Archive of Our Own ^beta

SIMON

I’ve got a good thing going with the bloke on the train.

I don’t know what we’re doing exactly, but it’s good. I like it. (Is this flirting or just me being weird?)

I see him every morning on the way to work—Monday to Friday, rain or shine. He gets on three stops after me and always boards my carriage. (Well, it’s not my carriage.) (I don’t know why I decided the third carriage from the front was the best, but I did, and I sit in the same seat so he’ll know where I am: 15A.)

Sometimes the train’s full because the one ahead of ours is running late, and everyone piles on here instead. I try to save 15B for him with my bag (yeah, I’m one of those passengers) but it doesn’t always work. I can’t exactly refuse the seat to an old lady or a person with loads of luggage, can I? They wouldn’t get it, if I tried to explain. There’s this fit man who gets on at Watford and I really want him to sit by me, so I can ignore him more effectively.

It's not like I know him. In all the commutes we've spent together, we haven't said more than ten words to each other.

Even so. I wait for him. (Is that creepy?) (Penny says it's cute, but I'm not sure.)

I move closer to the window so I can see the platform as we pull in, and I can make sure he's there.

He's possibly the best looking person I've seen. Definitely top five. Not that I'd tell him. He's not one of those annoying passengers who talk too loudly on their phones, or chew in your ear, or try to make small talk about nothing. He just sits quietly doing a crossword puzzle, while I look at my phone and try to think of something clever to say.

I never do. But that's alright.

We've got a good thing going and I'd hate to ruin it with my mouth.

(Although sometimes I think that's exactly what I'd like to do. Ruin him. With my mouth.)

BAZ

It's Thursday morning and the sky is heavy with rain.

The train pulls in (only two minutes late, which is nothing to grumble about) and I stand in my usual spot on the platform, sipping coffee and waiting for the dilapidated wreck to screech to a halt. In an ideal world I'd live in the city and be done with this blasted commute, but London accommodations truly take the piss in terms of affordability. (Even my father, with his gilt pockets, refuses to cough up for a studio flat.) I have a decent enough spot in Watford, and I suppose it isn't that terrible of an inconvenience to travel. I'm done at the office by five, and providing there haven't been any Great British Rail Disasters, it's an hour until I'm home.

If I lived in an ideal world, I wouldn't see the young man from carriage C again, and that really would be a shame.

When this game of ours first started, about half a year ago now, I convinced myself he was interested in me. He'd always be at the same window, and I'd always catch his eye. Sometimes there would be a muddy backpack in seat 15B and I'd pretend to look for somewhere else to sit, until he moved it.

We don't speak. Usually we don't even exchange greetings—occasionally I'll get a "hello" from him, or a wave of the hand. I did ask for his name once, but he had earbuds in and didn't hear me. (He looks like a Harry or a Craig. Something straight-forward like that.) We sit next to each other three or four mornings a week, other passengers permitting, and he usually passes the fifteen-minute journey by texting on his phone. I do the daily crossword and steal glances at him out of the corner of my eye. I've learnt a lot about him this way.

For example, the way he pushes his curls out of his (blue) eyes more often than necessary. Or how he rubs the mole on the side of his neck when he's thinking of what to type into his phone. Or how he looks out of the window and mutters to himself, breathing through his mouth.

Sometimes, when his eyes turn to the window, he catches me looking at him. (I ought to be embarrassed, but I'm too busy imagining what his kisses would be like.)

I keep hoping that yes, finally, this latest eye contact will be the spark that catches afire as conversation... but it never does.

Who knows, maybe today's the fated day? We didn't sit together yesterday. (There was a woman in 15B holding a toddler on her knee, and I could hardly turf her out for the sake of a crush.)

The train doors slide open and I risk a look at the usual window. The carriage has seen better days and could do with a thorough scrubbing, but there's enough transparency for me to glimpse him—curls, lowered lashes, the back of his hand pressed to the glass. The platform isn't too crowded today—the 7:22 was running on time, and most people get on that one because it goes directly into Euston without stopping at the local stations.

If I'm assertive—which I plan to be, elbows at the ready—I should be able to claim 15B before anybody else.

