There was always something different about Sam. You remember flickers of raven and a dazzling smile. The faint scent of tobacco and a reckless laugh. Pure and unfraid. You remember gravitating towards it, your stiff upper lip barely intact: "You're not supposed to be in the restricted section of the library."

The girl turned abruptly, leaving her makeout partner in suspense against the dusty shelf. God, the books were in absolute shambles! At least you'd found the root of the problem.

"Fuck. Sorry..." Came the sheepish reply. American, it seemed, with a hint of something else. Chinese? You couldn't be sure.

"Well I'm afraid you'll need to clean up that mess. This isn't a nightclub, and I'm not your butler."

She had this weird expression on her face. Disarming. Then she was brushing off your disapproval with a grin.

"I'm Sam." She said, too warmly. What's your name?"

Her hand was already stretched out expectantly.

A strange ire rapidly began to flutter its way up your throat."Look. I don't have time for idle chit chat. If you and your boyfriend - " and you pointed a damning finger in the young man's direction " - don't shelve those books and leave, I'm calling security."

"Woah, easy soldier." She winked, unperturbed.

Your mouth opened, but the scripted reprimands you'd practised for situations just like these (thousands of times) wouldn't come. Artemis, have mercy. Suddenly the ire was spreading, infecting every pore of your body with tiny electric shocks. But your eyes kept lingering. Obviously, your brain was just trying to decode the puzzle before you. Then something in your knee went limp. You made a blind grab for the nearest bookshelf, but stumbled forward instead, wildly off balance.

"Hey I got you - you ok sweetie?"

Warm hands steadied your shoulders, burning the skin they touched, and you quickly realised she was holding you, hyper aware of the lack of distance, the melodic sound of her voice, the glossy film covering her lips -

"I'm fine." The words tumbled out, brusque, dismissive. In an instant you'd pushed yourself away. Your thoughts were jumbled. Winston was definitely right about pulling too many all-nighters (you'd never tell him that). "Just clean the books, please." You repeated, a bit too stern.

"Roger."

Dazed and confused, you turned around, the soothing bowl of canned pumpkin soup in your sardine-tight studio flat on your mind. Since moving out of Croft manor, you'd been forced to sacrifice some of life's finer culinary delights, but there was no way you could just accept your parents' inheritance - you weren't about to become one of those sordid trust find kids. A breezy gush of laughter brought your introspection to a halt. It was that girl. Sam. A soft tingling filled your ears, compelled you to turn. Your eyes landed on her first. Specifically, the way her arm was casually draped around that bloke's shoulder and the negligible distance between them. It really shouldn't have made you so irate, seeing as they were in fact straightening out the disaster, and yet.

The stress was getting to you, was all. Your dad aways loved nattering on about how working too many jobs wasn't a good idea, but you liked keeping busy. A bit like your mum. She had an annoying ability to see right through you, really dig out your emotions - even ones you hadn't realised - so you'd started calling her Amelia Kent, much to her displeasure. "Lara, are you listening to me? The Davies chap is attractive and extremely hard working, I can arrange a meeting with his mother if you'd like. Lara?" One day, she'd illegally entered your room on a mad cleaning spree and come out with a knowing expression on her face: "My girl, don't be embarrassed to tell your own mother if you fancy Lulu instead of Lennon." And that was the last straw really. It motivated you to fix your door with a lock and tear down all the posters of female archaeologists on your wall. This was the only topic on which your mother, God bless her soul, was completely wrong. Sometimes you liked to place a bouquet of gardenias around her photo in memory. They were her favourite. Your dad's too.

