AN: Based on the earlier interaction and a side story a friend of mine wrote.

J (University!verse).

Weep for yourself, my man,
You'll never be what is in your heart
Weep Little Lion Man,
You're not as brave as you were at the start
Rate yourself and rake yourself,
Take all the courage you have left
Wasted on fixing all the problems
That you made in your own head...

But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear?
Didn't I, my dear?

- Little Lion Man, Mumford and Sons

The air was crisp in the early spring morning. Fog lifted off the calm waters – broken only by the deep pull of oars into the surface as a single rower intently glided across the river. Jack Spellman slid fluidly in place, pumping back and forth, finding a perfect rhythm in the rosy dawn glow. A late addition to the rich man's sport, Jack was surprised he was a natural and enjoyed the activity as a solitary form of exercise. Usually rowing had been a place to collect his thoughts, now, although he tried, each stroke failed to remove the image of her from his head.

She had been in his office.

She had kissed him.

Nothing had been the same since.

Sweat dripped in his eyes, burning them. Not breaking his stride, he quickly wiped a strong forearm across his face, clearing his vision. Muscles screaming, he continued to push back and propel himself forward.

At a recent black tie affair, he intended to attend and network with heavy political hitters, charming them with his youth and wit. Then, like something from a dream, she appeared. Poised, and calm she was what every politician longed to have in their arsenal. Miss Rei Hino was well spoken, beautiful, and intelligent - resplendent in a couture scarlet gown.

Like a punch to the stomach, he replayed the picture in his mind…he had sought her amethyst eyes out, only to have her look away after the briefest of glances. She was on the arm of Chad (no last name) some shit hot Eurotrash 'football' player who modelled on the side. Although Chad had a few inches on Jack's nearly 6 feet, Jack kept his chilled ocean eyes on the young man throughout the evening – willing for the multi-millionaire to step out of line.

Well, he meant to keep eyes on the brat. Three double scotch and waters later, Jack was dangerously close to loosing control. Holding the small digital screen to his face, he scrolled through his cell phone and stumbled on the number of his neighbor. In Jack's drunk logic, he figured the sculptor probably kept strange hours and wouldn't mind coming to pick him up.

"Who's the girl?" Keith asked, taking in Jack's sorry condition – rumpled tuxedo, untucked shirt, reeking of alcohol.

"What d'you meansh?"

"I find it hard to believe that Jack Sullivan, pride of the political science department, would get this drunk at such an important event," Keith said in an amused tone, pulling into the drive through of a nearby fast food chain.

"What's this?"

"You'll thank me in the morning," Kevin said, ordering the largest plate of chili cheese fries on the menu.

Since then, Jack tried desperately to fill his time. He put more focus into his career, working tirelessly on papers and articles. On campus, the 'Four Sisters' of the Humanities department had each made it known that they were available any time, day or night, for 'after hour discussions.' Thus far he had resisted, but then wondered, what was the point?

So, for now, he kept going. Knowing he would probably never see her again, knowing deep down he wasn't good enough for her and never would be – the only thing he could think to do was row.