I don't want to seem too keen. If he had any idea how often I think about him throughout the day, I'm sure he'd never take this train again.

SIMON

He's here! I saw him on the platform, drinking from a paper cup. For a second I could've sworn he looked right at me.

I feel nervous. I don't even know him—why do I care if he sits by me?

He makes me question things. Maybe that's why I care. I had a girlfriend for a few years and I mean, it didn't work out. And that's fine. She got a job in America and she sends me a long email every Christmas telling me how great it is. I'm happy for her, and I didn't bother finding anyone else after we broke up because I was alright on my own, really. I've got work, friends, and interests, so it never felt like anything was missing.

But then I saw him and I reckon there is something missing.

I'm not sure I'll really understand what that is until I've done something I can't take back. (Like follow him home. Or kiss him.) (I think about kissing him a lot.) (He's a fucking distraction.)

I fancy him. Just a bit.

Just a lot.

It's been six months and it's driving me mad. (In a good way.)

I see him boarding the train. I slide my bag off the seat, just in case he gets here in time. I clean my mess off the tray table, just in case it gets in his way. I move a bit closer to the window, just in case he needs more room. And I pretend not to be bothered if he sits by me or not. (Just in case he thinks I am.)

There aren't that many people waiting this morning—the 7:22 must have been on time.

I resist the urge to look over my shoulder and see if he's walking along the aisle, with his shiny black briefcase in one hand and coffee in the other.

I smell him before I see him. That's another thing—not only does he look good, with his suits and ties and pretty hair, but he smells good, too. Like spice and wood and fancy things I don't know the names of. He must work in a bank or somewhere else with loads of money, because he always looks like he's worth about a million pounds. (At half seven in the morning, too. I bet he thinks I'm a right caveman, slouched here in my hoodie and jeans.)

I wonder what his name is. He looks like he'd have an old-fashioned, traditional name—Arthur, Byron, or Charles. Something classy.

He sits down next to me, folding his long legs into the gap between us and the row in front. (I'd say he's about 70% legs.) He pulls down his tray table and puts a newspaper on it, fetching a fountain pen out of his shirt pocket. He's the only person I've ever seen who uses fountain pens. I watched him fiddle about changing the cartridge once—he did it without spilling any ink. (He did frown a lot, though.)

I try to look at the crossword without him noticing. Sometimes I fantasise about him getting stuck on an answer, and me leaning across and whispering it in his ear. (Proper creepy, aren't I?) (I literally can't help it.) Nine letter word for humorous... nope. An over-enthusiastic group of followers (4)? No idea. It's unrealistic to think he'd need my help, anyway. It's only fifteen minutes from Watford to London but in that time he gets over half of it done. (Once, he did the whole bloody thing and just sat there glowing. Looking downright ethereal.) (I had to physically restrain myself from jumping on him.) (Even the memory is enough to get me going. Fuck me.)

I get out my phone to text Penny. She lives in the city so she's always in the office first, keeping track of my commute. I made the mistake of telling her about the bloke on the train and now she's seriously invested—sometimes I send her crossword clues and she looks up the answers, so I can impress him. (I don't.)

[7:28] Simon: 4 letters for enthusictic group fo followers???

[7:29] Penny: Cult. Turn your spellcheck on. What's TDH wearing today?

I shove my phone in my pocket, hoping he wasn't looking at the screen. (I know he looks at me sometimes.) Penny's never seen him but I've described him several times, and she knows he likes to wear these silky, flowery shirts under his suit jacket. She calls him TDH—tall, dark & handsome—and I would die if he knew that. I take a quick look at him now, just so I can describe him accurately when I get to the office—black trousers with red pinstripes, black shirt, black jacket, dark red tie.

He looks good. (Really, really good.) Even better than usual. Maybe there's something special about today?

And here I am in the same jeans I've been wearing all week, looking like I've just lost a fight with a farmyard.

Fuck my life.

