It was one of those days.

The sun was already settling down in the west, a long smudge of confused, warm color, and light flooded the lonely library-study, shining off of every surface and decently impairing her ability to focus and read. Just as she was about to do it herself, the tiny librarian rushed in from the backroom and huffily drew each of the long curtains over the large and many windows. Surveying her work, she pushed her glasses up her nose and gave a quick nod.

“Right, well, if anyone needs to check out anything, do it now. I’m going to turn in for the evening.”

Caina ignored her, pressing the back of her pencil deeper into her temple while nibbling thoughtfully on the cap of a pen. She was vaguely aware of a few people getting up, getting ready to leave. Hardly anyone was around. There was a football game occurring nearby and practically the whole school seemed to be in attendance—she could care less. Her philosophy notebook was due tomorrow and she hadn’t bothered to keep up with the required responses. Now she had six complicated questions staring her in the face and not a drop of inspiration to move her pencil across the paper. She twisted her lips into a focused grimace and drew her feet up onto the chair. Time carried on its steady way, escorting day from view and making room for the night.

“’What is the driving force behind human progression?’” She posed the question to the silence of the abandoned study as if by some miracle some answer might vocalize itself of its own accord. “Well, what kind of progression? That’s a stupid question.” She flipped the page and sighed. “’What is the meaning in recording history? How does it affect the future?”

She didn’t give it a moment’s thought. Instead, she closed the notebook and dropped the pencil. It was one of those days. Why was she even here? She didn’t belong in a university. She had a steady, paying job, and what good would a degree in Philosophy do, anyway? Caina pushed the notebook farther back as if repulsed or perhaps made guilty by it, and continued to do what she seemed best at on these days: stare into space, stare across the empty study at the door. It was muffled to the point of hardly being audible, but if she listened carefully, she could hear the entire stadium going up in avid cheers.

Romax had loved football once. He figured he still did. And yet, here he was, sitting in the library on a fall Saturday instead of watching the game. There was a simple explanation for that. The game was being played outside on this lovely, cloudless day and the sun was up still. That made going to the game out of the question, unless he wished to combust. Since he didn’t, he was in the library instead.

It was strictly recreational. After all, his last test had been graded and the plans for the next few classes finalized. Tedious work that had bored him of late, it was. Romax was restless. A library, perhaps, was not the best place to find a cure for that, but he was here and it would be rather a lot of trouble to leave with the sun still out. Since he was there, he was idly poking through some of the psychology textbooks they used for the criminal justice courses. Interesting reading.

Some of the case files they used as examples were particularly absorbing. They were dry, but detailed, and many of them made him itch to hunt. Romax cast a look towards the windows. Light, red and orange in tone, still spilled through them to lie warmly on the worn carpet a safe distance from where he sat.

Absently, he wished they would draw the drapes so he could move about a bit more freely. Almost as soon as the thought passed through his head, he got his wish as the gnome-sized librarian pulled the dusty curtains and shut out the light. Ask and ye shall receive, Romax thought to himself, pulling out of his chair to wander some of the other sections.

It was as he was doing so that he heard the girl speaking to herself. “Well, now,” he drawled thoughtfully, “I may not be able to help you with the first but I have an answer to the second. Recording our history helps us remember it. If we don’t, remember it, that is, how do we learn? Each generation would pass nothing to the next, dooming them to repeat the same mistakes.” Romax paused, smiled, and gave a slight laugh. “Sorry to butt in, now, but I’m a history professor here.” Though not a wildly handsome man, he was attractive enough, and the slow Southern accent added a bit of charm to his already harmless appearance.

Caina started slightly in her chair. She had not heard him approach--indeed, she had a habit of doing that, blocking out everything and everyone. Whatever. Her startled lookly quickly slipped into a sort of cautious glare. She put her feet back on the ground and bowed her head over her paper, looking up at the professor from the corner of her eyes. She studied him quickly, almost judgmentally, and then looked back at her closed notebook.

