The first time's an accident. She's sitting at her desk, scribbling frantically at a quiz that she forgot to finish the night before. He's goofing around with Cersei and a couple other cheerleaders, demonstrating a new play that Coach (blank's) been working on. He's pretending to go long, reaching to the ceiling for an imaginary football, when his foot twists beneath him and he falls sideways. He turns, trying to catch himself, but their mouths collide before he can do anything about it. He lands in her lap and watches her turn bright, almost Lannister red. She stutters. He laughs.
The second time, he's drunk. The party's just picking up but Jaime's mood is going south fast. Cersei's ditched him for her newest boy toy, a Rick or a Robert or some other stupid name like that. So he parties. He plays beer pong and dances with people he doesn't know. But mostly, he drinks. He's going for a refill, failing miserably at remembering where the liquor cabinet is, when he sees her. She's curled up on the couch between Margaery and Sansa, and the weird little sophomore whose name Jaime can't quite recall. She's holding a red plastic cup to her lips, and she's running one hand through her short blonde hair and god the wench has no right to look that good when he feels so bad. He's not sure what happens next—he knows he ends up by the couch, he knows he says something rude. He knows that one minute she's towering over him, roaring insults and splashing flat beer in his face, and the next he's clutching at the collar of her blazer and standing on his tip-toes to plant a sloppy, wet kiss on her thin stupid lips. She's blinking down at him with those big blue eyes and alcohol flushed cheeks and for the first time that night, Jaime smiles.
The third time's on purpose. She's running laps with the swim team, keeping up a steady pace but never going faster than she has to. Jaime's sitting on the bleachers with his Psychology textbook propped against his knees, pages fluttering in the wind, and he's watching her. Watching the way her t-shirt flutters in the wind, revealing a thin strip of tanned, muscled abdominals. The way she grins when Pod—that's the awkward sophomore's name—calls something to her from halfway across the field. The way her legs pump beneath her and the quick, steady breaths she takes as she breaks away from her team and climbs the bleacher steps to stand in front of him and ask if he has a problem with her. She's not expecting for him to ask if he can kiss her. He's not expecting her to say yes. He's definitely not expecting her to lean forward and kiss him right there, or to feel her smiling at his astonishment. Later, he says he'll take her to dinner and she nods like it's a fact.
The fourth time, he's angry—so angry that his hands are shaking, and he can barely keep his voice low as he talks to Brienne. Tells her exactly what he's going to do to those ugly bastards when he gets a hold of them, tells her that she deserves better and that he's sorry, so sorry. Her hair's still wet from swim practice, and she's got a Band-Aid over the gash on her cheek. She tells him it's fine and tries to hold his hand but he won't take it. He should have seen it coming. He should have stopped them. He should have been there for her.
She sighs and grabs his arm, pulling him to an unwilling halt. She puts a hand on the back of his neck and tells him that he's going to walk her home like usual. Or else. He doesn't like the way the phrase sounds on her tongue, or the steely glint in her eyes when she takes his arm again. So he walks her home—quiet, fuming, confused—and she lets him kiss her on her front porch as they sit together and listen to the night time. Tomorrow, she says, they'll talk to Principal Stark. They'll do the right thing. And he agrees with her, because he likes the way she feels sitting next to him with her fingers running along the waistband of his jeans and her head leaning on his shoulder.
The fifth time is perfect. It's summertime, and they've driven an hour out of town to a meadow that Brienne heard about from Renly and Loras. Golden grass waves in the breeze and Jaime spreads out a blanket beneath a big old tree. They sit down and unpack their lunch—sandwiches, chips, HoHos and juice boxes, since neither of them really knows how to cook. They talk while they eat, mostly about college; where they want to go, what they want to be. It makes Jaime cold inside, to think that in a month or so they might be separating, going to different cities and meeting different people. When he says so, Brienne lowers her sandwich and beckons him over to her side of the blanket. She leans against him and slides an arm around his waist and tells him that she wouldn't let him go even if he wanted her too. He asks her when she turned into such a sap and she shoves him backwards into the grass. He pulls her with him and they tumble over each other in a tangle of limbs and laughter until they stop and he's staring down into her blue eyes and his hand's on her waist and she's turning red, but not from embarrassment. She tells him to kiss her, quick. And he obliges.