BAZ

The train pulls away from the station; 15A already has his phone out, so I'll have to save my pathetic attempt at a hello for next time. I managed to remain relatively calm whilst claiming 15B, and it doesn't appear that any of the other passengers noticed how desperate I was. It baffles me to think that none of them have noticed my good looking neighbour—if they had, surely they'd be engaging me in a duel to the death for this seat every morning.

I like that he wears jeans. I like that he wears t-shirts. I like that he leaves remnants of granola bars scattered across his tray, like the remains of a carcass. He's a world away from what I know. Now, if only I could get a few simple words of greeting out of my mouth...

He's leaning his head against the window, fingers fumbling for his earbuds. Once they're in, I've lost him—his foot will occasionally nudge mine as he taps it in time to the music, but that's it. Further opportunities for eye contact slip from rare to non-existent.

Bugger this. I won't lose another day to longing. There's no guarantee we'll get to sit together tomorrow, and then I'll have to wait the entire weekend to see him again. (I've no idea which stop he gets on at. He's always on the train before me, so possibly Milton Keynes or Rugby? If not even further afield.)

I clear my throat and look his way. The sun's coming through the window, highlighting his curls and cheekbones.

In short, the sun is making my life miserable.

My heart's beating far too quickly. It's not as though this leads anywhere; it's not as though it means anything. It's a simple, cursory social transaction—after six months of sitting by each other, you'd think we both deserved that much.

"Good morning," I manage, lifting my coffee cup to my lips to mask the tremor. "Terrible weather."

Ah, there it is—the curse of being British and socially inept. (Are the two related?) If in doubt, mention the weather. At first I think he hasn't heard me; he's still messing with his earbuds, fighting a losing battle against the tangled cable.

But then he lowers his hands and looks directly at me, jutting out his chin.

"It was raining," he says, turning away so quickly he clips the window frame with the side of his face.

"Yes, how typical," I splutter, mentally calculating how much time remains until we reach Euston. Ten minutes? Twelve? There's one stop left at Willesden, which might give us an extra minute or two, depending on how many are waiting to board. "Typical London." And then—possibly because I couldn't carry twelve minutes of decent conversation with a direct relative, let alone someone I fancy this much—I commence unloading my life story. "I'm supposed to go to a garden party tonight, but I dare say it'll be rained off. All of my family will be there in their Thursday best, negotiating who shares an umbrella with whom. It'll be a fiasco."

SIMON

Garden party. Shit, how posh is he? At least that explains the nice clothes. Am I supposed to know what "Thursday best" means?

My brain's still struggling to cope with the fact that we're talking. I should say something back that isn't completely stupid, right? I need Penny to feed me lines.

"Hard luck." I'm dying to be nosy and ask whose party it is. Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Elderly relative? "Might clear up. You never know."

"True," he says, and I swear he almost smiles. "There is a bit of sun, now. Can't lose all hope before eight in the morning, can we?"

His voice is nice. Soft. Deep.

His mouth... (No. Nope. Not going there.)

I want to text Penny and tell her we had a conversation but I should probably actually have it, first.

He's looking past me out of the window, and I don't know if we're only allowed to talk about the weather, or if I can ask about something else. (Like his name. Or where he works. Or whose party it is.)

Instead, against all reason, I shout: "Cult!"

He looks at me like I'm mad. (He's right. This is the quiet coach, and I'm mouthing off about cults at seven-thirty in the morning.)

"I'm sorry?"

"Cult. Sorry, I looked at your newspaper earlier. Two-across—cult."

He follows my trailing finger to the crossword puzzle. I feel guilty because he's been pressing his pen down while we've been talking, and there's a nasty blot on one of the clues. He curls his lip and smudges it with his thumb. "Oh, thank you." He's looking at me again. (His eyes are grey.) (He's too perfect. Like, fuck me, mate—you need one flaw. Sort it out.) "Do you like crosswords?"

He writes it into the space in neat capitals: C U L T. I could lie to make myself sound clever, but I don't think I'd be fooling anyone.

"Not really. Never done one," I admit. "You do one every day, right?"

"Two a day," he says shyly, as if it's anything to be embarrassed about. (Two crosswords a day? In fountain pen instead of pencil? The man's a savage.) "One on the way to work, one on the way home."