"It's just an old adage. Everyone in the class will have that answer written down." She mumbled, still glaring at the table, her dark brows crooked with concentration. "Besides, it's ridiculous. Like taking down the history of a battle will really prevent a future war. Humanity will never be that intelligent. The individual might be smart enough to recognize the pattern, but people as a whole are stupid. Really stupid."

She made a small, dismissive sound and then quickly looked up at him, really looked at him. He was pretty plain-looking. But not because he wasn't attractive--he just lacked some certain aura that could possibly promote him from "average" to "attractive." Like her.

"You teach here?" Her expression was doubtful, and she shook her head as if she were disagreeing with him. "I haven't ever seen you around here before. What kind of history do you teach?"

Romax noticed her jump, and smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, meeting her suspicious look with a pleasantly neutral one of his own. If he studied her just a bit too closely as she almost guiltily took her feet off the chair and bent back over her closed notebook it was almost too slight to be noticed. The intensity in his blue eyes could be put down to the color.

“True,” Romax said thoughtfully as she rebutted his suggestion. “Still and all, that’s the first thing you learn about why history is studied-indeed, even recorded.” He fell silent, his eyes flickering back over her sharp yet somehow plain features. Odd, how that worked out. “There’s also simple curiosity, you know. People want to know about the past. The child who asks his parents how they met. The person who studies a sculpture and wonders who made it and why. It’s human nature to ponder the past. And people do learn lessons from what has come before, though maybe not as profound as you said. I agree. People, en masse, are very stupid.”

He sat calmly as she studied him, knowing she was studying him. Romax knew he didn’t look like anything special. He’d always known. In college, there had been that shine that being starting quarterback gave but since then he’d always faded into the background. It had bothered him, once, as he had wanted to be noticed. But he used it to his advantage now. Being forgettable was almost a boon.

“I do,” Romax replied, leaning back in his chair. When she asked what sort of history he taught, he gave a slight shrug and said, “Pretty much, I fill in wherever they want me to. I went to school in the States and my specialty was US History, so here I guess I’m a bit of a jack of all trades.” He paused and thought about that. “Historically speaking, in any case.”

"I haven't seen you around before," she remarked, as if her lack of notice was enough reason to assume he did not, indeed, work here at all. And yet her voice softened considerably and became rather quiet when she spoke again. She stared intently at the table, her eyes not straying from a random, tiny crack in the wood. "But I guess I'm not here all that often these days."

Despite her obvious discomfort over talking with a professor who she hadn't so much as seen before, Caina couldn't prevent a small smile. It was the way he spoke, maybe, or the mannerisms, how he chose to express himself. She glanced up at him now and then, quickly, before returning her gaze to her still-closed notebook.

"Why aren't you at the game?" She asked in the direction of the table, an edge of laughter behind her voice for no reason she could pinpoint--she forced it away quickly, resuming her gloomy, irritated expression. Who was he, anyway? What made him think for a second he could be so damn charming that she might actually enjoy someone else's company? Wrong. He couldn't. So there. And so on.

"Or are you not much into sports?" Had anyone else said it, it would have sounded like a simple, polite question. But there was accusation in her voice, and the inquiry sounded suspicious and almost hostile.

Romax shrugged a little. "Well, they usually keep me holed up in the history building when I'm here," he said. Smiling a little, he added, "They probably think we're a threat to the students; bore them stupid, you see. History majors are a dangerous breed. Second only to philosophy majors." He sighed a little and shook his head, pulling a charmingly mournful expression. "Nobody understands us."

"Me? Couldn't get any tickets," Romax lied easily. He hadn't tried to get any. "Tour day," he added as explanation, "A lot of faculty tickets are given to visiting students. Sort of a hook, I guess. See how much fun we are on gameday and whatnot." He drummed his fingers on the books he'd set on the table. "Dunno if it works, really, but I suppose a football game is as good as any to get people interested."

