Inspired by Craig David's "7 Days".

Rick stood on the subway platform of the Indian Creek Station in Stone Mountain, Georgia, shifting impatiently. The air was hot and humid. Commuters were packed around him like sardines. He craned his neck to peer down the rail, as if the train would spontaneously appear on the horizon. It didn't. He could feel the sweat starting to pool under his arms, and he willed it to stop. The last thing he wanted for a court appearance was pit stains down to his waist.

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and closed his eyes, recalling the events of an evening a couple months back which had landed him here in the first place. His oldest friend, Shane, had treated him to a Hawks game in Atlanta. Afterward, in the parking lot, they enjoyed a couple of hot dogs and talked about the team's defense. Across the lot, there was a small group of men conversing loudly. He couldn't hear what they were saying, save for a few angry expletives. One member seemed to be especially riled up. He was thin and white, with hair shaped into a whitewall. He looked to be in his late forties. He wore a sleeveless leather vest over a graphic t-shirt, and faded black jeans.

His mouth got louder and fouler by the minute. Something had set him off, and it was drawing the attention of the entire parking lot. Rick and Shane tried to ignore the spectacle, but the situation escalated when he went to the trunk of his beat-up Chevy and produced a crow bar. They dumped their food in the closest waste bin and jogged over to the commotion, reaching the group just as the man's crowbar collided with the front windshield of a hideous lime green Buick parked close by. Rick and Shane first identified themselves as police. Atlanta was not their jurisdiction, but the mere presence of law enforcement often helped to diffuse these situations. It did this time, too – the man dropped the crow bar and made a run for it.

Shane took off after him while Rick talked to one of the other men, a skinny red-head who looked like his dog had just died. Rick figured he was the owner of the Buick. He took down the vandal's license plate and got his name – Merle Dixon. Shane reappeared shortly after, empty-handed. They advised the owner of the car to file a report with the Fulton County Police Department, then headed home.

Now, Rick was being summoned as a witness to the crime in small claims court. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Dixon was refusing to pay for the damages to the vehicle. In hindsight, he almost wished he had stayed out of the altercation. But after more than a decade in law enforcement, for him, it was a simple reflex. Jumping in to help wherever help was needed. Calming folks down. Keeping the peace.

On that thought, the train rolled into the station. The other passengers jostled around him, trying to gage where it would stop, and how close they could get to the entrance. After several long moments of inching, pushing, hot breath in his face, and strong cologne in his nostrils, Rick made his way into the train car. Inside, it was no less packed than on the platform, but at least it was air conditioned.

He didn't take the subway often, didn't even come to Atlanta often, but the thought of battling afternoon traffic in the city was so unbearable it made him cringe on the spot. And this was one of the nicer rails, with clean seats and floors, bright lights, and big windows. Not like the dingy, graffiti-ridden ones you saw on nineties television shows.

He picked an empty seat closer the back and settled in for the ride. He rested his elbows on his knees, then pulled out his phone and opened a book in his e-reader, which he reserved almost exclusively for these situations. He barely remembered what the story was about, but he continued to scan through the pages, looking up briefly every time the train made a stop.

The Decatur Station was about half way between Indian Creek and his destination, the Five Points Station. It was at this stop, that he not only looked up from his book, but forgot about the book entirely.

Just as the last of the passengers filed in and the train began to roll forward, the lights inside flickered off. Then back on. Then off again. The train picked up speed quickly, then without warning, pulled to a sharp halt, and every passenger lurched forward. The unbearable sound of screeching metal filled the air. Rick braced his palms on the back of the seat in front of him to keep still.

A few seconds later, the train accelerated again – jerkily at first, then smooth. The lights came back on. An infant wailed. A young man in a suit mourned the loss of his mid-day coffee, which was now splattered on the floor. One woman knelt down to pick up a mess of books and papers that had fallen from her arms.

Otherwise, the riders seemed unphased. The rail operator didn't make an announcement. Such malfunctions must have been a regular occurrence, Rick figured.