A normal person would probably take this chance to ask him about his job, but the nerves are making me feel sick and I need to look away before I throw up on his pinstripes. My phone vibrates—it's Penny, asking if I need help with any other clues. All of them, I think. This whole bloody mystery. Help me, please. Help me not fuck this up.

When I look back, he's checking his watch. We've got another five minutes or so before we reach Euston.

I bet he can't wait to get off this train.

Will he still want to sit by me tomorrow?

BAZ

Our brief foray into conversation lulls itself to an early death. I slump back regretfully. I shouldn't have mentioned work—who wants to talk about that? I've always assumed he's on his way to a job of some sort, or perhaps university, but maybe not. He might resent my casual mention of employment, just as we'd finally begun a pleasant exchange.

He says he doesn't like crosswords but he must have been thinking about the clue. Was he looking for an excuse to speak to me?

He's looking out of the window again. Earbuds in, gone from me.

I trace the outline of his profile with my eyes: nose, lips, chin.

I sigh, considering the next clue.

When you feel like you're getting nowhere fast. (5,2,3,3)

How frustratingly apt.

I'm about ready to throw down my pen and demand the young man's name when the train begins screaming—screeching along the tracks. I reach out and grip his arm, pressing him back into his seat as though that might help, watching in dismay as my hot coffee ends up all over my lap.

SIMON

"Here," I say, fetching my bag from under the seat in front. "I've got tissues."

I dump the box on his tray table and let him take as many as he wants. (It's not like I can mop it up for him. As much as I'd like to.) (What?)

"Thank you. Sorry about that."

I don't know what he's sorry for; it's not like he controls the brakes. We're somewhere just past Willesden—the driver made an announcement, but we don't know why we had to stop so suddenly. The conductor stumbles up and down the aisle, checking tickets and passes, fending off angry passengers. Me and 15B sit quietly. (His newspaper's ruined, but at least the splash missed most of his crossword.)

My phone buzzes again: it's Penny.

[7:39] Penny: Journey going well?

[7:39] Simon: delay. train stopped. gona be late

[7:40] Penny: Typical! Let me know when you get moving. (TDH doing ok?)

[7:40] Simon: split his coffee

[7:40] Simon: spilt

[7:40] Simon: is spilt a word or is it spilled ?

[7:41] Simon: anyway gave him some tissue

[7:42] Penny: That's a nice bit of free advertising for us. Hope you get moving again soon.

She's not wrong. He notices the box as he passes it back to me. (Is he amused or annoyed? It's honestly hard to tell.)

"Are you often armed with full boxes of tissues?"

I shove it into my bag. "No. Well, lately, yeah. I'm in graphic design, right? We're trying out new stuff." I think about the design on the tissue box: a patterned starfish wearing sunglasses. I asked Penny fifty times what starfish (starfishes?) had to do with tissues, but she never did give me a straight answer. "It's a sleeve you put over the box. Just printed a few to see how they look."

He's definitely smirking. I feel weirdly defensive about the starfish.

"It looks good." (Oh.) "What else have you designed?"

"Just stuff." (Stupid, stupid, stupid.) "Things. T-shirts, mugs, logos. Just... yeah. Not all starfish."

It's like he's interested in me. I don't know what to do. Keep... talking...?

Fuck me, this is hard.

"Are you on your way to work?"

Yes, you prat. He already said he was going to work. Two crosswords a day, remember?

"Sorry. I mean. Where are you going? Or, like, what is your job? Your work. What... are you?" Shit.

He's finished cleaning the worst of the coffee out of his trousers (must not think about thighs), and piles the soggy tissue on his tray table.

"My father's the editor of a magazine. Old News Invigorated—do you know it? Mostly archaeology, historical artifacts, and the like. It's not just the magazine these days—there's a blog and all sorts. I do a bit of proofreading and photo retouching, that sort of thing."

I was well off the mark in thinking he was a banker. Still, his dad's in media? He's got to be loaded. (Not that that matters.)

It's pretty cool that we're both into creative work.

