Writer's Note: So, this is the final chapter. Thank you so much for reading this story, and thank you to everyone who's left a comment/review! I chose this format and POV for specific reasons, but I'm aware that in doing so I risked sacrificing flow and depth. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

I'll post the picture that inspired this story on Tumblr (if I can figure out how) and/or Twitter.

In August, he met someone new.

It was the last Tuesday in August, the first Tuesday of the semester, and five o'clock was rapidly approaching. Henry stood at the front of the empty classroom, a nugget of white chalk gripped between the fingers and thumb of one hand. The chalk knocked and squeaked against the blackboard as he wrote up the title of the seminar, 'Medieval Philosophy and Its Influences on Modern Thought'; the sound competed with the tick…tick…tick of the clock above the door and the tap…tap…tap of footfall in the hallway outside. It felt odd knowing that this time last year Elizabeth was still a stranger, and now she'd most likely be a stranger once again. He'd pretty much resigned himself to the fact that he would see her around on campus from time to time and that he'd learn to give her a perfunctory smile and try not to take it too hard when she didn't notice him. Then next year he'd be training with the Marines, readying himself for active duty, while she continued with her studies, and their paths might never cross again. Though he doubted he would ever forget her, maybe—with time—thoughts of her would fade to a lingering ache of 'what if'.

There came a tentative knock at the door.

He cast a sideways glance towards the doorway, and greeted his new student as he returned to the board. "Come in. Take a seat."

There was a heavy pause, almost as heavy as the disappointment that settled on his chest as he realised he'd been half hoping Elizabeth might whirlwind in. Then footsteps padded across the room and chair legs screeched across the wooden floor while he continued to write.

He was just adding the final 't' to 'Thought' when the voice came from behind him.

"I see you've learnt how to spell 'Medieval'."

His shoulders flinched and he spun around.

He studied the stranger who, having nudged one of the chairs aside, perched against the table that stretched lengthways across the room, her fingers curled over the edge of the oak, her grip so tight that her knuckles peaked white through the skin. Band tee, denim skirt, faded Chucks, 'E'.

Realisation crept over him.

"Elizabeth…?" He frowned at her. "You cut your hair."

Elizabeth ran one hand through her hair and toyed self-consciously with the ends where they hung above her shoulders. "New year, new me, and all that." She let her hand drop and she met him with a sheepish smile. "Thought I could do with a fresh start. I kinda hate it though, so I'll probably spend the rest of the year trying to grow it out again."

He took in the sight of her fully, not quite sure she wasn't just another dream. (They still occurred frequently.) His gaze lingered on the soft strands that wisped in elegant waves, the ends curled in a way that drew his eye to the column of her throat. He imagined threading his fingers through her hair and brushing it back, exposing that tract of skin to kiss.

"It suits you," he said.

A faint blush warmed her cheeks and her chin dipped.

He placed the piece of chalk down in one of the ruts that scored the surface of the desk, stepped around the side of the desk and then leant against the opposite edge, directly in front of her. "How was your trip?"

"Good." The word escaped with a smile and a sigh. "My brother's decided to stay in the States rather than going to England for school next year, and I even managed to convince him it was all his own idea—though the British weather probably helped—so everything worked out pretty much just as I planned."

He smiled. "I'm glad."

A brief silence drifted between them.

Then he asked, "How was Europe?"

Her eyebrows arched. "Very European."

A second later, her expression softened. "It was fun. Lots of fresh air, lots of fresh food—my God, the food! My brother and I didn't kill each other. I think I learnt more French in the five minutes I spent trying to get tickets for the metro than I did in all my time in high school and freshman year combined. I definitely learnt more curse words."

Henry chuckled.

Her fingers flexed where they curled over the edge of the table, and she scanned his face, as though seeking out a flicker of nervousness to mirror that which had crept into her own expression. "I told the Italian lady who ran the hostel where we were staying all about the American boy who makes the best bolognese I've ever had."

"Oh really?" A swell of pride lifted his chest.

A glint lit her eyes. "Uh huh."

"And how did that go down?"

"About as well as you'd imagine. She practically force-fed us spaghetti bolognese—an age-old family recipe, handed down from generation to generation—until I agreed that that was the best." She glanced around them, rather conspicuously, and then leant forward, her hands still clinging to the edge of the table, and she murmured in a conspiratorial whisper, "I still prefer yours."

He laughed.

Her smile brightened in response.

It felt strange that they'd immediately gone back to normal, as though the last few months hadn't happened. It felt right, too, in a way. But he couldn't spend another year with things being the same as they were before, finding himself unable to tell her how he felt, missing her when she wasn't around, trying to get over his feelings for her once more. He probably ought to have said something along the lines of, 'Well, it was nice seeing you, I have a class to teach, maybe I'll see you around.' Translation: I think it's best we never talk again.

He didn't, though.

Of course he didn't.

And a moment later, he was glad.

Elizabeth's smile faded. Her foot fidgeted, rolling outwards on its ankle and then rolling back inwards again. "I've actually been trying to find you."

"Oh?"

She stared down at the stretch of floor between them. The ends of her hair flicked and quivered as she shook her head. "I looked in the library, but it's pretty much deserted this time of year. I stopped by your apartment a couple of times too, but I must have missed you." She paused, and then tilted her head to one side, contemplative. "Unless you've moved out, in which case I've probably been harassing the new tenant." Her gaze drifted up to meet his. "Or you didn't answer because you didn't want to talk to me, which I'd understand."

He frowned. "Why wouldn't I want to talk to you?"

"Because I left before I said I would. Because I didn't come find you and say goodbye."

"Oh, that?" Henry pulled a face and shook his head. "It's fine."