His own phone had skittered to the floor during the turbulence. He spotted it in the aisle just behind his seat and reached back to retrieve it. As he wrapped his hands around the device, he caught sight of something. Someone. A woman, doubled over, and slowly lowering herself into the closest seat. One of her hands gripped the back of the seat, and the other clutched at her left thigh. He caught glimpses of her as she sat, but couldn't make out her appearance very well.

He noticed deep brown hair, spun into dreadlocks that just kissed her collar bones. He noticed a moss green dress, which hung loose on her body. Dark, smooth skin peeking out at her chest, her arms, and her legs. A black leather tote slung over her shoulder. He noticed her breathing seemed unsteady. She looked like she was close to vomiting.

Instinctively, he adjusted in his seat, planting his feet in the aisle so he could face the woman head on.

"Are you okay?" He asked, inclining his head toward her.

She lifted her head and met his eyes. Hers were brown. Her lips were pursed together. She took a couple of deep breaths through her nose and nodded. Then, looked back down.

Rick's eyes darted to her hand which was hovering gingerly over her clearly injured thigh.

"Is your leg hurt?" He pressed.

"I'm fine," she said tensely. She wanted him to leave her alone, he could tell. He almost did.

"If you need -"

"I don't need help, Officer Friendly." She cut him off, and looked back up to his eyes to convey her message.

Rick pondered, briefly, how she would have known to address him as an officer. He was in plain clothes that day - a pair of khakis and a button down shirt - for his court appearance. Then he remembered his badge on his belt, tucked away under his sport coat. His hand went to it instinctively.

He was curious as to when she had spotted it - especially given her current distraction - but it didn't matter. Her tone gave off a very clear warning sign, so he nodded and moved to turn back around in his seat. She let out a sigh.

"I'm sorry." Her voice had softened just a bit. Just enough.

"Are you hurt?" He asked again.

"It'll pass." She replied. "It's an old wound. If I hit it hard enough, it hurts like it's fresh. I fell down when the train stopped, and my leg slammed right into the corner of a seat."

"Was it a broken bone?"

"No, but I had a car accident a while back and..."

She was cut off when the lights flickered again. Their eyes darted around the train, waiting for another jolt, but it didn't come. After a few moments, Rick met her eyes again.

"False alarm," he smiled, and turned around in his seat to face her more directy. "I'm Rick." She smiled back, barely. The pain seemed to be passing.

"Michonne."

"Michonne," he tried out the name on his lips.

She was striking. Had she been on board when he entered? Or did she come on after him? He couldn't remember. It was hard to believe he could have missed her before. Her full lips, dark eyes, and smooth voice seemed to command his attention, now. She looked to be about his age - mid 30s, maybe a little younger. And he guessed she would stand at just a few inches below him.

"You said you were in a car accident?" He refocused his attention.

She waved it off. "It's a long story."

I've got time. It almost rolled right off of his tongue. And for some reason, he really did want to hear how she had gotten hurt. He wanted to ask what kind of car she drove, and whether or not she had to be in the hospital. Hell, he wanted to ask how much her car insurance went up.

"Where are you headed?" He inquired. She gave him a slightly amused, slightly knowing glance.

"To work."

"Where's work?" He pried.

"Peachtree Street." Rick smirked. Her short, nondescript responses were sparking his interest all the more.

It had been so long since he'd had the feeling - years - he almost didn't recognize it. Somewhere along the way, he'd probably even convinced himself that it wouldn't happen. Not again. But here he was, feeling it. A spark. A connection. A little bit of desire, simmering just under the surface. All of it, hitting him at once like a speeding train.

"So you'll be getting off at Five Points?" His stop.

"Why do you ask?"

"Michonne…" God, he liked that name. "I was wondering how much time I have left to ask if I can see you again."

