First story, bare with me, pleease? I know this is really short (851 words!), but no way will they ever be so short. Again.

Feel free to review this little tid-bit of shit, lovelies.

He sat, alone, behind the slightly gleaming window right under the sign that read "Starbucks Coffee."

His knees were tucked up between his chest and the small brown table that held a disarray of two-inch-width-and-over books. A pencil was behind his ear, tucked into the even more mess of bronze hair upon his head. A hand was trapped in its tangles, the elbow resting on the knee furthest away from the window and he scratched at the stubble on his jawbone. He then reached down and fidgeted with something below the frame of the window before he looked around and put a cigarette between his full lips. He lit the end and tossed the lighter on the open book before him. His eyes closed leisurely as he sucked in a long stream and blew out the corner of his mouth, a move intended to be inconspicuous. An ash fell from the cigarette, and his hand shot up to my vision, being shook all about, ridding itself of the immediate burn. His mouth formed a word, which just had to be a swear. A petite waitress came up behind him, looking slightly annoyed, and tapped him on the shoulder. She began speaking to him, maybe in a soft voice, and he smiled up at her--dear God, he smiled up at her--in a shit-eating grin that would piss anyone off. Her eyes narrowed, and one could tell her voice was rising. He took another drag, held it in, and blew in in her direction, then stubbed out the heat on the table. He looked at her with an almost-perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised, and stood up. His lanky form was about a foot and a half taller than hers. He placed the butt in a pocket sewed into her green apron. She looked up at him with a shocked expression splayed out on her features. He simply packed up his supplies, slung his bag across his shoulder, and left with one last genuine smile in her direction. The door to the coffee shop swung open and he walked out, made friction-heat with his hands, blew into them. Dark eyes scanned a familiar scene, the Seattle boardwalk. Dark eyes landed on mine.

Oh, shit. The only thing I could do was look down at the stupid word search book that I had dropped on my lap. I scrambled to pick it up, look like I was absolutely riveted with the letters, the order they were put in. Because it was just absolutely riveting. Kind of.

My eyes accidentally traveled back up to his general direction, to see if he was still there, because when I was being honest, he was interesting: from his captivating eyes to the almost humorous, amiable way his body moved. He stared back at me curiously, until something clicked in his head and he looked down with his eyebrows furrowed. His jaw tightened and he walked towards the end of the boardwalk, but turned his feet and walked the totally opposite way, downtown. A hand flew through his hair again, tugged, and I looked back down. Wordbook, wordbook, wordbook. Focus, on the word puzzle, dumbass. I'd just been mentally-attacked by this boys beauty, while he was standing maybe 20 feet away from me. Damnit.

EPOV

Sitting at my makeshift dining room table in my kitchen (two heavy cardboard boxes with a sheet of metal balancing on top), I considered spending the rest of my life with the nosy brunette across the street from the boardwalk Starbucks.

I would bet she was really wife-like. She knew how to cook, one could assume. She probably knew how to clean. Albeit these things didn't mean shit to me, it was something a man was supposed to consider, and since I was at least 95% man…

She had to be into English. She was probably majoring in it. English majors were freehearted, friendly. She also had logic, she was smart, she knew her vocabulary. Yes, I'd gathered this from the WordSmart puzzles book she'd hid her face behind.

Which brought me to my next bullet point in this mental Power Presentation: Nosy Brunette was gorgeous. She was absolutely beautiful. She was fuck-all hot, and her humbled knowledge of this only added on to the score. She didn't feel the need to prance around town with her hair all done, eyes like raccoons, and wearing hot-pink fuck-me-daddy-pumps. She was a neutral beauty, which, unless she had an overpowering need to burp and or fart at dinner tables, meant she was a bring-home-to-momma kind of girl. Which, unless you're asking for a world of hurt someway or another, was a great thing.

I forked a wound bunch of gourmet noodle salad into my mouth. I thoughtfully swallowed. Perfect. Now all I'd needed to do was gather my balls and talk to her unlike a scared little 11 year old boy.

My buzzer sounded and I let Lauren in.