A/N: I had a lot of fun writing Riza when she's completely unaware of her feelings. It's written like her Diary Entries. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Unfortunately, the strikethrough I originally had did not transfer over to this format. If you notice any parenthesis, just imagine it's something Riza wrote and then crossed out after the fact. It makes it much cuter! If anyone knows how to keep the strikethrough effect on here, please let me know!

Riza had always found a strange comfort in being alone. She was not known for being talkative or particularly outgoing. After her mother's death, she rarely spent a lot of time with people. Her only family spent most of his time locked in his study, so the most human interaction she got was the hour she spent every day running errands around town. It was enough for her.

When her father started to take on apprentices for some income, she largely ignored them. It didn't take long for her father to dismiss them. She wasn't particularly surprised. Her father was detailed, strict, and very specific in his wants and needs. Riza had been keeping a tally of how long each apprentice lasted, if only to pass the time. So far, none of the 25 hopeful alchemists lasted longer than 6 days. Berthold Hawkeye never wasted time.

June 04, 1901

Father had a new apprentice arrive today. His name is Roy Mustang. I think he's 17 or 18. He's sort of lanky and has dark eyes. His hair a little messy, like Evan Mathers always keeps it. He was surprised to see me, I think. I doubt Father had mentioned he had a daughter. He rarely does. If Mr. Mustang wanted to say anything about the house, he didn't show it. In fact, he seemed much more adamant on asking me questions- like if I had any siblings, what kind of man my father was, what my hobbies were, if I really did all the housework, what I liked to study, if I could recommend any books to read. Frankly, it was kind of irritating. I wish he would be like the others and ignore me. He'd be leaving soon anyways. No student had made it past 6 days with father. I just have to make it through this week and then maybe I'll have some peace and quiet.

June 05, 1901

I have determined father's new apprentice is a flirt. At least that's what I've heard other girls call people like him. He likes to smile at me a lot. I made breakfast this morning and he made such a big deal about it. I don't think he's ever had eggs benedict and sausage before. Or maybe he's just a terrible cook. But he said that I'd make a wonderful wife one day, if only I'd talk more. I told him that if I have to constantly talk to get my point across, then maybe my husband should be paying more attention. That seemed to catch him off guard. I rather like making him speechless. He always seemed to talk like he was reading poetry. His voice is rich and deep, so unlike Father's raspy timbre. It makes my stomach turn and I don't know why. I hate that. Anyways, he spent most of the day with Father. He looked kind of frustrated after his lessons were over, but he hasn't packed his bags yet, so I guess he'll be here tomorrow.

June 06, 1901

Somehow, in spite of all his lessons with Father, he has made a point to bother me as often as possible. Mr. Mustang, that is. First, I had to listen to him talk for a full 20 minutes this morning, from his studies to more questions about me. Father must have added in some lesson involving learning about me. That's the only possible explanation for how infuriatingly intrusive he was being. After lunch, Father seemed to have forgotten that he still had a student and had restarted some of his research. Mr. Mustang looked awfully put out. He told me he was to help me with errands for the afternoon and study on his own. At least this time we were both disappointed to be sharing in each other's company. I also had the added benefit of going into town, where he could chat up someone other than his teacher's daughter.

(I'm not sure why he thought Laurel Hunters was worthy of his time, though, since she hardly seems like someone as charming as him would be interested in. I mean, they might be a little closer to the same age, but she's hardly the prettiest girl in town. Maybe he likes brunettes?)

Mr. Mustang still hasn't been kicked out, yet, which means I might be stuck with him a few days longer. I picked out some extra groceries, just in case. I even got some peaches, for a cobbler. Maybe I'll make it once he finally leaves.

June 07, 1901

In his break this afternoon, he interrupted my reading. He didn't say anything – he just watched me. I don't think he actually knew he was staring. It was almost comical, with three over sized books in one hand and a glass of water in the other. His hair had been mussed up, probably from trying to rack his brain too much. I think he'd been looking for a place to sit down outside. It was a lovely day, after all. He looked a little flustered when I stopped reading to look back at him. Of course, it didn't take long for him to show off that cocky smile of his and sit down next to me.

He talked about how surprised that the honeysuckle were still in bloom. He was so pleased by them. I didn't tell him about Mother or how she planted different varieties of the flower so they were almost always in bloom. I didn't tell him how Mother and I spent a whole two days just planting them in the yard, even though I wasn't much help being a girl of 6. I didn't tell him why I always sat outside or how it was one of the last remaining memories I had of her. After all, he would only be here a few more days. Then, it wouldn't matter if he saw some alchemist's daughter wipe away tears. They always left. They always forgot. Mr. Mustang is no different.