Michonne returned to work a little after one in the afternoon. Her building was smack dab in the middle of downtown Atlanta, and quite a head-turner with its twenty-seven stories and shimmering glass exterior. She entered the lobby through a revolving glass door, then waved to the receptionist, and hung a left to head down the hallway to the stairwell. Overall, it was a modern structure, but marble tile floors and ancient Roman archways added character. For color, original artworks of the city lined the walls throughout the building. Having worked there for several years, she was familiar with most of the pieces, but they still caught her attention every time.

Countless businesses in the Atlanta area held space in this building. Hers was on the second floor. She climbed two flights, then entered her suite, and headed straight for the north facing corner office, passing the empty desks of her colleagues who hadn't yet returned from lunch.

Inside the office, were two standard, computer desks in a birch cherry hard wood. One was pristine with no clutter or debris. The other was scattered with papers, books, journals, and empty coffee cups. The walls were a comfortable shade of cream, adorned with various framed accolades and achievements. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across two of the walls, while the other two were covered with tall bookshelves, overflowing with literature. Michonne walked over to the unkept desk and began unloading more crap onto it from her bag.

She turned around when she heard a knock on the door frame. It was Zeke, her boss. A tall, athletic man in his forties with grey hair and warm eyes. He was one of the top attorneys at the small personal injury law firm where they worked, and Michonne was his go-to paralegal.

Zeke had a weird, yet sweet habit of knocking before entering this office. It was, in fact, his office, which he shared with her. But he spent so much time meeting with clients at their homes - since many of them weren't well enough to travel - and in court, that she usually had the place to herself. She'd spent more than her share of early mornings and late nights in this office - conducting research, fact checking, drafting documents and correspondences - and Zeke always tried to be respectful of her time and her space.

"Hi Zeke," Michonne said with a genuine smile.

"How did the meeting with Mrs. Marsden go?" He asked, stepping over the threshold.

"Good. Her story is consistent with the biker's. An aggressive driver in a white SUV cut her off and then deliberately slammed on their brakes. She swerved to avoid crashing into them and collided with the Harley Davidson. And the jerk who caused it all drove away."

"Excellent. Dismissing the citation from the insurance company should be no problem, then. I'm sorry I couldn't be there. The Reiner case is getting...complicated." He gave her an apologetic grin. "Besides, Mrs. Marsden likes you."

Michonne shook her head to convey that no apologies were necessary, then walked around to sit at her desk, favoring her left leg as she went.

"Is everything okay?" Zeke asked, noticing her limp.

"Yeah, there was just a little turbulence on the subway this afternoon. I fell and hit my leg."

Zeke rushed forward with concern in his eyes. "Are you alright?" He was well aware of the details her recent accident. Her injuries included whiplash, a concussion, several minor cuts and bruises, and a fracture to her left femur.

"Fine. Just a little sore."

"Man, I'd love to find the guy who -"

"It's history, Zeke." Michonne said as she plopped down in her swivel chair.

"I know. People like that just drive me insane."

"That's part of what makes you such a good lawyer."

Zeke looked away, uncomfortable with taking compliments. "Anyway… A bunch of us are going out to Gibney's tonight. You should come."

"No, thanks." She contemplated whether or not to give him the reason. She and Zeke had a professional relationship, but also a casual camaraderie which she enjoyed very much. "I might...have a date." She confessed, feigning nonchalance.

"A date." Zeke eyes lit up with interest. He leaned back against his neat, tidy desk and crossed his arms over his chest, clearly expecting more details.

"I met him on the subway. When I fell, he was very concerned about my leg."

"Both of 'em, I bet." He teased. She let out a dramatic sigh, knowing that he would likely keep this up for days. "Wait, what do you mean you might have a date?"

I was wondering how much time I have left to ask if I can see you again.

Michonne surprised herself by accepting his offer on the spot. If someone had asked her that very morning if she would ever agree to go on a date with a person she'd known for four minutes, she would've said no. But there was something about him.

Initially, she had written Rick off as either a creep trying to get into her pants, or a cop trying to harass her - both of which, she was no stranger toward. However, his face revealed nothing but genuine concern for a fellow human being.

