Emma slammed the front door shut, following Jefferson into the little three bedroom rowhouse apartment. "What the hell was that?" she demanded, angry because she had embarrassed herself in front of the professor yet again. Steadfastly unwilling to examine the reason such humiliation bothered her, she focused on her roommate's sin of omission. "Why didn't you tell me you knew Professor Jones?"

Jefferson carefully extricated himself from the heavy book bag slung across his torso before answering. He tossed it onto the couch, where it promptly bounced into the cushions with force and ricocheted onto the floor, spilling papers everywhere. He swore. "How the hell was I to know you had him?" he shot back, kneeling down to pick up his belongings. "If you would have given me your schedule like I asked you to-"

"I didn't even have mine!" she protested weakly, squatting down to help him. She knew this admission wouldn't exactly help her argument. "I lost it a couple days ago, and I had to get a new copy printed at the registrar's office!"

Her roommate looked up from the mess, books stacked haphazardly in his arms. "And of course you waited until this morning to get it printed, right?" he sighed.

"I thought I might find it again," she admitted with some embarrassment, picking up several pens, a couple of highlighters, and a bottle of white-out.

"Emma, for Chrissakes," he groaned, "just print the damn thing out in my room. I've told you, you're allowed to use it whenever you want."

"Do you go in my room when I'm not around?"

He blinked. "No! I'd never enter without your permission."

"Well, then..."

"Emma!" he rolled his eyes. "The permission is rather heavily implied in 'use my printer whenever you want'." He shoved the stack of books back in his bag. "I don't see what the big damn deal is." He sorted through several papers, organizing them into separate stacks.

"The big damn deal is that I'm deathly afraid I'll misplace some of your homework, or reach for something and erase an equation on that dry erase board, or screw up some chemical experiment-"

"That's what bothers you?" he laughed.

"It's not funny," Emma insisted, throwing the gathered supplies into his book bag without grace. "It makes me nervous, all right? It's too much pressure for me, just standing in the doorway. I don't know how you deal with all of it. When do you even sleep?"

He shrugged. "The time frame varies," he admitted. "But I get enough." He stuffed the last of the papers his bag and leaned it against the couch. "I'm famished. You eaten recently?"

"Not since lunch on campus."

"Great!" he clapped his hands together. "Let's order pizza!"

"Whoa, whoa! What about the mess in the kitchen?" she reminded him as he pulled his wallet out, rifling through the cash inside.

"I'll clean it up later."

"Why not clean it up now?" she countered. "Victor won't be back from his last class for a least another hour anyway."

Jefferson snorted. "I am not waiting for Victor to get back, just so I can eat. I like the guy and all, but..." He patted his stomach. "Not enough to starve myself. He can heat up leftovers when he gets home." He smiled at her. "So what do you want on the pizza?"

"Pepperoni and bacon," Emma sighed, resigned. "But you'd better clean up while we wait for it to be delivered," she insisted stubbornly. "Extra cheese," she added to the order as an afterthought.

Jefferson bobbed his head in response."Fine, fine," he placated, taking his phone out of his back pocket. He pressed a succession of buttons, dialing their favorite pizza place, and Emma flopped onto the couch, considering her professor's reaction to the tirade she'd started to unleash on Jefferson when she walked onto the front stoop. He'd laughed at her, or at least her choice of words, which confirmed the sense of humor his demeanor had hinted at in class that morning. Emma should have felt comforted by this fact, for professors with an open sense of humor were more likely to be merciful in grading or easy to approach about much-needed extensions, unlike the hard-nosed, rigid types. But something about Professor Jones's sense of humor unsettled her.

Emma puzzled over this while Jefferson set about cleaning the kitchen, pizza ordered. Curling up on the beat up old brown couch under the blue-and-grey knit afghan her mother had sent her to college with ("To make the place seem more like home," Mary-Margaret had insisted), Emma reviewed her morning in Introduction to Poetry and realized the reason Professor Jones's sense of humor disconcerted her. The instant connection she had felt with him was dangerous enough, drawing her attention and awareness toward him in a way that was altogether inappropriate. It was something she should run from, and fast.

But Professor Jones's sense of humor made that difficult, for it only made him more real to her, like a friend. Like someone her own age. Someone she could go for coffee with. Someone she could fall for.

No, Emma, she chastised herself amid the sound of Jefferson sweeping up remnants of broken glass. No, you will not go there. You won't.

She couldn't. She just couldn't. The idea was stupid anyway. It was just a crush. A horrible, inconvenient crush. But one that she worried might grow out of control if she didn't nip it in the bud immediately. She wouldn't become one of her simpering classmates. She refused to sink to that level. Emma just needed to divert her attention somehow, bury herself in the course work-distasteful as the subject was to her. And never, ever let her mind wander to the handsome young professor.

As it had for the past fifteen minutes, she realized, looking at her watch with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Fuck, she thought.