The train driver's dreary voice cuts over our heads, crackling through static:

"Ladies and gentlemen, please accept my apologies for the delay to your journey. This inconvenience was caused by a member of the public trespassing on the tracks up ahead—we're being held here while police clear the way and give us the signal to press on. We should be moving within the next ten minutes. Again, apologies for the delay and any inconvenience this may cause—as I said, there was a trespasser on the tracks, and we are legally obliged not to hit them. Thank you."

I look at him and we both crack up. (We're not the only ones—half the carriage is laughing.) It's one of those weird moments of camaraderie among strangers. Like, we're all stuck on this train together and we're all going to be late, so we might as well have a laugh about it.

"Spoken like a man who has hit many a trespasser with his train," he says, still grinning. I like his laugh. (His teeth are nice, too.)

"Definitely." My nerves are settling now. If we're going to be here another ten minutes, we might as well keep talking, right? I've never felt glad to be delayed before. I bend down to my bag again and fish out another of my designs. "We do bookmarks, too. Do you read books? Thought maybe you did, if you like crosswords. Not that they're the same thing."

He raises an eyebrow at me, taking the bookmark from my outstretched hand. I realise too late it's not the cool dragon one—instead there's a pink unicorn with a rainbow mane, whinnying over a glittery river. His eyebrows practically crawl off his face when he sees it, then all of a sudden he's standing up and stretching to reach something in the overhead rack. I get a look at his red-gold skin as his shirt lifts up, and I'm thinking what it would be like if—

He steps back, holding his briefcase.

I unlock my phone to send a text before he sits back down.

[7:49] Simon: dying. send help

[7:49] Penny: What's wrong? Everything ok with the train?

[7:50] Simon: yes. 10 min delay. tdh is aghhh.

[7:50] Penny: Oh dear. In a good way?

There's no time to reply. The bloke's sitting down with his briefcase open on his lap, looking for something.

He actually says "Aha!" like he's in an old black-and-white detective film, and holds up a glittery pink bookmark.

"I knew I'd seen that unicorn before."

BAZ

He snatches the bookmark from my hand, comparing it with the one from his bag. They're exactly the same, save where the glitter on mine has worn off.

"It's my sister's," I explain, tucking it back inside my book (a travelogue about Peru—I have a quiet respect for Paddington Bear and his origins). "Or rather, she surrendered it to me when I told her I'd lost all of my own bookmarks, and was in dire need. It's her party I'm supposed to attend today. She's turning nine." I check my mobile, which I keep in the briefcase alongside my book. "Though it seems they've cancelled after all—looks like the forecast for this afternoon has taken a turn for the worst." I tug at my damp, coffee-encrusted trousers, not missing the way 15A's eyes follow my fingers. "For the best, really, given the state of things."

I glance up at him, reminding myself not to linger too long on his lips, as appealing as they are.

He's beaming at me. "I can't believe you've got one of my bookmarks."

"You drew the unicorn?"

"Yeah. And my friend Penny did the river—well, she's my boss, really. Or the boss's daughter. I mean, her family owns the company."

I take the new bookmark from him and turn it between my fingers. "May I have this one, too? I'm terrible at keeping bookmarks. All the glitter and pink might make it easier to keep track of."

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "Yeah, of course. That's right cool."

"I believe my parents bought her an array of things in this design—pencil case, lunch box, notebook. All your work, I take it?"

He's still grinning his head off. (It's delightful.) (I did that.) (He's even more insufferably handsome, lit up like this.) "Yeah, we do all sorts of stuff. That's cool. Hope she likes it."

"She does." I get up to store my briefcase in the rack, then slide back down with my hand out. The train still isn't moving, and I'm enjoying this—his smile, his skin, his voice, all of this—far too much for it to end. (And I don't think I can go another minute in this life without knowing his name.) "I'm Baz."

"Baz?"

"Basil."

"Basil?"

"Well, Basilton. But I prefer Baz."

"Isn't that a town?"

"That's Basildon. I've never been."

"Me neither." He hesitates, looking down at our feet before finding my face again. Finally, he takes my hand and shakes it. "Simon Snow."

Simon Snow.

Straight-forward. No nonsense. It's perfect.

