
"Fate doesn't look like a bruise on my shoulder."
The woman next to me glanced over, curious. I looked away, cheeks hot. He didn't care who was listening.
He leaned closer across the narrow space. His cologne was sharp, expensive, too strong in the cramped car. "What's your name?"
"I don't give my name to guys who think shoving me counts as an introduction."
"Fair," he said. "Then I'll give you mine. Jamie."
I didn't react. I didn't want to. But the name stuck anyway, stubborn as gum on pavement.
I tried to look past him, through the scratched window, at the blur of tunnels rushing by. My reflection stared back: messy hair, tired eyes, the faint shadow of someone who spent more time with books than people. His reflection stood next to mine, arrogant and glowing. We didn't belong in the same picture.
"Not interested," I muttered.
"Yet here you are, still talking to me."
The train screeched into the next stop. People squeezed out, others pushed in. A man shoved between us, breaking the tension for a moment. I exhaled, gripping my folder tighter.
Jamie didn't move. His eyes stayed locked on me, like the crowd didn't exist.
I wanted to disappear. But I also wanted to win.
So I met his stare, refusing to look away. "You're the kind of guy who gets bored too easily," I said. "That's why you talk to random girls on trains. Not because you care. Because you want a reaction."
His smirk faltered for the first time. Only for a second, but I saw it.
"Maybe," he said. "But you gave me one."
The train jolted again, and this time he did stumble, his shoulder bumping mine. The contact sent a shock through me I didn't expect. I stepped back fast, heart pounding. He steadied himself, grinning like it was all part of the game.
The doors opened at the next stop. My stop.
I pushed past him without another word, clutching my papers, forcing my feet up the stairs two at a time until the city air hit my lungs again.
I didn't look back.
But I felt his eyes on me the whole way out.
Outside, the night air was thick with exhaust and fried food. Horns blared, voices shouted, neon signs buzzed. The city moved fast, uncaring, swallowing me whole. I blended into the crowd, or tried to. My hands still shook around the folder, the bruise on my shoulder already blooming.
I hated him.
I hated that he'd gotten under my skin in less than ten minutes.
I hated that his name repeated in my head against my will.
Jamie.
I stopped at the crosswalk, waiting for the light, and swore I'd forget him by morning.
But deep down, I knew I wouldn't.