He smiled again. Romax had a good one, his deeply blue eyes crinkled a bit and it had the slightest little crook to it that made it unique. Plus, it made his face slightly more memorable and appealing.

As she asked if he didn't like sports, he looked almost affronted. "I love sports. Well, football at least. I was born down in the South and football's the only sport there is down there. Some basketball and baseball, I guess, but football is the king. It has this combination of power and brains, you see and..." Romax trailed off and sat back, laughing slightly at himself. "And I better stop before I get really boring, I guess." He smiled sheepishly. "I get carried away, you see."

Caina nearly laughed out loud...nearly. She had to fight to tame the smile that started to overtake her humble features. She even used the old cover-it-with-your-sleeve trick for a moment until she was certain she wasn't about to embarrass herself completely. Okay so he was charming...a little. But God, he had to be at least ten years older than her. Wait, was she honestly considering this?

"Yeah, people don't look too fondly on philosophy majors, I've noticed. I guess I can't blame them," she kicked at the carpet as if bored. "I'm not sure what exactly I'll do with it if I ever get my damn degree." She paused for a second, her eyes widening with comical alarm, and clasped her sleeved hand over her mouth apologetically for her language. "Sorry," she muttered, flushing very slightly.

She cleared her throat, gradually crossing her arms about her chest defensively. When she found the nerve to continue, it was only very cautiously.

"Funny, I really didn't peg you for the football-type-guy. I don't know why...usually I guess I can pick up on that sort of thing," her brow crinkled very slightly in self-annoyance. Or maybe she was annoyed at him for throwing her off. Whatever. "Guess with your brain you'd be the more refreshing type of football player and not the typical, steroid-saturated jock, huh?"

She paused again, pursing her lips the tiniest degree. God, she was bad at this whole communication thing.

Romax smiled again as she did. That was sort of the way things happened, wasn't it? You exchange pleasantries, try a couple of safe jokes. Self-deprecation was usually good. And when they smiled you smiled back. It was normal. It was natural.

"Well, philosophy majors. You know. Completely different breed altogether," Romax drawled, waving a hand slightly. "Very deep, you lot are. At least, the philosophs I've met were. Meditating on the state of the world and what things really mean." If he'd spoken with a sarcastic touch to his voice, he might have been insulting. As it was, he only sounded thoughtful and maybe a little amused.

Waving off her apology, Romax smiled again. "Don't worry about it. I was in the United States Army. Those guys will light your ears on fire." He wanted to laugh as she flushed, because it was damn cute, but decided not to. He got the impression she wouldn't appreciate that very much.

At her mentioning of steroid saturated jocks, Romax glanced down at himself appraisingly. He was a touch over six-one and maybe one-ninety to an even two hundred, but no, he didn't look like your stereotypical steroid saturated jock. No, with his rimless rectangular glasses, neat black trousers, and sports coat he looked just like the history professor he was. "I was, actually. Once. A jock, I mean," he said, quickly adding, "but I never took steroids."

"Well, I'm not a real philosophy major," she confessed at a murmur, edging her pencil around the table for the sake of distraction from his gaze. "I'll never do anything with the degree, anyway, if I ever get it. It's just kind of cool to say, I guess."

She bit her lower lip slowly, gently gnawing as her pencil clacked restlessly about. Her legs subconsciously returned to the chair, drawing closer to her body so that she was curled up, her hoodie hiding half of her face and the majority of her hands. But when he spoke again, she looked up quickly and slightly pushed her hood back from her face, her eyes lighting up with guilt and subtle embarrassment.

"God, how have I not insulted you out the door by now?" She asked apologetically. "I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. You should make fun of me or something. Please?"

She watched him intently for a moment, realized she was staring right back at him--actually meeting his gaze, and quickly snapped her gaze back to the table, her face warm again for half a second before returning to normal. She really wished she could just melt into the chair and find herself back home.