Simon.

SIMON

I've never met somebody who looks more like a Basil in my life. It's bloody spot-on. In my head when I'm at work, I think about him lounging around, smoking a pipe and eating individually-wrapped chocolates... and the name Basil just adds to that image. It turns the lounging up to a hundred.

Basil. Baz.

I can't believe I know his name. Finally. And he knows mine. He's no longer fit train bloke or seat 15B—he's Baz. He works on his dad's magazine. He's got a little sister who likes my unicorn doodles and her party was cancelled because of the rain.

I don't think I'm going to tell Penny about this. Not all of it. I want to keep some of it for myself, to think about later when I'm replaying everything in my head for the thousandth time.

"Want to help with the crossword? Might as well, whilst we're stuck here." Baz picks up the newspaper, pages turning crinkly with coffee stains.

"I'm crap at stuff like this," I lean into him until our shoulders touch. (This train delay's making me reckless.) (He doesn't move away.) "But I'll give it a go."

"Eleven-down: To mark your path through another world. Eight letters." He frowns, running the nib of his pen under the clue. "Map is far too short. Signpost? But that would mean eight-across is wrong and I'm quite sure owlery is correct..."

I think I could stay on this train all day, watching Baz solve his puzzle. His nose scrunches up as he tries to find the answer. I'm distracted, watching him lick across his lower lip, and it's another minute until I realise the solution is in front of us.

"Another world," I shout, making him jump in his seat. "A book. Mark the path... a bookmark!"

He looks at me with such surprise I can't stand it, but then it fades into something else. And even though I'm feeling scruffy, sitting here next to him in his suit with his pretty hair and whatever fucking amazing cologne that is, I don't feel stupid. I reckon that's the last thing he thinks I am.

"Simon, that's brilliant. It fits."

It fits.

And maybe it hasn't all been in my head, these past months.

Maybe I do fancy a bloke and maybe I don't want this to be it—fifteen minutes in the morning, then nothing.

Maybe Baz would—

I stop thinking. I have to.

The train jerks forward and I go with it, smacking my face into the seat in front.

BAZ

My monogrammed fountain pen is on the floor, rolling its way around carriage C, crossword abandoned. My hands are cradling Simon's face, my jacket sleeve pushed under his nose to try to stem the flow of blood. He manages to kick his bag closer, and I pull the zip down to retrieve the box of tissues.

"Good job I carry these around on a daily basis, right?" he says, red dripping down the front of his hoodie. I wad up a handful of tissues and hold them to his face, gently tipping his head.

"Are you alright? Does it hurt?"

His hand covers mine, holding the tissues in place. I pull back, hoping he doesn't mind me leaping in.

"S'not broken. No worse than hot coffee on your legs. Sorry. Bastard train." He growls. "Why don't these things have seat belts?"

We're moving forward again, and I can't say I'm not disappointed. This journey has been cruel to us in some ways—bloody nose, wet trousers—but so kind in others.

"Can I get you anything?" I ask. Perhaps some water to clean his face, or sturdier tissue from the toilet. I could—

"Maybe an Aero." He's eyeing the refreshment trolley as it wobbles its way down the aisle. I twist my head, reaching into a trouser pocket for my sodden wallet. He protests but I insist on paying—I can't help but feel this is somehow all my fault.

"They only have mint ones. Is that alright?"

"Bloody perfect," he says. Then he seems to find himself funny and starts laughing, wincing all the way.

I roll my eyes, opening the chocolate for him and pushing the end into his mouth. It seems we've become incredibly informal, all of a sudden. I can't recall the last time I hand-fed a chocolate bar to a handsome boy on a train. (The answer is never, Basil.) Perhaps him bleeding on me, and me being an unwitting patron of his unicorns, eliminates a few of those awkward in-between steps.

Maybe we can go straight from strangers to something else.

Maybe—

There's no time for me to follow my despicable thoughts and see where they might lead.

The train jerks to a stop as suddenly as it started—I move instinctively to stop Simon's face from hitting the chair again, and in the process, twist my ankle the wrong way. It catches beneath the seat, sending a jolt of agony along my leg.

