Chapter 1: The Routine
The city bus hums along, a tired drone beneath the muted noise of passengers and the occasional squeak of brakes. It's a gray afternoon, the kind where the city feels half-awake, and the people onboard mirror that with heads bowed to screens or eyes glazed over as they stare out windows. Totally lost in the rhythm of their own routines. Near the door, Michael sits, broad-shouldered and solid, his presence taking up more space than the seat allows. His well worn jacket strains slightly at the seams, and his sturdy fingers swipe lazily across his phone, scrolling through something mindless; headlines or photos...he won't remember.
At the back, a woman rises. She's almost invisible at first, a slender silhouette swallowed by a plain coat, dark hair framing or perhaps even hiding her face. Little about her demands attention, but a keen observer might catch a glimpse of her nails catching the light, long and pointy adorned with an ornate design in black and red, with tiny silver accents glinting. She moves toward the exit, her steps light as though wanting to avoid attention, fingers occasionally brushing the seat backs to steady herself against the sway of the bus.
Without warning the driver hits a pothole, and the whole vehicle jolts. A collective murmur ripples through the passengers. She stumbles, her balance slipping. Her hand darts out, landing on Michael's shoulder to catch herself. He barely registers as her nails graze his neck, with one tip pressing in just enough to inflict a brief prick. She steadies herself, breath hitching, and murmurs, "Sorry," her voice low and barely there, as if meant to dissolve the moment it's heard.
Startled out of his phone's glow, Michael looks up. Her back is already to him, her slim frame weaving toward the door as it hisses open. Her nails flash as she grips the railing, a glimpse of brilliant red and black before she steps off into the drizzle-soaked street. The bus groans back into motion, but he's an awestruck statue, thumb hovering over the screen. His neck faintly tingles where her nail pricked him. Not pain, but something else, a faint echo that won't settle. He shifts in his seat, suddenly aware of his own bulk, the heat under his collar. Who was she? He didn't catch her face. Just the shape of her retreat, the quiet intent in her stride, and of course those eye catching nails.
Such a brief, forgettable encounter and yet, somehow anything but. There's...a pull now. Inexplicable and nagging, it gnaws at him like a question he didn't know he'd asked, yet still demands an answer. His eyes flick to the window, scanning the blur of sidewalks, half-expecting to spot her vanishing into the crowd. He doesn't, of course. She's long gone, swallowed by the city. But that prick lingers, a hook sunk into his thoughts, tugging at him. He rubs his neck absently, fingers brushing the spot, wondering why it feels like she left something behind.
Chapter 2: The Weight of Her Absence
The bus follows the same route, the same passengers, the same time. So much sameness. But not for Michael. He's there again, near the door sunk deep into his seat. His phone is in hand, but it's merely a prop tonight, his thumb hardly moving. His eyes dart up repeatedly, expectant, anxious...hopeful. He's undeniably restless, though he'd never admit it. Something's been itching at him since the last ride--the faint sting on his neck he can't quite shake.
The doors hiss open at a stop. The mysterious woman steps on. He knows it's her before he sees her. His body knows it before his brain can catch up. A scent hits him, faint but sharp, cutting through the stuffy air of the bus. Her scent. His chest tightens. He shifts, suddenly keenly aware of his bulk, how his broad shoulders extend past his seat and protrude into the aisle. His gaze snaps to her boots--tall, black, gleaming leather beneath the fluorescent lights. The rest of her remains muted however: plain coat, jeans, dark hair spilling loose. But those boots shift the equation. They're a sign of something far bolder beneath the surface. She makes her way to the back again. That slim silhouette is almost lost in the press of bodies, yet he remains keenly aware of her presence.
Stop after stop passes, all the while Michaels mind remains focused on the woman behind him, his anticipation for the moment she passes by him building and building. As her stop approaches she begins to move forward. Her steps are steady this time. There's no sway as the bus rolls on. He waits. His breath is shallow. He's caught in the pull of her approach. That scent grows. It curls around him. He finds himself willing her closer, hoping, stupidly, for her hand to brush him again. He's near desperate to feel the scrape of her nails against his skin, wanting to feel that spark of something in him again. His whole spine tingles at the memory. It's a phantom ache. He shifts again. Heat creeps up his spine. She's near now. She's close enough that he could reach out if he dared. But...she doesn't falter. Her fingers graze the railing instead as she passes by without indecent. Her brilliant nails flash like a taunt. She passes him by, cool, deliberate, untouchable.
He exhales, unaware that he was holding his breath. It's a ragged little sound he hopes no one hears. She's at the door now. Her boots click faintly as she steps off. That drizzle-soaked street swallows her again. The bus lurches forward. He's stuck. His eyes are locked on the empty space she left. Her scent lingers. It's faint but stubborn. It's doing something to him, unraveling him, slow and sure. It's not just her shape, her quiet stride, those damn nails or boots. It's the weight of her absence. It's the way she's hooked into him without even trying. Or maybe she is trying. He doesn't know. That's the worst of it. His hand drifts to his neck. He rubs the spot where she'd marked him originally. The pull tightens. It's a thread stretching taut across the city. She's gone, but she's not. Not anymore.
Chapter 3: The Pull of the Unseen
The bus trundles along its usual path. Same stops, same hum, same faces half-lit by flickering overheads. Michael's there again, near the door, broad shoulders hunched slightly. His navy jacket is creased, phone forgotten in his pocket. His eyes skim the crowd each time the doors open, restless, waiting. That faint sting on his neck still lingers, a quiet pulse he can't ignore.
The doors hiss. She steps on. No warning this time, just her presence, sharp and immediate. She's closer, a few steps in. Her plain coat is gone, swapped for a black sweater, loose and soft, over muted jeans. Those tall black boots still climb her legs, leather faintly gleaming. Her nails catch the light, red bleeding deeper into the black, silver flecks sharper now. She's shedding the drab shell, slow and sure, but it's not loud. Not yet.
She moves past him, steps light. Something falls. A soft clack on the floor. His mind is too occupied by her proximity to catch it until she's a few seats back, settling in. His eyes drop. A lipstick lies there, sleek and black, glossy as her boots. His pulse jumps up. He bends, large fingers closing around it, rough skin brushing the smooth case. It's hers, he's sure of it. He stares at the tiny object he holds ever so gently in his hands as though it was worth a lifetime of riches. It was an excuse, real and solid, to interact with her. The realisation lights up his chest. He turns it slowly in his hand, waiting, feeling her behind him like a shadow he can't shake.
The bus rolls on. She's there, a few rows back. He feels her presence, steady and quiet, tugging at him. His neck tingles. His grip tightens on the lipstick. He imagines her lips, the black smear it might leave, and his breath deepens. Minutes stretch. The bus slows. She rises, boots clicking faintly, as she moves forward. His heart stumbles. She's at his side now, reaching for the door. He turns, voice rougher than he hoped it to be. "Hey. You dropped this."
Her eyes flick to him, dark and unreadable. She stops. "Oh. Thank you." Her voice hits different now, firm, not dissolving like before. It lands, clear and deliberate, cutting through the bus's drone. She reaches out, both hands closing around his. Her fingers are cool, slim, nails pressing lightly into his thick, calloused palm. Not a scratch, just a press, enough to spark that old ache in his neck. She lingers, a beat too long, lipstick slipping from his grip to hers. "I appreciate it," she says, even stronger this time, each word a weight. Then she pulls back, nails glinting as she tucks it away. She steps off, vanishing into the damp night.