“Oh, I get it. You’re just faking the philosophy stuff, huh?” Romax asked teasingly, a gleam in his dark eyes showing that he was just joking with her. “Gotcha.” He watched her chase her pencil around with her finger for a moment before adding, “Just kidding. But, hey, a degree is a degree. If you can’t find something to do with a philosophy degree you can always teach. You know the old insult, right? Those who can’t do, teach. And those who can’t teach become gym teachers.” He paused for a second. “Um. No offense, like, if your dad’s a gym teacher or something.”

Romax couldn’t help but laugh a little at her embarrassed apology. “Really, that’s okay. I think I just did make fun of you, actually. But, um, anyway, it doesn’t matter. I haven’t played football competitively in years. I’d probably trip over my own feet if I tried. ‘Course, I do that on my own all the time anyway, so…” Romax trailed off. “Um. I forgot if I had a point there.” He smiled winningly. “You know us good ole boys from the South. We tend to ramble a little. Just whack me if I get too annoying with it.”

Was he actually flirting? With a student, no less? The boldness! Smiling, he gazed back at Caina for a moment, then dropped his gaze as she dropped hers. He seemed a little self-conscious. “So,” he began, after clearing his throat slightly. “So… um… do you live on campus?” he asked, then cringed a little, hastily adding, “I mean, it’s kinda getting dark out. So, I wouldn’t, um, want you to have to be walking anywhere.” Romax paused. “Or anything,” he finished somewhat lamely.

All part of the likeable, somewhat fumbling professor aura he had.

Caina smiled behind her sleeve, but the laugh proved to be unpreventable. It was an actual giggle. Which, for Caina, was more than a little weird, and it didn't sound much like her at all. Still, it felt kind of nice, like a little weight had popped in her chest and bubbled up with the sound.

"No," she affirmed between slightly hiccupy breaths, "no, it's not like that. It's just. Well, my family's not the, um, 'educated' type, I guess?" She brushed her bangs back from her face and smiling. "I really do like the subject. I guess...I guess I just don't feel worthy. Does that make sense? I dunno."

She shrugged, the air of humor waning for a second only to reignite--though less unexpectedly and intensely as before--when he mentioned his clumsiness. He was cute. He was. But just catching herself thinking that made her feel terrible, guilty. And every time she recognized that feeling, she darted right back behind her hair or sleeve or whatever. Classic Caina. And his sudden self-consciousness...well, it threw her off. It was like they had both realized at once what was going on, and apparently they were both a little taken aback. Even so, she smiled thoughtfully at the table.

"No," she replied quietly, "I live in an apartment off campus, actually. But it's not that far."

Romax was pleased, perhaps inordinately so, when Caina laughed--even though it was slight and half-muffled by her sleeve. With this cool and very nearly prickly girl, it was becoming something of a personal challenge to get her to laugh at the best and smile at the least.

"Ah," he said, nodding wisely as she spoke about her family, "sure, I understand that. I wasn't the first to go to college in mine, but I can get what you're saying. Don't worry. It happens to people, especially, I'd think, if you were the first or one of the first to go." Romax nudged his glasses, which were sliding down his nose in a somewhat endearing way.

Then they both got a bit quiet for a second, an unspoken "what are we doing, exactly?" passing through the air. Romax plucked at the cover of one of the library books he'd set on the table.

When he looked back up, however, his those-have-to-be-contacts blue eyes had a touch of concern in them. "You aren't planning on walking back there, are you?" he asked. "I mean, I know Demaitre isn't exactly, um, Detroit or... D.C. but, well," Romax hesitated a little, as if afraid he was being too forward before finishing, "it can get a little dicey."

Her face fell quite suddenly, her posture visibly stiffening as he spoke. She knew he wasn't implying anything--it was a truthful, honest statement. So why did it feel like he was cornering her? No, she wasn't a helpless little girl. No, she didn't need anyone to protect her.

"Hmm," her lips pursued, her dark-laquered eyes hardening, and with a sweep of her hand gathered her things into a cluttered pile, "I can take care of myself."

