"I'm serious, mom, he stole my phone right out of my hands. Like he owned me. I felt owned."

I don't know how many college students call up their moms after just a few days of "adult life", but I'll admit to it; I'm a mommy's girl. If I thought I could risk the self-loathing afterward, I'd be balling into the speaker right now about just how much I miss her and dad and my snobby little sister.

But the thought of my roommate walking in and seeing me reduced a snotty, wet-eyed mess keeps my emotions in check just enough.

You see, I just have to live up to the college cliché of rooming with the perfectly stunning roommate. If I had ever attempted to go to a psychic, I'm sure that specific detail would have been in my cards.

Her name is Naomi Misora. The woman every fashion artist begged to model their leather jackets and high heeled boots.

I haven't really gotten to know her yet (yeah, it might be jealousy) but the few conversations we've shared have already proved her queenliness. Her hair, for one; I'm sure she stole it off of Cleopatra's head and surgically implanted the strands into her follicles. It's to die for. If I were a couple levels more crazy than I already am I'd fear not being able to resist the temptation to shave it off in the middle of the night and keep it for myself.

She's nice, to boot.

And super smart.

But not as smart as I'm sure my dandy sociology partner is.

"Imagine a Sheldon Cooper with more social intelligence," I say over the phone, "he's probably a control freak, as seen in the thievery of my cellular, and no one in their right mind would take so many classes in one term unless their brain is, in fact, the size of their ego."

"Hm, is he cute?"

And... that's my mom. Apparently I dated little enough in High School to warrant her extreme anxiety toward the limited field of my love life.

She probably just thinks I'm going to end up an old, single woman with 99 cats.

Which is just a great big ol' boost to my confidence for sure.

"Does it matter?" I begrudge to ask.

"Of course it does. At the very least if you're going to be spending a semester with an egocentric genius, I hope for your sake he's decent to look at."

Okay, so maybe I misjudge her a little bit.

"You have a point there," I say. "He definitely has his perks. Not really my type, though. Too pretty."

"Your type only exists in fiction, Mag."

Nope, I take it back; no misjudgments here.

I sigh my way down to the bed, (which is like five feet off the ground for some reason; I don't know what they thought the average height for women was when they made these) performing the best of my dramatics for the ceiling. "Life really is hopeless, isn't it, mother?"

"When you say it like that it is."

"I suppose," the jingalings of a text notification nearly force my eardrum into hiding, to reveal a message from, lo and behold-

Light-bulb.

"Huh, look at that," I put my mom on speaker, reading the text aloud, "Hey Maggie. How are you? Yadda yadda yadda, I like to talk a lot, can you meet me at the Farha CaféBar on Gower Street in thirty minutes? I hope you have some ideas for the project!"

"Really? A café? That sounds kind of fancy!"

"This is London, mom," I say, "everything sounds fancy."

"Well, good luck," she lets out a little sigh (see where I get it from?), "I wish your dad would take me to a café sometimes, but all I get to do is drive your sister to school and buy her tampons."

"Oh man, I'm just so excited to grow up and get married and have crying, pooping babies."

"That's why God made it impossible not to grow up," she says, "because he knew it would suck and that none of us would want to. Love you."

"Yup. Love you too."

When I hang up, the distance becomes real again. I have to get up off my bed and wander around, take a pee, criticize myself in the mirror in order to keep from crying. The last part doesn't do much for me, but I've gotten over the years of staring in the mirror and bursting into hopeless, tyrannical tears. Looks are just whatever by now. I'm not so disillusioned by the mirror to think of myself as ugly, just not the turning heads and hearing catcalls type of pretty. Which honestly isn't too bad. I keep to myself for the most part, anyway.

Though some attention, occasionally, wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

There's a fine balance to be had.

I smile at myself anyway. My teeth are one of my best assets. My smile in general, so I hear. I personally think that it tends to make my cheeks look wide and scrunch up my eyes a little too much, but hey, to each his own.

As long as I remember to put a bra on every day, I'm good to go.

I give my black strands a good tousle (yup, there's that sexy, bedhead look I know) and that's that. I'm about on my way out the door when I'm stopped short; it swings open for me.

And so enters the Queen.

"Oh hi," Naomi smiles at me, making me suddenly shamed by my own. "You going out?"

"Yup," I smack my hands together, "I'm meeting up with my sociology partner."

"Oh really? Where at?"

"Farhaven Café or something like that?"

"Farha?" She corrects me. "That's just on the edge of campus. Have you ever been or do you need directions?"

