And then he blinked, holding his eyes closed an extra beat, showing off those lashes, the kind women revered with both jealousy and awe.

“I have five more of these at home.” He said this firmly, like it should be obvious. “It would be of much more help to you.”

Five more? If I wasn’t half-naked on the subway living through my worst nightmare, I’d make some crack about selling his fancy suits to pay my rent. But instead, I pursed my lips together, which I’d painted in my bright-red all-day lip stain just hours earlier. It was an attempt to push down the tightness in my throat, but it was no use. The misery of this morning was rushing out of me in heavy sobs.

“That’s really nice of you. Thank you.” I sniffed, my nose stuffy now. Good lord, why does snot need to be a part of crying? I already looked like a newborn sloth when I cried, and the dripping nose only made things worse. “But I can’t take it. Your suit jacket. How would I even. Get it back to you?” My breathing was choppy, and the words came out in gasps.

Before he could reply, the train lurched forward and I stumbled a step, my left arm instinctively shooting out to stop myself from falling. I reached for a pole to grab on to, but there was nothing there, and instead I face-planted into him, my left cheek smooshed against his chest, which was warm and solid. My arm that had searched for the pole slid along his side instead, and I wrapped it around his back just to have something to hold on to, my fingers gripping his shirt like a steering wheel. The jolt sent my dress flapping behind me. He took a step forward to balance himself, and his hand landed on my butt where my dress hung open, his fingers firm on my skin.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I heard him say from somewhere. Something about the soft press of his palm—hot and brief on my bare skin—was both electric and comforting, all at once. We stood like this for what felt like minutes: two strangers awkwardly embracing, my cheek still flush against his chest, so close that if I actually stopped to listen I could probably hear his heartbeat.

“It’s okay,” I babbled into the cool relief of his shirt.

He pulled his hand off me and steadied it on the roof of the subway car. “Excuse me,” he said, taking a small step back, holding his hand out like it had just been burned. “That was an accident. My apologies.”