She pushed the chair back and stood up, brushing her hair back from her face in annoyance and piling her books into the crook of her arm, subconsciously tucking her pencil behind her ear. Shoving the chair back into place with her hip, she turned to leave and walked a few brisk paces before stopping. She stood for a moment, her back turned to him, and then faced him with a quick sigh of self-annoyance.

"Listen, um," she gestured helplessly with a hand hidden by the end of her grey sleeve, "thank you. And...it was nice to meet you."

She turned again and walked quicker, her heart racing for a reason she didn't understand. Even so, she couldn't help but slow as she neared the door as if hoping he might say something intuitive--as he had already done several times--that would make her stop with the nonsense and just...be normal.

Romax sat silently as Caina gathered up her things, as those insanely pretty black eyes went cold on him. Okay... he thought to himself, where did you wedge your foot in your mouth this time? Story of the life of one Charles R. Finch. Meet pretty girl. Talk to pretty girl. Watch pretty girl leave.

Um, sigh?

Then he got it. Or he thought he did, at least, and that was better than nothing. Hopefully. "Look, I didn't mean to imply..." Romax began, also rising from his chair before pausing awkwardly and hoping it didn't look like he was chasing her or anything. He rubbed between his eyes, "I'm probably a dunce. I mean, I--hmmm. You don't want some overbearing guy hulking after you, eh... yeah."

Romax would live forever. At times like this, that little tiny part of him that hoped an eternity would be long enough to understand the female part of the species sort of shriveled up and retreated to a corner.

Hopefully, he tried a small smile. "It's the Southern manners my parents beat into me. I can't help it. It's compulsive, I swear. Like Turret's. I mean, you're lucky I'm holding back the urge to ask you if I can carry your books for you."

She turned on her heel to find him risen from his chair, and with a slow sigh, her shoulders visibly sank in surrender. Her sleeve automatically went up to her face, masking the majority of her expression. But her dark, suspicious eyes, locked irrevocably on his gentler blue ones, were clearly visibly.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” she tugged at her, exasperated and talking fast, “it’s…it’s really not your fault. I guess I just…I…I have a thing. I…I know you were only being polite and concerned and all that, but I’m weird. I’m weird, you know?”

Caina looked at him pleadingly as if begging him to understand—like he possibly could. She couldn’t make sense if her life depended on it, not when she was talking about her own stupid quirkiness. Making a small, high sound of frustration, she tapped the toe of her shoe against the ground.

“You’re not ‘overbearing,’” she tried again, softer this time. “You’re just a nice person. And that’s really rare. I’m just…I’m psychotic, you know? And it’s really, really stupid. And…I’m sorry, um…Professor.”

She visibly winced at the awkwardness of her apology, bringing her sleeve to her face again to hide the faint flush that accompanied her nonsense.

Romax frowned—politely, of course. “So, you’re... weird,” he said slowly, as if testing the word out for the first time, “which is valid. You know, lifestyle wise.” He laughed a little and, there really was no other word for it, he grinned. And when he did, he was very close to handsome. How about that. “Everybody is, in one way or another. I mean, I had a roommate once who organized his boxers by brand, color, and material.” Romax shrugged.

Then he smiled again and added, “How about this, let me keep my conscience in check by walking you home or carrying your books or even both and we’ll be square. Equal. Um, we’ll be... whatever.”

“Ooh, and please,” he said with a wince, lifting his black overcoat from the coat rack next to the door, “don’t call me ‘Professor’. For one thing, I think the official term is ‘Instructor’ anyway... But, really, just Romax, okay?”

Romax pushed the door open for Caina. “So, you’re weird and psychotic, eh? I bet that makes for some interesting conversations around the dinner table.” A smile slipped across his face before he pokered up and put on his best psychiatrist face. “Tell me, miss, how does that make you feel?” Romax asked with playful exaggeration.

His grin was contagious. It caught on, taking hostage her own lips before she could free her sleeve to disguise it. What was up with that? She looked away, still smiling and feeling increasingly awkward just standing near the door.