"He said it was on Gower Street."

Naomi tips her head and smiles, like I just said something cute. "Gower Street is pretty long. I can walk you there, if you'd like. I just got out of class so I need to stretch my legs."

My first thought is to make excuses about how "I'm sure I'll find it", and that "I don't want her to go through the trouble", or that "I'm afraid we'll just walk in awkward silence because I totally don't know what to say to you besides how pretty you are and stuff".

But if I get lost...

Light would be the only person who I could call for directions.

Any awkward silence is worth not having to do that.

"Sure! I'd really appreciate that."

The Queen hadn't been lying; Gower Street is long.

The further Naomi walks the more I start to wonder just how far away this café is, and just how big this University must be. At least London's streets are nice to look at, if stone and wrought iron gates against a gray tinged sky are your thing (definitely mine).

The best thing is that the pressure is off me, because Naomi knows her small talk.

"So, your sociology Professor is already doing group work, huh?"

I tip my head back to the sky, watching the clouds swirl in different combinations of gray. Who would have thought that gray could be made up of so many shades and tints.

"You have no idea," I tell the sky, "We have this group experiment that makes up more than half of our final grade. And we're supposed to work on it, all semester, with one partner, all semester."

"Wow. I see the battle."

"Yeah... and honestly, the guy I'm partnered with seems a little... difficult to work with."

Naomi laughs. "Is that the nice way of putting it?"

"Yes,"

"Hey, I'm not opposed to sitting in on your study date, if you think you might need the support. I've handled most forms of douche-bag at their worst."

The way she says it, I think she must be making a joke, but I have to thank whatever luck is on my side that I look at her face before laughing. She doesn't look upset necessarily, just suddenly distant, like she's reminded herself of something she'd rather forget.

I want to ask, but I don't.

"Here it is," Naomi says.

We stop at another short building stacked by taupe colored stone, at the corner of a four-way intersection. Small windows line the upper floor, barred by black, metal grates, while through the larger windows on the street floor I see tables and chairs, populated by students, pastries, and coffee cups. I don't see Light directly, but that doesn't stop me from staring through the glass at the other students as if they are the cause of my misfortune.

"I was serious," Naomi says, with one fist curved against her hip, "I'll stay with you if you really want me to."

I wave her off, and try to make it look confident. "Nah, I'm good. It's not like he's a mass murderer... I think."

"We'll swap numbers anyway. That way I'm only a few buttons and an excuse to use the bathroom away."

We even swap them the normal way, my phone in my hands and no theft involved.

Such an act of normalcy makes me sad to watch her leave.

I buzz my lips and stare at the outside of the café, waiting to see the windows animate themselves into eyes and the doors spread into an open mouth that swoops down to swallow me whole. I don't know what it is about this guy that makes me want to turn the other direction, but just standing outside the all-seeing glass like a total creeper isn't going to make my situation any better.

I push the doors open with my palm and step inside.

Ground coffee beans make an immediate, welcome entrance in my nostrils. The mere scent warms me from the inside out. I breathe a deep inhale and close my eyes, releasing it like the exhaust from a cigarette. It's when I reopen my eyes and look around that I become disappointed. The interior doesn't quite match the smell, if you ask me. This is definitely a college-owned coffee shop, light taupe walls and ceilings, occasionally broken up by a wall lined in multidimensional brick and wide, curtain-free windows. Laminate planks line the floors, topped with scattered clumps of round wooden tables and matching chairs.

Yup, not as fancy as it sounds.

I look to the far end of the seating area and find Light, sitting with his chair tucked into a corner. He must have some sort of extra-sensory perception to be able to look up the very moment I spot him.

"You made it," he says when I walk up, "When you didn't respond to my text I thought I might have actually forgotten your number."

"Sorry," I say, more out of habit than anything, "I got distracted on the way here."

"By what?"

He gets out of his chair and starts walking back toward the ordering stand, obviously expecting me to follow.

A big part of me thinks about just standing out of defiance, but... .

"My roommate," I follow him anyway, "she caught me on my way out and offered to walk me here."

"Who is your roommate?"

"Naomi Misora," I say, "why?"

"Just wondering. She's in my criminal investigations class. Sharp girl."

I'm initially surprised that his first observation isn't regarding her gorgeousness, but if he really is all brain and no brawn, it would make sense.

Or he's gay.

Also a possibility.

"Yes, she is," I say, and leave it at that.

