Maka swirled the bit of cheap chardonnay at the bottom of her glass, half-listening to the drone of one of her new coworkers.

Ox Ford.

Social studies department.

Grades nine and ten.

The lists always calmed her, the reiteration smoothing out the wrinkles in her forehead. They instantly threatened to return as another popped into her mind:

Soul.

Spl milk.

No sugar.

She downed the rest of the wine in one gulp.

"Looks like you need a fresh one."

Maka raised her eyes, taking in the jovial smile and brown eyes as the man stood leaning over the back of the couch.

Kilik Rung.

Music department.

Grades nine through twelve.

"Here, let me get that." Kilik offered a hand.

She waved it off, standing from the couch. "Actually, I really want to stretch my legs. Sorry, Ox, give me a minute?"

"Sure," Ox replied without much resistance to the idea.

It wasn't a luxury apartment, so finding her way to the kitchen wasn't much of a journey. She saw a few more faces, running through a few more lists as she made her way to the drink station. She heard the door again while Blake's boisterous voice exploded like a bomb: "And he actually shows!"

Whoever he is, this is a little beyond fashionably late. Maka reached for the white again, unscrewing the cap before starting to pour.

Blake's voice continued insistently. "And I don't want any lame excuse tonight that you can't drink."

Some gruff grumbling came back but still entirely unintelligible.

She was capping the bottle when the footsteps broke onto the linoleum. Her chin swiveled, and her eyes went wide.

"You…" The man from the therapist's office was frozen under Blake's guiding arm.

Blake scoffed, looking between the two. "Don't tell me you two know each other?"

"I–" Maka stammered, watching as a grin started to flutter over the man's lips.

"Ah, just in town. Coffee shop run-in, that's all." He shrugged out of Blake's hold, offering a hand between them. "Didn't get the chance to actually introduce myself though. Soul Evans."

Hesitation lined her fingers but they still moved forward, clasping the relaxing warmth of his hand. "Maka Albarn."

"She's the new girl, huh?" Soul tossed a glance back at Blake as he withdrew his hand.

"Yes," Maka snapped before Blake could even open his yap again. "And it–" Her teeth bit into her tongue for a moment, hearing the echo of her attitude in the office coming back to haunt her. Instead, she let out a slow exhale before continuing. "It's nice to meet you properly this time."

She didn't miss Blake's eyebrow raise or the slow smirk that was starting to pull deviously at his lips. Thankfully, some female voice from the party rang out his name, leaving Blake to start backing out of the room. "Make sure Soul gets a drink."

"Sure, since I'm the host, not the guest," Maka hissed after him.

"Ah, sorry." That momentary coolness of his introduction faded away, Soul's eyes trailing over towards the drinks. "I, uh, wasn't sure if you wanted anyone to know about the therapist. Some people feel a particular way about that sorta thing, so…"

"Oh…" A sweet lie. She shook her head, both trying to expel the thought and dampen a little of his worry. "It's not a big deal. Blake's known me since we were kids so saying anything in front of him isn't problematic."

"Noted." He risked one more glance at her before turning towards the fridge, opening it to waste the cold air in the kitchen.

"There's beer in there…" Maka cringed at how lamely that echoed in her ears.

"Think you can tell Blake I had at least one while we were in here and that this is my second?" There was a clink before he displayed the bottle to her, a little strength coming back to his smile.

Something close to a laugh bubbled up from her throat, bringing a rattle of disbelief with it. His smirk is kind of… "I think this is when I'm supposed to say: 'it's a party, so you should live it up a little.'"

He straightened and shut the fridge with a sigh. "Y'know, that'd be the third time I've heard that today, so maybe not?"

"Sorry…"

"Nah–" He interrupted with a sigh. "Not your problem."

Somewhere in her gut, the answer came back loud and clear that it was. She didn't have a rational explanation, but there it was: a steady thump in her chest that made her hate the way he'd wilted. "Then maybe I mean sorry for the other afternoon."

His eyebrows popped again, that fiery stare coming back to her. "Sorta just guessed you were havin' a bad day. Y'know, July madness or whatever. Not one to hold grudges."

"OK, good." Maka grabbed her wine glass and tipped it towards him. "So, tabula rasa? I mean–"

"Blank slate," Soul interrupted with a little pride teasing his lips into a smirk. "Yeah, sure." He popped the cap on his beer, shooting it at the trashcan to have it sink perfectly. The bottom of the bottle met her glass, offering a pleasant clink. "Cheers."