"Baz! Are you alright?" Simon asks, reaching down to grip my ankle and pull me free. (Did he get a look at my Harry Potter socks?) (He'll know I'm a Hufflepuff.)

"Quite fine. Thank you. I do believe this train driver is trying to kill someone."

His nose has stopped bleeding. We've successfully traded one injury for another.

The train driver speaks to us from overhead, as indistinct and unhappy as before:

"Ladies and gentlemen, please rest assured that we are not trying to kill you all today. There was a further delay due to leaves on the tracks, but this has now been resolved, and we'll be on our way again shortly. We're sorry for any convenience this may cause you on your journey. Thanks for travelling with us. Again, not trying to kill you. Promise. See you later."

I look at Simon, rubbing my sore ankle.

"Did he say sorry for any convenience this may cause?"

I smirk. "You see? I remain unconvinced."

SIMON

Leaves on the track? Really? Leaves on the sodding track? That's what brings this country's trains to a standstill? Honestly.

I should text Penny and let her know I'm not dead.

[7:58] Simon: train stopped again. sorry

[7:59] Penny: Just get here when you can. Let me guess - Leaves on the track?

[7:59] Simon: yeh. fuckin bullshit

[8:00] Penny: Language, Simon.

We start moving and I try to push my bag back further under the seat, so we've both got a bit more legroom. My nose has stopped bleeding and the chocolate made me feel better—I break off a piece for Baz and shove it in his face. He looks surprised again, and I wonder if I've gone too far. Then he grins and says he should have bought two bars. I snap off another piece for him.

"Where are your offices, if you don't mind me asking?"

We finish the Aero and look at the crossword, though neither of us know where Baz's pen has gone. He sighs and pulls a pencil out of his shirt pocket. (How much stationery does this man carry?)  He sees me looking confused and lifts his lip. "It's best to carry a back-up pencil, even if they are for amateurs."

I had no idea crossword puzzlers were such animals.

"I get on the Northern Line and go to Monument. S'not far." I'm so crap at conversation. Of course I want to know where he works—I've thought about it nearly every day for months now—but I'm nervous, when I think about asking. I scrunch my eyes shut and give myself over to the power of the unthinking outburst. (That's what Penny calls it.) "Whataboutyou? Whereyougoing?"

"Kensington." He crosses out another clue. (Of course he works in bloody Kensington.) "Glossy when highly fashionable. Nine letters. Any ideas?"

You, I think, and manage not to spell it out. B A S I L T O N.

"Got any letters for it?"

He hovers over the puzzle with the end of the pencil in his mouth. (Honestly, I could spent the next hour just watching his mouth, thinking about how badly I want to—) (Well, this is not good for me, is it?) "Third letter is g. Last letter is s."

He looks up and to the side, as if searching for the answer on the ceiling. I stare at him, because really, I'm at the point where I'm just embracing it. How much I like what I see. What I now know.

Like before, it takes me a second to get the answer.

Right there in front of you.

"Magazines."

For the third time today, he looks at me like I've done something extraordinary.

"Perfect. Between us we'll have this done in ten minutes."

And I think about how much I'd like that, another ten minutes here with Baz. Us in the mornings after he gets on at Watford, solving the puzzle in 15A and 15B.

But then the train's pulling into Euston station, and the driver's telling us not to leave anything behind. Everybody's standing up to get their things, grumbling about delays. Baz slides his pencil into his pocket and puts the tray table away, rolling the newspaper up in his lap. I get my bag, running a hand under my nose to check it's okay.

No blood. (There'll be a bruise.)

No rush. (We're the last ones left to get off.)

No time. (Because we're here.)

BAZ

Simon walks beside me along the platform. We're jostled on either side by grumpy commuters, desperate to reach the outside world before their fellow travellers. I'm already destined to be late, so I lean into my newly developing limp and take my time. Simon's slow beside me, a bruise blooming on his face, thumb sliding along his phone as he lets his co-worker know he's made it to London intact. (Relatively.)

"She won't mind that you're late?"

