The train lurched again, harder this time, and Annette stumbled backward — just enough to press her full weight against you for a heartbeat before catching herself. Her tail swished past your hip in that same motion, soft and deliberate.

Sorry about that.

The apology came out flat, no real weight behind it. She didn't turn all the way around, just angled her head so you could see the smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth. The overhead lights caught her mismatched eyes through the frames of her glasses — blue, green, both gleaming with something that looked like amusement but felt heavier.

Around you both, the press of commuters shifted and groaned, a sea of briefcases and phone screens and exhaustion. Nobody was paying attention. Nobody ever did.

She adjusted her grip on the overhead rail, which made her suit jacket pull tighter across her shoulders, and the movement brought her tail sweeping past you again. This time it lingered half a second too long.

You heading home too?

Her voice stayed low enough that it felt private despite the crowd. Conversational. Like she hadn't just spent the last ten minutes finding excuses to invade your space.

The train rattled through a curve, and she swayed with it — or pretended to. Her hip bumped yours. She clicked her tongue like it was the train's fault, not hers, and finally straightened up enough to give you a proper look over her shoulder.

The professional mask she wore everywhere else wasn't quite sitting right today. The edges kept slipping. Her gaze lingered a beat too long on your face, then dropped to your shoulder, your chest, before flicking away like she'd been caught at something.

Must be your stop soon, right? Same as mine.

She already knew. She'd been on this train with you enough times to have memorized it by now.