Light orders a coffee black from a male student in a purple, Farha polo. Then he turns his head over his shoulder and asks, "What are you getting?"

"Uh," I pat my jean pockets and realize, with a sinking, I'm-not-even-getting-coffee-for-this feeling, that my bump in with Naomi didn't just leave me forgetting text messages. "Shoot, I guess I forgot my wallet too."

"I'm paying."

"No," I wave him off, "really, if I can't survive without caffeine for one day that's a problem I need to start working on."

"It's not a big deal."

"Nope, I'm good."

"Maggie,"

"Honestly, I'm fine!"

"Stop fighting me."

"Why?"

"Order a coffee."

"Thai Iced Tea, please."

The barista looks from Light to me with a smirk that throws me into true, red-cheeked embarrassment. I'm not usually so vocal in public; causing scenes isn't something I like to do. Accidental scenes happen often enough, and I come out of them feeling like a complete idiot every time.

Light though, he isn't concerned.

Shocker.

"I forgot to ask you what your major is when we first met," Light says, as we wait for our drinks by the counter.

"I haven't decided."

"I see," is his response, and to be honest, it comes off a little judgey.

I'm hesitant to ask the same question of him, but I'm a sucker for social protocol. "What about you?"

"European Social and Political Studies BA."

"That's a mouthful."

"Kind of, huh? Graduating here will get me into placement with the Political Science department at Oxford University, where I'll get my Masters."

The barista hands us our drinks (winking at me in the process, setting my cheeks aflame once again), and we walk back to our table in a silence that is, for me, desired.

But I never expected it to last long.

"So," Light says, swirling his coffee with the straw, "have you thought about a topic we can experiment on yet?"

I don't know why he even bothers to ask; I'm sure he already knows that I haven't given a lick of thought toward our project. Just the audacity of my partner.

Not that I'll tell him that.

"Honestly, no," I say, "just getting into the flow of college classes has been, uh... consuming."

"I was thinking that maybe we could focus on analyzing ethnicity and gender bias in some way. At a school like this, where there are so many different groups and subgroups of races I thought it might be interesting to really see if there is little or more bias in an area where cultural diversity is pronounced. Or we could study how common certain crimes are among University students, and experiment with different people to see the reactions toward their peers when they find out that a student has committed particularly heinous acts, even if we're just bluffing-"

He stops, and it's only when the space between us goes silent that I realize I've been staring out the window, the whole time. I try to cover up my goof as quickly as possible, but he's already noticed.

There's a moment when his eyes blaze out of pure insult that I would intentionally (not intentionally) and indignantly (not indignantly) look bored during his monologue. I give credit where credit is due, though, and he deserves some for not storming out of the café like I thought he might.

The kid has elf-control than I imagined someone with his, ahem, "personality", would be capable of.

"Have I done something to offend you?" he asks.

The question catches me so off guard that I have to sit my chair back on four legs before it topples me backwards mercilessly. "Huh?"

"Since the moment you stepped through those doors you wished you were anywhere else but here."

"No," okay, I fib, a little, "and how would you know anyway?"

"Your body language, for one; you stare out the window hopelessly while I talk, slump your shoulders, never smile. You refused to let me buy you a cup of coffee until I practically forced you to. This project has obviously been the last thing on your mind, and while I understand working with a partner can be difficult, you don't even want to try." His eyes narrow at me the tiniest bit, not to try and intimidate, but almost as if he's trying to see through me. "I've been trying to figure you out since you walked in today and the scenario I think most probable is that you dislike me for some reason."

And just like that, he figures it out. Some of it anyway.

How freaky is that? Most guys are as dumb as a sack of bricks when it comes to even recognizing a woman's emotions, and I was trying not to plaster mine on my sleeve.

"Okay," I slump back in my chair, avoiding eye contact. "It's just that, you came off a little strong the other day. Stealing my phone right out of my hands? Is that some kind of compulsive control need you have going on?"

"That's what you're upset about?"

"Should I not be?"

He actually looks the slightest bit stumped. "Girls usually like that kind of thing."

"... What kind of girls do you know?"

"There are certain kinds?" he laughs a little, and folds his arms against his chest. "To be honest, I didn't have to work very hard to get attention in High School. There were a lot of girls who would practically throw themselves at me, and whenever I tried something like that on them, I always benefited from it. They liked it when I took charge."

"Ohhh," I say, tapping a finger against my temple, "you tend to attract the 'easy' types."

"Is that so?"

