“I really appreciate it,” I said, and I could feel the sobs hovering at the back of my throat, ready at any moment to make another appearance. I gritted my teeth and took a breath, calming myself, reining the tears back in. “This is worse than the time I peed myself from laughing too hard outside Cherry Tavern and had to buy a sweatshirt on Saint Marks to wrap around my waist and wear home.”

“I’m sorry, what?” He looked genuinely confused. “You peed yourself?”

It was a bad habit, a tic, the thing I did when other people just bit their nails or twirled their hair. I tried to change direction with humor. “It’s nothing. Anyway, I’m really grateful. You quite literally saved my ass.”

But he didn’t laugh; he barely cracked a smile. Instead, his brow tightened in response, his cheeks pinkish and bright. His mouth was a straight line, and as he glanced away, I noticed the hint of his tongue running across his bottom lip.

God, I wished Cleo and Lola were here to witness this. Laid off. Humiliated in front of an entire subway car. Butt cheeks bared to the world. Topped off with a hot guy coming to my rescue—a hot guy who was clearly not impressed by my ability to rip an entire article of clothing in half without even using my hands.

One day, this would make an amazing story, retold through swells of laughter over pitchers of beer. The kind of tale that earned a declaration of “This is going in my wedding toast for you,” which was the highest praise we awarded the mortifying moments we shared together. I’d literally lost both my job and the clothes off my back, and my dignity was not far behind.

Thinking of my friends calmed me, and my breathing steadied a bit. Inhale, exhale. The train lurched forward again and roared into the Canal Street station, in the heart of downtown Manhattan. I stayed focused on Cleo and Lola and imagined what we would all nickname this guy when I told them the story. Hot Suit. He was definitely a Hot Suit. Maybe not my best work. Certainly, not very original. But it was to the point and easy to remember. He was hot, and he wore a suit. Done and done.

I glanced back toward him, the man formerly known as Stranger on the Subway, as he bent to pick up a leather briefcase that he’d planted between his feet. It was smooth, polished brown leather but still looked vintage. Well loved, even. I’d never met anyone under the age of sixty who carried a freakin’ briefcase, but then again, I didn’t mix much with men who wore suits to work either.