He pushed himself away from the edge of the desk, ready to retreat to the other side.

"No, Henry, it's not."

At her voice, he stopped. He turned around to find that she had pushed herself away from the edge of the table and had taken a half-step towards him. Her fingers fidgeted and fumbled in front of her.

"I know how you felt about me. I know what you were going to ask me. I know that if I'd seen you again and you'd told me to stay, I would have."

His gaze flicked over her, darting back and forth. His pulse had quickened to a thrum that electrified every cell. "You would?"

She nodded.

She stared into his eyes, her expression almost pleading. "But I needed to spend some time on my own. I needed to prove to myself that I could be on my own, I needed to prove that I wanted you, not needed you, that I wanted to be wanted, not needed to be wanted. I didn't want to end up in another situation where I would put up with anything in order to feel…" Her gaze drifted in search of the right word and her shoulders tensed and writhed. A moment later, her gaze snapped back to his and her shoulders slumped. "Visible."

A flash of alarm lit her expression the moment the word fell from her lips. She held up one hand to pause that thought as she added in a rush, "Not that I think you would ever treat anyone like that. I know you're not like that. You would never hurt anyone."

Her hand fell, her expression softened, and she eased another half-step towards him. "And I know you said you want to feel needed, but having someone who wants your support and having someone who needs your support are two very different things. I didn't want you to get tangled up in that, to find yourself stuck with someone who was dependent on you, who looked to you like her saviour. So I needed to figure things out first."

Her gaze dipped and she shook her head again. The pendant that rested against the hollow of her throat glinted. "And I know you would have understood that if I'd told you before instead of leaving like I did, but I didn't want to promise you anything, I didn't want to give you false hope. I didn't know how I would feel once I got back, and I didn't want you to wait for me."

She stilled and looked up at him.

After a moment of silence, she gave a small shrug. "That's it."

But Henry's mind was still processing, churning through everything she'd just said syllable by syllable. She knew how he felt…she would have stayed…she wanted him. This was the part where he was supposed to wake up. Surely he was supposed to wake up.

When he didn't wake up, he swallowed, nerves thick in the back of his throat, and then he said, "You wanted to be with me?"

She nodded.

"And that's why you went away? Because you wanted to be with me?"

She nodded again.

"And now…? What do you want now?"

"This."

She stepped towards him, her gaze locked on his, freezing him in place. The waft of her perfume, black rose and ylang ylang, washed over him, followed by the soft warmth that she radiated. She came to a stop, so close that the toes of her shoes nudged up against his. Then, still looking up at him, she leant in.

His eyes slipped shut, and his heart pounded so hard she must have felt it as her chest pressed against his. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening. Could this really be happening?

But then their lips met in perhaps the most tentative kiss he'd ever tasted, so sweet that it made his heart ache. It was happening. It was really happening. And he wanted that ache to never end.

All too soon, she sucked gently on his lower lip and then pulled away again.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, she was staring up at him. Though her eyes shone with hope, her anxiety crept through with a bite of her bottom lip. Maybe she thought she had made him wait too long and the feeling was no longer reciprocated. Maybe she feared she'd made a mistake and he'd never been interested.

Before she could retreat, physically or otherwise, he reached out and brushed his fingertips against the ends of her hair; the strands slipped and swayed through his grip, softer than silk. Then he caressed her neck, just as he had in March when she stood stripped before him, tracing the lines of the bruises that had long since faded.

Her eyelids fluttered shut, and he stilled. He studied her expression, worried that he'd brought to mind memories she would rather forget.

But then she nuzzled into his touch and her fingers trailed up his forearm to his wrist, leaving a tingle of goosebumps in their wake. She held his hand in place, her fingers splayed just below his.

'How would you touch me?' Her voice echoed through his mind.

Like this.

With his hand cupping her neck, her hand resting over his, he leant in. He nuzzled her nose and placed a delicate kiss to one corner of her lips. Like this. Then he drew back, just slightly, nuzzled her nose again and placed a kiss to the opposite corner. Like this.

Each time he drew away, her lips chased after his, trying to coax him back in.

A pinch crept to the middle of her brow, perhaps a slight frustration, and this time when he pulled back, she tugged at his shirt where her fist bunched it at his hip and she whispered, "Henry…please…"

He smiled to himself as he nuzzled her nose one last time—She wasn't so fond of this form of teasing then…— and he slid the hand that wasn't cupping her neck down to her waist, pulled her flush against him and kissed her like he might never get the opportunity to kiss her again.

Her lips were soft and agile against his, moving just as fervidly, and when her lips parted, their tongues touched and she let out a noise that was dangerously close to a moan, he never wanted to do anything but kiss her ever again. His pulse thudded in his ears, each beat demanding more, more, more, but he held back, just enough to let her take the lead—every movement of her tongue gently mirrored by his. All the while, he cradled her neck and his thumb caressed the smooth tract of skin just below her chin.

When they drew back, more out of necessity for oxygen than any desire for the kiss to end, he pressed his forehead to hers, still holding her close, and idly stroked the line of her jaw with his thumb. She copied the motion, idly stroking her thumb against the back of his hand. He wished they could stay like that forever, their breathing still rapid, their lips still swollen, their minds still floating in the blissful fog of the kiss. If only he didn't have a class to teach in about two minutes…

Her eyelids fluttered open. A smile sparkled in her eyes and played at the corners of her lips. "So…coffee?"

He shook his head, slowly.

Then stilled.

He stared deep into her eyes.

"Dinner."

Her smile blossomed into a grin.

I think you're going to like her, Professor Peterson had said.

And he did. Very much so.

The whole world could know it and say what they wanted of it.

He captured her lips again.