"The way I hear it, yeah."

He's smirking now. "So don't do that with you."

"Don't do that with me."

"Right," he takes a sip of his coffee, "I have to warn you though, it's become a habit."

"Yeah," I shrug a shoulder, "I guess most geniuses probably have control issues."

He looks up at me, past the rim of his cup, and there's a grin in his eyes that makes me immediately notice my blunder.

"Genius?" he says.

I nod to the ceiling, giving myself a good slap across the brain, "And egotism. Which I just fed even though the sign told me not to."

Light laughs. "So, what do you think? Do any of those project ideas sound like something you'd want to try?"

"Are you asking me to be honest with you?"

"Of course."

"They bore me,"

His eyebrows raise so high they disappear behind his bangs. "Really?"

Well, at least he still looks amiable, not murderous.

Considering I just made an outright insult.

"Yeah," I say, keeping tabs on his reactions, "look, if I'm going to have to work on a project all semester long, it's got to be good enough to have me waking up in the morning excited to participate. Otherwise, this whole partnership is going to flop. We have to get creative."

"Creative, huh?" he leans back in his chair, arms folded again.

Must be his thinking pose.

"Creative," I nod, "and when I say that I mean out-of-the-box, random, ridiculous creative."

"I can't say that's my style."

"Want to give it a go anyway?"

His expression stays muted, so muted and for so long that it starts to renew my nerves. I have a hard time with people who can do that. I can't keep my reactions off of my face no matter how hard I try, but he's obviously done his homework.

I have no idea what he's thinking.

Which kind of bugs me.

"Sure," he says, finally.

"Really?"

"Why not?" he lifts his shoulders all easy and nonchalant. "It's important to stretch different muscles in your brain, and I can't say random, ridiculous creativity is something I'm used to."

I wave a hand. "Eh, you just need to get into the swing of it."

"How do you suggest?"

Well now... asking me for advice already? Maybe he does have a sense of humility.

"On long road trips there's a game I used to play with my mom," I tell him, rolling my now empty coffee cup around by the straw. "I would say the first two things that pop into my head, and put them together; like purple elephants, something random. Then she would do the same. We'd keep coming up with things and say them, back and forth, until one of us would stall for more than five seconds and lose the game. It might help to get the juices flowing at least."

"Sounds interesting. You start."

"Okay. Fiery Platypuses."

"... Angry clowns."

"Bad Buffalo."

"Blue books."

"Salty bricks."

"Thirteen monkeys."

"Killer notebooks."

"Wait-"

I do wait, for five seconds, before pointing a very proud, very obnoxious finger at him. "I win."

"No-" I stop his protest with a look, "well yes, you did, but that's not what I mean. What did you say before? Killer notebooks?"

"I guess, why?"

He grins. "That's it. Picture this scenario; you're a student on campus, walking through the quad, when you see a notebook lying on the grass ahead of you. Just a simple notebook, nothing around it. You walk closer to it, and the front cover reads-"

"Killer notebook?" I interrupt him. "That would definitely be, uh... creative."

The blasé look that comes over his face is priceless. "I was thinking of something a little less obvious. Death Notebook? No... more like Death Note."

"And how exactly does it live up to its name?"

"Write someone's name in it, and they die."

Suddenly, I see it. And it's brilliant. Dropping a notebook that reads Death Note, watching unsuspecting students pick it up, it would be a riot. The plus side? It fits the project.

We'd be able to see just how many people have it out for someone else.

And which of them would go so far as to write down their names, even if it is just a joke.

"You're an evil mastermind." I say. "I like that."

He doesn't say anything, but his proud smirk lingers until he checks the time on his wristwatch (I didn't think they even made those anymore).

"I'd better get going," he says, packing up his laptop, "I'll be late for my next class. You need someone to walk you back?"

"Only if you're going in that direction."

He holds the door for me on the way out (chivalry isn't dead), and asks me which way I'm headed. I point back down Gower Street, the way Naomi and I came.

Light clicks his tongue. "I'm headed the other way. I can be late though, it's not a big deal."

"No," I say, "it is. I'm fine walking back on my own. Thanks though."

This time, at least, he doesn't argue with me. "Alright. I guess I'll be seeing you later, then. Keep brainstorming on the Death Note; I think we really have something going there."

"Yup, see you."

"Bye Maggie."

And who would have thought? He's not so bad after all.

Author Notes: Thank you for the reviews, follows, and favorites! They make my day (and promote the occasional 2 am writing spree)!