He shrugs. "Not a lot she can do, really. Can't afford to live in London, can I? She knows I commute. We've been friends since school so she's pretty used to it by now. She says she's going to write a book one day—The Uselessness of Train Timetables."

I laugh. "It'll be a bestseller." I step aside so he can walk ahead of me through the narrow gates leading to the station proper. He turns to face me and I see light from the shops beyond flooding through, setting the bronze in his hair alight. He looks so beautiful I can't help but drink him in. I consider how to delay him further, now that there's no train to aid in doing so.

"We're a right mess," he says, pointing between us. "You with your limp, me with my face. Tragic start to the day."

We step into the brightness of the station, immediately hassled by impatient commuters who, like us, are late for work.

"We match," I say. And I'm so pleased when he smiles.

I start to weave toward the doors, avoiding the downward escalators leading to the Underground. "There's a café just outside. Would you like an apologetic tea before you go to work?"

He looks up at me, squaring his jaw, rubbing self-consciously at the dried blood on his hoodie. "Probably get arrested, looking like this."

"You look fine," I counter, not thinking. (Though even if I thought about it, I'd have said the same.) "I'll buy? They don't sell Aeros but they do have nice biscotti."

His eyes light up. I file that mental note away for future reference: Simon can be swayed by sweet things.

"We're late for work." It doesn't sound like a protest—more a mere statement of fact. I wait for him to decide.

Please, I think. Please, 15A.

"We do still have a few crossword clues to solve," I coax, brandishing the rolled-up newspaper. This seems to be the final push Simon needs—his face creases into another delightful smile, and he starts for the doors, looking back to see if I'll follow.

"Come on, then. But you don't have to buy me an apologetic anything—there's nothing to be sorry for."

"I think if you hadn't been distracted by my puzzle, you wouldn't have hit your nose."

"That's not what was distracting me."

I frown but he doesn't elaborate. He waves off my woes and leads us outside, where the café waits a few steps away.

"D'you like hot chocolate? I like hot chocolate."

"I love hot chocolate."

I go inside to order as he settles our bags on an outdoor table. It's quieter here—people rush past, oblivious. As I pull open the door to limp through, I see him smoothing the newspaper flat with a fist. To my surprise, he produces a ballpoint unicorn pen from his bag and starts in on one of the remaining clues.

There's the answer, I think. He was the clue.

And I'm glad for the day and its injuries.

All of it, leading to this.

SIMON

Baz comes out with two paper cups of hot chocolate and a stick of biscotti, sitting down next to me on the bench. He leans over my shoulder and I like it, how close he is.

"I'm stuck on 15-across." I point at the puzzle. "Get that one and the whole thing comes together. There's only one other word left." The chocolate's delicious—it's the frothy sort that leaves a line of foam across your top lip. Baz's mouth is hot with it and I completely forget about the train journey for a minute, watching his lips move. He's muttering to himself, working out an answer.

"Borough of Hertfordshire. Seven letters with an o in the middle."

He frowns again. I fire off another text to Penny while the chocolate cools, not feeling one bit bad about how this rainy morning turned out.

[8:31] Simon: sorry. be there soon. one last delay

[8:32] Penny: Are you at the station yet? I'll come and pick you up.

[8:33] Simon: still at euston. ill let u know when i get off tube.

[8:33] Penny: tdh delay :)))))))

[8:34] Penny: OMG TELL ALL IMMEDIATELY!!!! SIMON SNOW

When I look up again he's grinning, reaching for the pen in my hand.

"Watford." He's left-handed, and his wrist curls around the word as he writes. "Where I get on the train. It has to be."

"Does it fit?" I ask, leaning in closer than I need to.

"It fits. Only one word left and I'll let you go."

Let me go?

No. Everything about that sounds wrong.

I'm going to be so late if I do this.

If I actually manage to do this.

Fuck it.

I lean in to see if I can find the last word on his lips.

There it is. (I lick the foam off his mouth.)

There it is. (His bottom lip, caught between my teeth.)

There it is. (His breath's hot. My tongue's in his mouth.)

There it is. (His hands are around me, mine are in his hair.)

There it is. There's the answer.

15A, 15B.