You kicked off your boots, inhaling the variety store air freshener (potpourri this time) before closing the door to the outside world. Lara's lookout was endearingly claustrophobic. You'd grown incredibly fond of the bird who decided your roof was a suitable living space, too. It was nice to have an occasional distraction from your studies. And if not for Mr. Chirpy, you'd probably miss your morning lecture on Southeast Asian ethnoarchaeology - definitely in the top three most interesting classes you'd enrolled in. That was when your mind shifted unexpectedly. Sam had to be Southeast Asian, but there was something in her appearance that looked almost European. Was it the pinkish tint on her cheeks? No, it was her eyes, the imperceptible taupe that betrayed her mixed ancestry. Damn it. Now you remember what tipped you off. The constellation of freckles covering the bridge of her noise! That's right, you noticed it when you were close, her body pressed against yours, gentle, surprisingly pleasant, and dizzying, and her pretty mouth uttering words you weren't quite concentrating on and -

"Oh my God."

You slammed your fist into the wall, and silently thanked the stars your mum wasn't here to witness this moment. Then you vowed to do everything in your power to avoid Sam from that point on, starting with pumpkin soup.

Two weeks later

Operation: avoid Sam was going extremely well. There had been one instance in the cafeteria where you spotted her at the last moment, but thankfully, she was too preoccupied with friends and didn't notice you. She just seemed like the sort who'd accost you with an overzealous hug - even if she barely knew you - and after your shocking realisation a fortnight ago, you really didn't want to deal with that.

You frowned. This morning's lecture was unusually crowded, which could only mean one thing. The 'party crowd' was coming out of hibernation mode to do some exam preparation - eleventh hour, as usual. You sighed, found yourself an empty seat and pulled out your notebook, pen at the ready. Dr. Whitman was a good professor, even if he was rockstar levels of dishevelled. The other students had nicknamed him Axl Rose. You couldn't blame them.

"Hi, is this seat taken?"

You looked up to the right, and instantly wished you hadn't.

"Hey! It's you!" Sam sat down, excitement all over her face. Naturally, she was completely oblivious to your dramatic internal monologue and plans to escape.

"So...I never got your name last time."

This was it. The moment you'd been dreading. Somehow the universe itself must have been conspiring against you, but you thought of Joan of Arc, and summoned the courage to face the batallion.

"Lara. Lara Croft."

Sam flashed a smile.

"You're really photogenic, you know? Can I take your picture?"

Your face was on fire. Not literally. But you sure as hell felt like you were burning up. You watched her pull out a polaroid from nowhere, and visibly cringed.

"Oh come on, all the great cinematographers need to take pictures of their friends first."

Friend. Cinematography.

"Wait - what did you say?"

Sam looked at you with a quizzical expression.

"This is Frontiers of Cinematography, right?"

Dr. Whitman coughed into his microphone. "Jason, if you don't stop playing November Rain I'm going to ask you to exit the theatre." A burst of quiet giggles erupted in the audience. "Now. I hope you've all read up on last week's manuscript, because this week we're jumping to ancient Japan, and the latter half is all exam prep." He flicked to the first slide of his presentation - an elegant woman dressed in red and white robes, a golden crown upon her head, hair done in a shimada mage style -

"Hey, that's Himiko!"

Your head snapped towards Sam in disbelief.

"Very good! Miss -"

"-Nishimura." Sam provided, suddenly fascinated by the content of a class she apparently wasn't even registered in. Whitman nodded. He was impressed.

"As Miss Nishimura just pointed out, this beautiful creature's name is Himiko. She was an angry sun queen, a matriarch, and she ruled over the island of Yamatai from dawn till dusk."

Sam grinned, and turned to face you.

"Is this some history class? I love it!"

She had the most unique blend of clueless intelligence you'd ever come across. She was Japanese, not Chinese, and you were right, those ruddy spots on her nose were a dead giveaway as to her cross-continental roots. And if Himiko was a beautiful creature? Sam was breathtaking.

"I have a feeling we're going to be best friends, you and me." She said, placing her hand on your bare arm and giving it a loving squeeze. Your felt your heart hammering silently, and you knew. You knew that no matter how much you tried to avoid fate, you had already lost the war.