"That wasn't exactly the kind of weird I had in mind, but I guess I see what you mean, Profes...uh...," she paused for a moment, looking back at his face. "Um...Romax."

She bunched up her shoulders and hurried out the door he held for her, unable to look him in the face again until she was certain she was no longer blushing. It took awhile, which in turn only made her blush harder. God, was socializing always this embarrassing?

"Eh, well, they tend to be very one-sided, actually," she smiled at the ground, brushing her hair back from her face. "But don't get me started on shrinks. They can take their pills and shove them up their a...o-o-okay," she cleared her throat apologetically, blushing again. "Sorry. That was close. But you see what I mean."

"No head-shrinking. Check," Romax said as he was slapped in the face by the frigid air that blasted them both when he opened the door. Unobtrusively, he shifted so that his broad shoulders blocked the brunt of that knife-edged wind for Caina. It was something of a knee-jerk reaction and it wasn't until after he'd done it that it occurred to him that she might not appreciate it.

Still, it didn't seem like a good idea to move now and let her get walloped.

His breath was still warm and came out as a plume as he jammed his hands into his pockets. "Christ, it's cold. I'm not sure I'm ever going to get used to this." Romax's scarf whipped as the wind gusted again, the tail end practically snapping in the breeze. Back at home, he reflected, daring to remove his hands from his pockets so he could button his black coat, it would be a balmy-by-comparison twenty-five degrees.

If, back in the day, someone had told him that he'd be dreaming of twenty-five degree days with relish, Romax would have laughed at them. Look who's laughing now.

"All this cold and not a snowflake to show for it," he said to himself. In his opinion, if you were going to freeze your butt off, you should at least get snow out of the deal. He glanced at Caina. "So, I'm freezing. How about you? Or are you used to it?"

She automatically flinched against the expected burst of freezing air and quickly looked up, unsettled, when it did not come. Ah, a blockade. She eyed his broad shoulder curiously, angled just right as if he had somehow calculated the exact position. There was, admittedly, a twinge of annoyance on her part, but it was small and seemed ridiculously petty even before it had time to set in. It was just a harmless gesture, and she was being an unreasonable bitch. She could admit that.

Caina tilted the collar of her coat up against her neck and cheeks, neverminding how dorky it must have looked. She wasn't about to freeze her face off for the sake of looking stylish.

"U-used to it?" She tried a laugh--it sounded more like she was choking. Annoyed, she crossed her arms over her bosom in a vain attempt to conserve her rapidly-diminishing body heat. "Is that p-p-possible? This is ridiculous."

Caina loved the cold as much as the next person--more so, probably--but this was a little insane. She watched the biting wind whip against his smooth face, noticed how the scarf just caressed his pale skin...

Whoa, there. She blinked and quickly looked away. What was that about?

"Look at m-me complaining," she smiled and it felt like her face might crack. "You're blocking all my wind. What good is an escort if you f-freeze on me? Though you'd make an admittedly dashing ice sculpture."

"I guess if you part Eskimo. Or Inuit, as the politically correct term may be," Romax laughed, his teeth very white against his skin, whipped ruddy by the relentless wind. He was smiling, but could hardly feel it, the flesh was becoming so numb. Vaguely, he wondered how bad it would be if he hadn't been... he wasn't sure what was the proper word... changed, Romax decided. If he hadn't been changed.

Temperatures, even extreme ones like this, didn't seem to bother him as much anymore. Sure, they bothered him, but just not as much. Romax remembered, vividly, how cold he'd been during a particular football game... an away against Wisconsin. And it hadn't been as cold as it was now. For a moment, he wished for another of his kind, someone older, more experienced to explain these things to him.

His attention abruptly switched back to his companion. Noting her shivering, Romax's extensive training in manners urged him to offer her his heavy black coat but he didn't. For one thing, he was quite sure she'd refuse it, for another... well, he was cold.