At first.

As they talked, she saw a familiar desire begin to creep into his eyes. It was strange - he had almost seemed uncomfortable with it, like it had snuck up on him. And yet, that didn't stop him from acting on it immediately. She couldn't begin to explain any of that, but she'd be damned if it wasn't intriguing as hell.

She knew she was taking a risk, in more ways than one. Her instincts told her he was a good person, someone to be trusted, and that didn't have a thing to do with his job title. But her head...

"I told him I'd go, but...I might cancel."

"Go." Zeke urged. "He sounds nice."

"He is." She admitted, speaking not as much about his personality as she was about his subtle southern accent; his umber brown hair casually slicked back, forming barely-there curls behind his ears; the crinkles at the corners of his stark, blue eyes; the bowlegged gait she'd observed as they had walked out onto the courtyard in front of the Five Points station before parting ways...

A moment passed.

"He's a cop." Michonne offered, just to see Zeke's reaction. After a split second of confusion, a laugh erupted from deep in his chest.

"Despite that…" Zeke said as he headed out of the office. "Go."

"So, I still don't know what you do." Rick said. He sat across from Michonne in a cozy little Vietnamese restaurant that she had recommended.

It was simple, chic venue. The dining area had sleek, wood-top tables and checker-back chairs. Romantic lighting emanated from sconces on the wall. Concrete floors and exposed beams gave it an industrial flare.

"I'm a paralegal. I do research, interviews...things that the attorneys are too busy for."

Rick smiled. "I know what a paralegal does."

"A lot of people don't," she said. "I've just gotten into the habit of explaining it."

The waitress interrupted to serve them their food. Michonne had ordered Pho with shrimp. Rick had asked for the same, and an iced tea. They continued their discussion while they ate.

"What kind of attorneys do you work for?" Rick asked.

"Personal injury. We mainly handle auto accidents and worker's comp cases."

He recalled their brief conversation on the subway.

"Speaking of auto accidents," he said. "Tell me about yours."

"I was downtown, and traffic was pretty heavy 'cause of a Hawks game. And I was coming through an intersection and I saw a man running down the sidewalk. And he was moving, like a bat out of hell. But I didn't think he would come right out into the street." Michonne retold the story of her accident while Rick listened intently.

"Well...he did. I swerved to avoid him, and spun out into the next lane. There was a truck coming and the driver didn't have enough time to stop and… Boom."

"Driver's side?"

"Yep."

Rick winced as the image in his mind: Michonne spinning out of control in her car, her head banging against the windows, metal crushing down on her body.

"How badly were you hurt?"

"My leg was the worst of it. And I had some cuts and scrapes. Minor concussion."

"And the guy who likes to play in traffic? They ever catch him?"

"No, he was long gone."

"What did he look like? Maybe I could -"

"Rick," she scolded playfully, pointing an admonishing finger at him. He got the picture. She did work for a personal injury firm, after all. No doubt she had exhausted the options on this one.

"Sorry," he said, holding his hands up in surrender, enjoying the sound of his name on her lips.

"I could pick him out of a crowd, though. He had an interesting style. Bald except for the top of his head. He had on a hideous leather vest two sizes too big for him…"

As she described the man, Rick began to entertain a highly unlikely coincidence. It was almost impossible. But he had been downtown a couple months ago. The night of a Hawks game. And Merle Dixon had been running from Shane. And he had that ugly ass haircut.

Rick chuckled under his breath.

"What?" Michonne asked.

"Nothing. I was just remembering that I was at a Hawks game a while back, and there was this guy -" He was cut off when his cell phone vibrated on the table.

He took a peek at it, saw the caller, and swiped the screen to decline the call.

"He was causing a bit of trouble and -," The phone vibrated again. He sighed and looked back at the screen. It was the same number.

Lori. His ex-wife.

And he knew she wouldn't be trying to reach him so persistently if it wasn't about their son, Carl.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "This...might be important." He struggled to find an explanation that didn't include the words, ex-wife or son. Not that he wasn't planning on telling Michonne about them, just not at that exact moment.