Jefferson sat down on the couch next to her, slanting her a pensive look. "What's on your mind?"

"Thinking about how awkward that little scene outside was," she confessed. "I can't believe he heard me call your ass boil-ridden."

Her roommate laughed, patting her on the knee. Or the closest approximation, with the afghan covering her lap. It was more her thigh, maybe. "Don't worry about, Emma. I've heard him say far more colorful. It's not like you shocked him or anything."

She raised an eyebrow at this tidbit of information. "No," she answered after a moment, "he just laughed at me."

"And what? You're going to hold that against him or something? Emma, come on! It was funny." He grinned.

"Yeah, yeah, fine," she groused. "So how do you know him anyway? You take his classes?"

"Nope, not a one. Met him my freshman year-his first year teaching, by the by-when I volunteered to help him run the university's version of a dead poets society." He flushed, looking embarrassed. "There was...a girl," he admitted. "She loved that sort of thing. Thought I could win her over, if I developed an interest in it."

"Get out of town!" she shoved at his shoulder in a playful manner, grinning. "You had a life once? A crush?"

"I still have a life!" he shot back. "And I'm too busy for dating," he deflected.

"Uh-huh," she snorted. "I somehow doubt that would stop you if you met someone." He glanced at her sidelong. "Then again, how the hell you'll ever meet anyone with your impossible course load these days is beyond me." She leaned back against the arm of the couch, resting her feet in Jefferson's lap. "So. Who was she? Did you ever win her over?"

"Uh, it's...she's not important anymore," he brushed the question away with a wave of his hand. "And no, I never won her affections. She was too fixated on the Professor."

"Oh." Emma swallowed slowly, avoiding his gaze. "That sucks. I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It's over and done with. Anyway," he continued, "he found out I was a chem major-this was before I added the mathematics and physics-and he introduced me to his brother, Liam. A good thing it was, too, or I might not have had an internship over the summer, after things fell apart at my previous internment."

"That was nice of him," she admitted grudgingly. Why did the man seem so utterly perfect, the more she learned about him?

"Yeah." An impish smile formed on Jefferson's face and Emma's eyes widened. She pulled her feet away, but Jefferson reached over and snagged one of them anyway. "You know what happens when you use me as a foot rest," he reminded her, tickling the bottom of her bare foot.

"No! No!" she gasped in between helpless giggles, trying in vain to kick him away with her other foot. "Stop! I'll get-" She hiccupped. Too late. "-the hic-hiccups, damn it."

The door bell rang, and Jefferson pushed her foot away with a grin. "Serves you right." He reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

"I-I have some-money," she managed between hiccups.

"No good," he told her. "I'm paying this round, since I'm actually home early for once. You or Victor can get the next." He opened the front door, his attention diverted while he checked their order and paid the deliveryman.

Emma inhaled deeply, holding her breath. Damn Jefferson and his story about Professor Jones, making things worse. Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out of her pocket.

Hey babe, came the text from Neal. Got 2 sweet tickets 2 a Chili Peppers concert Friday. U up for it?

Of course. Neal. Emma expelled the breath she'd been holding. She felt ashamed that she'd temporarily forgotten about him amidst her musings about her hot new professor. Another reason she had to get over this stupid crush already. It wasn't fair to him.

Assuaging her guilty conscience, she quickly texted back, Absolutely. Meet for coffee in the morning?

U got it. Pick u up at 8? When's ur first class?

9. Statistics. 8 it is.

Awesome. Catch ya in the morning, princess.

The scent of hot pizza wafted toward her, and she looked up to see Jefferson peering down at her with a frown. "What?"

"Neal?" he inquired, irritation and resignation etched onto his face.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Emma, it's not like you get a lot of texts from other people," he pointed out, doing an about-face and walking toward the kitchen, pizza boxes balanced on his fingertips like a waiter. "None of us are exactly...inundated with friends," he said diplomatically, setting the pizza down on the small, round table that was tucked into one corner of the kitchen. "Besides, I know the look you get."

"I have a look?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Look, let's just eat and talk about something else so I don't lose my appetite."

Emma threw the afghan off her lap and shoved it aside. "All right," she agreed, standing up. "But he's picking me up in the morning, so be nice." Her roommate groaned, opening one of the boxes. "And we have a date Friday," she warned, figuring it was better to prepare him for it now, in case he and Victor had other ideas for that night. "So you and Victor can go have a boys night at the bar or something."

"Emma," he growled, jerking his head toward the piece of pizza he was holding. "Food. Appetite. Shut up."

She grinned. "Okay, okay. Jeez." She reached forward and snagged her own piece. "First one to finish three slices gets to pick the movie tonight," she challenged.

A confident glint entered Jefferson's eyes. "You're on."

A/N: The next chapter will be the first working class, so to speak, so get ready for some poetry and lots of Killian.