"Dashing, is it?" he drawled, quite pleased with the connotation of the word. The wind blasted again, nearly knocking him backwards, and running wild fingers through his black hair. Cheerfully, he added, "Well, just prop me up somewhere until I thaw out. Should be fine."

"Or you could just not freeze on me!"

She laughed, planting her hands on either side of his broad back and making a show of pushing him along for a moment or two before...What the hell are you doing? She drew her hands back as if she had touched a hot stovetop and plunged them instead into her pockets. Which was probably a wise idea, considering the temperature.

"C-Christ," she stammered in a vain attempt to make her outburst of self-awareness a little less awkward. She was rather hoping he had not noticed, really. "So r-ridiculous. It's not a whole lot further, I swear."

She leaned in against the considerably reduced breeze and walked a little faster as the biting wind drew tears from her eyes and commenced to freeze them right on her face. Caina swallowed hard and squinted through the cold, picking out the direction of their escapade and nearly sighing away her precious, warm breath in relief as she spotted the old, familiar streetlamp.

"Just a little farther...right...right up there," she snuck her hand from her pocket, pointed vaguely, and returned it to its proper place in record time. Her stiff fingers curled around her keys, and she jogged ahead to deal with the finicky door. "C-come on inside," she called over her shoulder, which was, as it were, busy handling the stubborn door. It gave, and she nearly tumbled inside, instantly soothed by the wave of warmth from the heater.

“All right, all right,” Romax laughed as she prodded him along. Putting his head down against the relentless wind, he quickened his pace a little until he was nearly jogging. “Here’s your hat, where’s your hurry?” he asked, his words practically torn away on a particularly vicious gust. “Not far? Good, I won’t have time to turn into a Rom-sicle.”

He blinked rapidly, for his eyes were threatening to tear up and that would be a bad thing. Romax wasn’t sure, but he figured Caina would probably freak out if he started crying blood. Holding the flat of his hand in front of his face, he glanced up at the building she indicated. It wasn’t exactly upscale, but it wasn’t a slum either. It was about like what he’d had in college, actually.

“Ah… the wonders of a furnace,” Romax breathed as he stepped inside her door. Closing his eyes, he let the pure glory of warmth wash over him for a moment. Maybe being a vampire did dull the bite a bit, but it was still damned cold out there and he wasn’t immune.

When he opened them again, he suddenly felt a little awkward. After all, the rush and zip from their sojourn through the cold was gone now and they were quite alone in her apartment.

The mood had certainly tensed--she felt it too with painful clarity. Clearing her throat, she forced herself to stay turned towards him for a moment, glancing up into his face quickly.

"Um...here, would you like me to take your coat?"

She slipped hers off quickly, untwisting the black scarf from around her neck and shaking her half-frozen hair out of her face. Her numb fingers began to tingle their way back into usefulness, and she managed to get her coat onto a hanger without fumbling about too terribly much.

"And I'll put some water on the stove if you'd like tea or coffee or something?"

That was what hosts did, right? Having a guest around to tend to was atypical. Suddenly her tiny apartment seemed enormous and uncomfortable. But Caina did her best to shrug the awkward feeling away. He was a professor, after all, and a guest. Just a guest.

Maybe.

The series of somewhat detailed thoughts that accompanied her internal rebuttal warmed her face much more quickly than the heater did. She let her hair slip back across the side of her face as she busied herself in the kitchen, fetching a small pot and filling it with water to boil.

"Make yourself at home and all that. Sorry the place is so...well, 'crappy' is about the only word that does it justice."

“I, yeah, sure,” Romax replied a little too quickly as he clumsily unwound his plain tan scarf and nearly elbowed Caina in the face. “Sorry!” he jerked back, embarrassed. So much for vampire reflexes. He could still be a doof if he wasn’t careful.

Tea? As far as he knew, he couldn’t drink anything except alcohol. Some rather uncomfortable experimenting with the whole eating and drinking thing had assured him of that. “Um, no, thanks. But you go ahead,” Romax said, standing awkwardly in his staid grey sweater as she bustled around in the kitchen.

