Day 1:

Allura cursed to herself as she stumbled into the train. Her high heels were killing her feet and she'd only had to walk from her apartment to the T stop so far. Boston was a small city, much smaller than London she imagined, but with no limo and no driver she was strictly a pedestrian commuter.

She studied the Green Line map on the wall of the car to see how many stops before she'd have to switch subway lines. It was difficult to concentrate with all the noises and smells surrounding her, not to mention the trouble she was having standing up. Every stop left her grabbing tighter onto the silver handrails as the momentum tried to throw her forward.

It took three stops before she realized she'd gotten on the outbound train by mistake.

"Maybe I should have done a dry run like Pidge suggested," she murmured angrily to herself as she clamored from the train.

Once clear she crossed the tracks to wait for the next inbound. Thankfully she'd given herself plenty of extra time this morning, although she had intended to use it to stop for coffee and a pastry. At the very least she needed a coffee and in this city, there were no shortages of shops thank the ancients.

Twenty minutes later she was at the station and moving along with a wave of bodies down to the Red Line. As she stepped off the escalator her heel caught in the grate, sending her stumbling down under the rush of commuters. Luckily, she didn't hit the ground too hard but the constant shove of zombie-like humans prevented her from standing up. On the plus side, no one was taking pictures that might end up in a sleazy tabloid.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Looking up she spotted a man in a red jacket, baseball cap pulled low over his face. His hand was extended toward her, either to help her up or to steal her purse. Stuff like that happened on subways all the time, and this guy looked a bit shady. Yet she was moved to take his hand despite her misgivings.

It was warmer than the expected, the leather of his fingerless gloves considerably softer than his calloused fingers. He was probably a day laborer, which meant he was likely unaware of her unearned Paris Hilton-esque reputation back home in London. Being the daughter of a wealthy weapons manufacturer drew a lot of unfair scrutiny, which is why she chose to pursue her graduate degree in the States.

"Yes, thank you," she replied after pulling herself to a stand.

That's when she noticed the guitar case at his feet.

"Oh, you're a musician?" she queried as she brushed herself off. That explains the fingers, then.

"Um, yeah, you could say that," he responded awkwardly.

"Well, thanks again…um," she paused, waiting for him to introduce himself.

Then she noticed his eyes, the most beautiful shade of blue, darker and steelier than her own. Almost inhuman, she mused. His glance flickered in her direction; their eyes locked and they were awash in a struggle between stormy seas and calm ocean. Neither seemed to want to look away, until an angry voice from the crowd reminded them they were standing in the middle of the walkway.

The young man broke contact first, reaching down to pick up his instrument.

"Name's Keith," he muttered.

"Ah, Keith. Thanks for your help, I'd better be on my way," she replied before stopping herself from leaving. "Sorry, my name's Allura, nice to meet you."

"Same," was his only response, his body shifting nervously under her gaze.

She knew that response. Anyone meeting a celebrity for the first time had it. Not that she technically was one, but she'd somehow achieved that status based on the amount of money in her checking account. Better to just walk away before anyone else catches on, she thought.

"Well, I suppose this is goodbye then," she responded, trying to disguise her disappointment that he didn't answer.

On the platform, the crowd had spread out end to end, likely to eliminate a logjam of riders getting on through the same doors. She also noticed that, despite the expensive suits and dresses many of the professional workers were wearing, many had on sneakers and carried their dress shoes in a bag. Too bad Pidge couldn't have given her that kind of advice. What else did her roommate forget to tell her?

All her years growing up she was never allowed to ride public transportation for security reasons. Now Allura felt a bit lost, hoping she'd soon become more adept at this. Today, however, she was a lost little girl. She hugged her bag closer to her chest, feeling a little like crying and a lot like screaming.

Everything was forgotten as she heard the strum of someone tuning a guitar. Was it Keith? Maybe he was a street musician like she saw in the movies. She shifted a few steps backward to spot him sitting on the bench nearest the exit. Soon a melody wafted through the air, his fingers plucking the strings of her heart like a virtuoso.

Soon a crowd was circling Keith. Instead of offering money, however, they were pulling cellphones out of their pockets and purses. Everyone was recording it, some young girls giggling excitedly.

"Never seen folks get so excited about a singing street rat before," an older man next to her complained.

She rolled her eyes behind the man's back. Curious, she turned to move closer to Keith, hoping to see him through the throng of people. Finally, a train pulled into the station which cleared out half the group. With her now less obstructed view she watched as his eyes scanned the audience, only stopping once he'd spotted her. Yet again she was under his spell, unable to look anywhere but his gaze.

Just then another wave of commuters cut between them, and she was reminded that she had someplace to be. With any luck, he was a regular on this route so maybe she would see him again.

With any luck, he'd be looking for her, too.

Day 6:

Monday came around too quickly, yet not quickly enough. Working at the British Consulate was exhausting, what with the talk of a potential war. Many citizens from the U.K. were anxiously checking to see if their visas were still good and if there was a contingency plan should an attack happen on American soil.

On the plus side though she might see Keith again, even if just for a moment.

For the rest of the previous week she had scanned the crowd in search of her hero. To her disappointment he didn't seem to be a regular rider. She would keep looking anyway, certain that it wasn't a fluke they met the first time around. It felt as though her head was on a swivel, checking every angle for his red jacket or his ebony hair. As she stood on the damp concrete of the Red Line station a familiar song broke her thoughts.

That voice. It had to be Keith, and it felt like he was calling out to her.

Once again, she joined the crowd that encircled him, cursing that her sneakers didn't give her as much height as her heels. Luckily the horde soon thinned as the next train pulled to a stop.

She pushed through the remaining group of gawkers once the song ended, extending her hand to the handsome musician.

"I don't need money, thanks," he said, waving her off as he put his instrument away.

"Then how about lunch," she offered, causing him to look up. "It's my card, call me when you're free."

He hesitantly reached for the business card, running his thumb absently over the raised print of her name.

"I'm really okay, you know," he repeated.

"And I wouldn't have been had it not been for your help," she argued, hoping he'd at least agree to one measly meal together.

"It was nothing, really," he began, "but lunch with you would be nice. I'll call when I can, but I have to take off for now." He stood and offered her a small bow.

Grabbing his guitar case, he ducked his head down before threading his way onto the stairwell. As she watched him walk into the rush of travelers she waved sadly to the back of his head.

"Goodbye, just for now I hope."