"Cheers," she echoed, watching over the rim of her glass as he took a reserved sip.

"So, you into Locke or just that psych stuff?"

I can't believe you know Locke, wanted to slip off her tongue but that too she tried to clear with her smile. "All of the above?"

"Ah, so a bookworm." He fell into the tease easily before taking another swig.

She stiffened, unable to rein in the bristling. "I would argue it's more philosophy than psychology, honestly."

Soul shrugged. "But didn't Freud kinda steal a bit of it?"

"And what do you know about Freud?" she challenged.

He rolled his eyes. "Had to take this stupid theory class in college on Psychoanalytic Criticism. Freud was a bit of a weirdo, but Jung I didn't mind." The simple parry came from his lips with all of the joy of delivering it.

Alright, smart-ass… "So what are you?"

"Uh…" He played with the label on his beer bottle, peeling the edge with his thumbnail. "A pain in the ass? Blake'll tell you a hermit. Don't even get Liz started…"

None of that sounds very complimentary… "I meant your department."

"Oh." Self-deprecation lined the chuckle that came after. "English, technically."

English? Maka wanted to squeak, disbelief flooding that thought. "'Technically'?"

"I teach some remedial courses in exchange for getting the communications program– radio." There was an echo of pride to that, a brief light in his eyes at the word. "Two sections of radio, three sections of Senior last-chance-or-they-won't-graduate English."

Maka paused to take another sip of her wine, hoping it would make the idea easier to swallow. As soon as she did she murmured, "That must be difficult. The Seniors, that is."

He only rolled his shoulders again, comfortable with the dismissal. "It's fine." In an instant, he closed. Just one more smile and a nod before he turned towards the exit with a wave over his shoulder.

Soul Evans.

Spl milk. English department.

No sugar. Seniors only.


Soul leaned over the railing, phone pressed to his ear as it rang.

"Ah, Solomon, is everything alright?" Julien's soft, mostly whisper of a voice sounded on what felt like the eightieth ring.

"Fine." As if to negate the word, he sighed. "Layla go to bed yet?"

"No, she's right here."

The phone shuffled before he was met with the belligerence he expected: "Papa, why are you calling?"

"Just makin' sure you didn't burn the place down," Soul muttered.

"I don't hear any people!" There she was–the ghost of Viv popping up in just a slightly higher voice. "Don't tell me you already came home from the party? It's not even my bedtime!"

He winced, both from the memory and the chiding. "I'm just on the balcony. It's not like there's some circus in there."

"Papa, I'm fine." Her definition of the word came through loud and clear, leaving Soul with no argument. "You promised to try."

Got pretty close to tryin' in the kitchen, but I just don't know how, Layla. He sighed again, clearly toeing a boundary. She's not responsible for my bullshit. "Yeah, OK. Did you get your second scoop of ice cream?"

"Yes."

"And you brushed your teeth after?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Goodnight, bug. Love you."

"I love you too, Papa." She hung up first without any to-do, just a dull click.

Soul stared at the screen for an extra minute, just watching as the glow faded away and his breath evened out. What did I really want to say?

Yeah, it fucking sucks. Not that those kids suck, but it's hard most days and while radio redeems it a little, teachin' isn't where I thought I'd end up. None of this is where I thought I'd end up… but talkin' to a pretty girl at a party isn't where you say those kinda things. But tonight just reminded me how close I feel to explodin'–how dark it is.

The July heat was making his t-shirt stick to him, the billowing he made with his hand barely making the air move. He turned back to the glass, catching the meandering bodies on the other side. All faces he knew—a sea of them—but somehow the separation felt like miles. He pocketed his phone, leaning back against the railing for one more breath when the waves parted for the new girl–Maka Albarn.

She is pretty. The thought brought no victory, no thrill, just a bitter bit of sadness to the back of his tongue. Seems smart, too. Maybe a little headstrong, but… He sighed. But I'm a pain in the ass, a hermit, a…

On that note, those glowing green eyes—a lot more fierce than Layla's evergreen—connected with his as if there wasn't the glare of the balcony door to separate them. They narrowed, not a scowl but as if she were reading fine print. As she relaxed, her hand raised, giving him a wave.

He assumed the way his hand mirrored the motion was social instinct. Maybe more than just pretty.