Terminal Velocity (A train platform. They chat. They flirt.)

Terminal Velocity

Quiet, reclusive book-editor Sophie misses her train and meets Luca, a charming street musician on Platform 6.

Chapter One: The Platform and the Rain

The click of Sophie’s heels echoed off the tiled floor, sharp and accusatory. The station was nearly empty, a hollowed-out shell of late-night comings and goings. She paused, blinking at the departure board as it flickered. The last train — her train — had departed precisely six minutes ago.

“Damn it,” she muttered, wobbling slightly as she took a misstep in her heels. The prosecco from the publishing party buzzed warmly in her blood, not enough to make her drunk, but just enough to lower her tolerance for everything.

She raked a hand through her hair, tugging out the neat pins she had so carefully arranged hours earlier. Now they felt like little reminders of the version of herself she’d worn to that insufferable event — glossy, quiet, polite. "You're an editor?" they’d all said with tight smiles. “Oh, how wonderful. What an important job. That must be so rewarding.”

It wasn’t. Not tonight. Tonight it had been all dutiful handshakes, false praise, no soul.

The air outside was damp with mist, the station platform gleaming with scattered rain puddles. She stepped onto Platform 6, arms folded against the night chill. Her coat barely helped. The next train - the last train - wouldn’t come for another hour, and the warm waiting area was closed for cleaning. She considered calling a cab but couldn't bear the idea of making small talk with a driver or fumbling with an app with fingers that refused to stay steady.

Then she heard it.

A soft, slow hum of strings. Raw, fluid, and aching in a way that struck something deep in her chest. A guitar. The music: low, bluesy, magnetic.

She turned toward the sound. At the far end of the platform, slouched under a flickering lamp, sat a man — jeans, cowboy boots, leather jacket weathered like he lived in it. His hair was a little too long, dark and unruly. He played the guitar like he wasn’t trying to impress anyone, just for himself — just to feel the music.

Sophie felt drawn to him. But she hesitated. She wasn’t the kind of woman who struck up conversations with strangers at night. But she also wasn’t the kind of woman who missed trains or drank too much or stood barefoot on train platforms with her heels dangling from one hand. But tonight, something in her had loosened. She was raw at the edges, and the music... the music made it worse.

Or maybe better?

Without really knowing why, she walked toward him. She approached slowly, heels hooked in one hand, the damp platform cool beneath her tights. The music slowed but didn’t stop. Just enough to let her know he’d seen her coming.

“Didn’t expect an audience,” he said, voice low and easy, the kind that felt like soft velvet and aromatic smoke. He didn’t look up right away. Just kept plucking at the strings, something bluesy and defiant.

“I didn’t expect to be stranded in heels at midnight,” Sophie shot back. “Yet here we are.”

That earned her a glance. His eyes were dark — brown, maybe, or black — but sharp, like they didn’t miss much. His gaze flicked down to her bare feet, then back up.

“You look like someone who’s had a very long evening.”

“I look like someone who just missed her train because some editor thought it would be great to discuss comma splices over warm prosecco and soggy shrimp cocktails.”

He smirked. “Brutal.”

“You have no idea,” she snorted. Sophie hesitated, then nodded at his guitar. “You’re good, by the way. Do you play at the train station for tips, or just for the echo?”

Luca’s mouth curved lazily. “Neither. Just killing time. I like the sound of empty places.”

Sophie folded her arms, shifting her weight. “There’s a poetic sort of sadness in that.”

“There’s a poetic sort of sadness in you,” he said, with no smirk this time — his tone tinged with sympathy.

“You're cold,” he remarked, ”I know a hidden room, dry and warm. Just a few steps from here. And it has great acoustics.”

Her stomach flipped. He was bold. Too bold. And yet… he didn't seem predatory, sleazy, or fake. Just honest.

“I think the ****’s still in my system,” she deflected, reaching into her coat pocket for her phone, fumbling with it, then giving up. “Everything feels fuzzy. Including my boundaries.”

“That’s not a no,” he said, amused.

“It’s not a yes either.”

“Then I’ll play something else until you figure it out.”

He shifted the guitar, fingers gliding into something softer this time — less showy, more intimate. A rhythm with space between the notes, like he was playing to her, not just around her. Sophie watched his hands. Long fingers, calloused. His jacket slipped open a little at the chest, where the neck of his T-shirt dipped low.

“So,” she said after a long silence, “do you always hang around train stations at night, charming women who look like damp librarians?”

He grinned. “Only the ones barefoot in the rain.”

Sophie laughed, caught off guard by herself. She hadn’t laughed like that in weeks. Not the polite kind. The real kind. She realized she was still standing, wet, tired, and somehow **** to step away.

Luca nodded to the bench beside him. “You want to sit? I promise not to bite.”

“Do you promise not to get touchy-feely?”

“Nope.”

She sat.