Miriam tells herself not to look.
She keeps her eyes fixed on the cracked pavement as she approaches the bus stop, counting her steps, focusing on the weight of her bag against her hip. If she looks, she knows she'll see him again—the stranger whose scent has already lodged itself somewhere deep in her chest.
The pull hasn't faded.
If anything, it has sharpened.
The bus arrives in a rush of sound that makes her flinch—brakes hissing, doors folding open, voices spilling out. Miriam hesitates only a second before stepping forward, drawn by instinct more than intention.
Inside, the air is chaos.
Oil. Metal. Soap. Perfume. Sweat. Too many people, too many layers, all of it pressing in on her senses at once. Her head swims, and she grips the seat in front of her as she makes her way down the narrow aisle.
She sits halfway back, near the window.
Her breath comes shallow and uneven. She presses her palms to her thighs, grounding herself in the pressure, the solidness of her own body.
Obey. Endure. Be still.
The doors close.
The bus lurches forward.
And then—
The scent.
Not distant now. Not imagined.
Close.
Her pulse stutters.
Miriam doesn't turn her head. She doesn't need to. Her body has already registered the shift—the subtle dip of the seat beside her, the way the air changes, as if something essential has settled into place.
Heat blooms low and immediate, sharp enough to steal her breath.
She clenches her jaw, every nerve suddenly alive.
"Hey," a voice says, low and careful. Not abrupt. Not demanding.
Miriam swallows. She keeps her gaze fixed on the blur of buildings sliding past the window.
"I'm not trying to bother you," the voice continues. "You just—looked like you might be about to pass out."
"I'm fine," she says quickly.
The lie wobbles.
Silence stretches between them, not awkward but charged, like something coiled tight beneath the surface. Miriam can feel his presence without looking, the steady warmth of him anchoring something inside her that has been unraveling since she crossed the fence.
"You don't smell sick," he says quietly. "Just overwhelmed."
Her breath catches hard.
No one has ever spoken to her like that. No one has ever named what her body is doing without shame or fear threaded through the words.
"I don't—" She stops herself. She doesn't know what she's about to say. That she shouldn't smell like anything at all? That no one has ever noticed her this way?
The bus jolts, and her balance falters. Her hand lifts on instinct—
And brushes warm skin.
The contact is brief.
It is devastating.
Heat flares sharp and immediate, a rush that empties her lungs. Miriam jerks her hand back, heart hammering, skin buzzing where they touched.
"I'm sorry," he says quickly. "I didn't mean to—"
She turns then.
Up close, he looks ordinary. That's what unsettles her most. Dark hair, open expression, eyes too intent, as if he's holding himself back on purpose.
As if he knows.
Something passes between them in that instant—recognition, quick and undeniable. His gaze flickers over her face, sharpens, then softens with something like restraint.
"I didn't mean to crowd you," he says. "I can move."
"No." The word slips out before she can stop it.
She doesn't know why she says it. Only that the thought of him leaving sends a jolt of unease through her chest, sharp and panicked.
He studies her for a long second, then settles back into the seat. "Okay."
The bus hums beneath them, carrying them forward. Miriam's senses are still stretched thin, but his presence steadies something inside her, quieting the chaos just enough that she can breathe.
"You're new," he says.
"Yes."
"And alone."
"Yes."
The words feel too revealing, too accurate.
"That explains a lot," he murmurs.
Explains what?
Miriam opens her mouth to ask—but the bus slows, pulling toward a stop. People stand, shift, crowd the aisle. Noise swells again, and her head spins with it.
"This is me," he says, rising.
She feels it immediately—the loss of him, the way her body reacts as if something essential is being pulled away.
He hesitates. "I'm Eli."
The name settles into her, warm and heavy.
"I'm Miriam," she says, though she doesn't know why it feels important that he know.
Eli smiles—not wide, not practiced. Something real. "Take care of yourself, Miriam."
He steps off the bus.
The doors close.
The scent lingers long after he's gone, threading through her senses like a promise she doesn't yet understand.
Miriam sinks back against the seat, heart pounding.
Her body hums, alive in a way that frightens her. Not frantic. Not chaotic.
Focused.
Whatever this is—whatever she felt when he touched her, when he looked at her like she was recognizable—
It isn't temptation.
It isn't illness.
And for the first time since the darkening began, Miriam knows this with certainty:
She is not alone in it.