June 08, 1901

He made breakfast. I had barely gotten up (at 5am, as usual) when I smelled something cooking. I've never heard of men cooking – that was always the Mother's job. But he was standing at the stove, scrambling a couple eggs. The table had already been set for two – Father never ate at the table. He looked so intensely at the pan, holding his spatula like a sword. The boy was even wearing my apron! The bright yellow patterned fabric looked so at odds with his serious expression that I couldn't help but laugh. I think if the pan had still been in his hand, we would've been eating breakfast off the floor.

I guess he had never heard me laugh, or seen me smile, now that I think about it. The look he gave me was such a strange mix of delight and shock.(Why does he always give me butterflies when he does stuff like that?)He made me sit down and poured me a glass of water, like we were at restaurant. He made us both plates and watched me while I took my first bites. I almost didn't mind his chatter. I've come to determine that Mr. Mustang is really just like a puppy. He's so eager to please and do well. Father must see something in him to keep him for 5 days already, and Mr. Mustang must be very loyal and dedicated to deal with Father for this long. He was certainly the most promising of the apprentices so far.

And he makes really good breakfast, for a boy.

June 09, 1901

It happened early in the evening. I was just getting ready to come inside after a long day of studying one of Father's old Xingese Philosophy books when I heard a door slam. It was only a matter of time, after all. Mr. Mustang was storming down the stairs, his face red and his dark eyes ablaze. He had his jacket over his arm and his suitcase in hand. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. He halted mid step and looked at me. The fire in his features dulled and he walked over, extending his hand. His mouth curved down into an apologetic frown. My throat tightened and he told me how sorry he was, but how he couldn't learn from someone like Father. He would be catching the train the next morning to head back to Central. I wonder if he felt time move as slowly as I did in those moments. I gave him a basket of bundle of food. Just a sandwich, some leftover sausage, and some peaches, for the road. For some reason, the house seemed much stiller than it had in almost a week.

At least I could finally get some peace and quiet.

June 10, 1901 (Day 7)

Today was the first day after Mr. Mustang left. I slept in very late, but still couldn't bring myself to get up. I could view the front yard from my window and had taken to watching everything from the comfort of my bed. For some reason, I'd just not been feeling well. I was listless and agitated, but I couldn't figure out why. I could hear the hum of the refrigerator from my room upstairs. Father had been shuffling papers and making garbled comments to himself all morning. The birds outside even seemed to be particularly loud today.

I was fully intending on taking a day off from chores when Father interrupted me. He asked if I knew when Mr. Mustang's train would be leaving, because he had a letter that he had left. I offered to mail it or throw it away, but Father insisted I go return it to him immediately. It was very strange.

The train station was nearly 5 miles away and I had to go by foot. I chose not to explain that Mr. Mustang had probably left at the earliest possible convenience. Instead, I trudged the whole way. To my surprise, the trains had been delayed due to some malfunction of one of the trains. Mr. Mustang was one of the ones inconvenienced by the delay. He was standing by one of the large pillars, his rich eyes fixated on something in the distance. I think I startled him as bad as I had the other morning at breakfast. For all his surprise, he still smiled at me. When I explained the letter, he went mute. He opened it and read the contents, his jaw going slack.

He must have read the letter four or five times before I made an attempt to excuse myself. He reached out, taking my hand.I think I understand why people like to hold hands now.The young ex-apprentice searched my face and asked if Father had actually given the letter to me and that he meant what I said. I could only assume he did. Mr. Mustang's face lit up and he grinned bigger than I'd ever seen him grin. I think if he wanted to, he could outshine the sun. He picked up his bags and tucked the letter inside a pocket. I think he realized that I didn't understand and he tapped the pocket. The letter was apparently from Father, saying he had passed whatever test he had put Mr. Mustang through the past 24 hours. Father wanted to keep him as an apprentice.

Mr. Mustang was going to stay.

We walked home together, and bantered the entire way. It turns out Mr. Mustang has also been studying some of the books I recommended when he first arrived. The walk back seemed much shorter, but I think it's just because I had already walked it once. Father must have fixed the refrigerator while we were gone, because the hum was barely noticeable when we got back. I made some stew, one of mom's old recipes, for dinner. He had come across it in his search for ingredients the other morning. I figured I could try one of the recipes again. Afterwards, Mr. Mustang and I shared the last peach on the back porch. I will have to get more tomorrow. The sun was setting, and the birds were singing some wonderful melodies. We sat in the receding light for a long time, and for once, he didn't seem to mind the silence.

It looks like I'll have to get used to him being around for a few more days. I think I can deal with him for just a little while longer.