She gave him an understanding nod.

Rick stood from their table and answered the call. "Hey."

"Rick," Lori's familiar voice came through. It was hoarse and strained tonight. "Carl's in the emergency room."

Rick's heart dropped into his stomach. "What happened?"

"I don't know," she whimpered. "He was playing baseball down the street with Patrick. Patrick's mom said he just clutched his stomach and went down."

"I'm on my way."

"He wasn't conscious, Rick."

"Just stay calm. I'll be there in a thirty minutes."

"Thirty minutes?"

"I'm not at home, I'm in Atlanta."

She didn't respond to that at first. Then, "You can't get here that fast."

"I can if I break the speed limit. Look, I'll be there as soon as I can. Everything's gonna be fine." Rick hung up and turned back to Michonne. From the look on her face, she clearly gathered that he was about to cut their date short.

"Rick, you don't have to explain…"

"My son's in the hospital." He broke in. He had wanted to tell her about his son in a different way, but he certainly wasn't going to lie about where he was going just to avoid an awkward conversation.

He searched her face for a reaction, but didn't find one. She sat in silence for a beat, then her eyes revealed sympathy.

"Of course. Go." She stood up.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's okay."

"Thank you," he said, grateful that she was saying all the words he wanted to hear, but still hating having to walk out on her. Impulsively, he leaned in and brushed a kiss across her cheek to say goodbye.

They both stiffened.

It was the first time they had touched. Come and gone in the blink of an eye. His body crackled with awareness of her. The feel of her soft skin was seared onto his lips. He pulled back to look into her eyes, and he knew she felt the same thing. Unfortunately, they didn't have the time to bask in it.

"I'll call you," he murmured.

Michonne gave him a small smile.

And with that, he hurried out of the restaurant.

Michonne walked through the front door of her apartment and closed the door. She flipped the deadbolt and walked down a long entry hall that opened up to a living room on her left, and a modest kitchen and dining room on her right. Further back in the apartment was her bedroom with a quaint balcony, and a bathroom across the hallway.

The apartment itself was standard: hard wood floors, stainless steel appliances, one bedroom, one bathroom... Small, and certainly not fancy, but absolutely hers in every way. She'd accentuated it with colorful, contemporary furniture; various wall art and sculptures; and bright, vibrant plants. It was home.

She walked into the kitchen and threw her bag on the dining table before opening the freezer. She rummaged for something to satisfy her sweet tooth and came up with a container of caramel macchiato ice cream. She grabbed a spoon and headed back to her bedroom, where she kicked her shoes off into the corner. After a moment, thoughts of Rick crept back in on her.

She worried for him. There was a raw terror in his eyes that told her whatever landed his son in the hospital could have been very serious.

His son.

She hadn't guessed, but she wasn't surprised.

He was easily in his mid to late thirties. He told her he'd lived in the small town of Mansfield all his life, and had been with the Covington County Police Department for the past twelve years. His partner, Shane, was his best friend since high school. He enjoyed watching old movies after a long day at work. He liked to play basketball on his days off.

He seemed settled, stable, reliable...someone who would make a good father. She couldn't imagine he'd ever had trouble finding someone to procreate with. He didn't exactly stand out in a crowd, but once you saw him… God, it was impossible to see anything else.

Michonne began her evening routine, slipping out of her jeans and top that she'd worn for her date. She unhooked her bra and went to discard it in her top dresser drawer. Inside, nestled between colorful bras and underwear was a small object. She always kept it there. Tonight, she picked it up. She worked it back and forth in her hands, examining it for the hundredth time, not feeling any particular way about it.

She put it back, closed the drawer.

She pulled an oversized, overworn Cal State t-shirt over her head, grabbed her ice cream, and plopped down on her bed. Grabbing the remote, she started to scan through the channels, looking specifically for a campy horror flick. If there was one thing comparable to an evening with a blue-eyed country boy, she mused, this was it.