He felt entirely too large for the place, which wasn’t surprising. It didn’t appear to have been designed for a man of six-one. Then again, it might have been his imagination that made the walls shrink inward.

Taking a seat at the postage stamp-sized kitchen table, Romax tried his best to relax, even as he wondered what the hell he was doing here. If she was making tea, he wouldn’t be able to drink it. If she offered food, he sure as shooting wouldn’t be able to partake. What he should do, what was the smart thing to do, would be to take his coat back and politely excuse himself from the place.

And yet he didn’t.

Romax laughed a little at her description of the little apartment. “Nah, it’s fine,” he assured her. “Better than some of the dorms.” Better than the apartment he’d had when he’d first moved to Demaitre, but he didn’t say that.

Come to think of it, she really didn't want tea either. She'd just set about making it out of the assumption that he'd want some. Well, she'd look pretty ridiculous if she quit now and dumped the water down the drain. Tea it was. The water hurried to a boil, and she poured herself a cup, arbitrarily choosing a tea bag from the unorganized basketful. The room instantly smelled of jasmine--a good choice, regardless.

Balancing the cup with caution, she joined Romax at the small table, smiling apologetically for the closeness despite his reassurance. She scooted her chair closer to the table and proceeded to forget about her tea. At least it was a handy distraction.

"Maybe, but I've always wanted to try living in the dorms. Doubt I'd get along too well with a roommate and all, but it'd be fun. Maybe next year."

She was always saying that: "maybe next year." It was a dried-up expression with her, empty. She closed her hands around the cup, soaking up the warmth with relish. The momentary silence drew out into a full-fledged lull in the conversation; she cleared her throat very quietly, acquiring a faint blush again--and this time the excuse of the cold wouldn't really work. Her thoughts were admittedly elsewhere. For instance, why was he here? Why had she asked him to come here? She hadn't thought about it--it'd been a moment of recklessness. What exactly was he expecting? And was she willing to comply? Truth be told, the answer should have been no...but she wasn't so sure.

"So...," she swallowed, suddenly finding it difficult to speak at all. She forced herself to look up. "So, what now?"

Romax glanced around, curious to study where this prickly, slightly surly, and unfathomably fascinating student lived. He sniffed interestedly as the steamy scent of the tea simmered into the air. Fancy teas like jasmine had never been part of Romax's diet--just plain old Lipton brewed so strong it was black.

"Mmm... Yeah, you don't really strike me as the roommate type," Romax said without thinking, then paused as he considered how those words might sound. "Er, I mean... it seems like living in close quarters with others would just really get on your nerves." He paused again, lamely finishing, "'Cause... people can do that."

Once again, they dipped into silence, and not the companionable kind, but the loud, pregnant, what the hell are we doing here? kind. Romax refused to answer that question, even to himself. In some ways, he was afraid of the answer. The thought that he might be thinking correctly was frightening; the idea that he was on the wrong path altogether was downright terrifying.

The silence stretched on and in it Romax could hear his brain practically screaming at him--Get up, you idiot, and leave. Just go. You don't need to be here. Good advice, true words... so why wasn't he listening?

She broke the silence, but her words were almost as uncomfortable. Without thinking, as if he knew what he was doing, as if it made perfect sense, Romax cupped his hands around her much smaller ones and said quietly, "Your tea is getting cold."

The words buzzed in her head like a storm cloud, much colder than the frigid air outside. She lowered her gaze, staring blankly into the pale tea, and slowly nodded her head.

"Yeah...," she whispered, studying his hands over hers.

This was a mess. She was a mess, and a bumbling idiot at that. What in the hell was she doing? Christ, he was a professor! At her university, no less! Had her mother been alive--or her ghost sitting beside them at this very instant--she would be laughing and laughing, her dark eyes the perfect "I-told-you-sos". A loose, whorish, stupid, stupid girl. That was all she was, all she had ever promised to be, and all she would ever be.

She swallowed the heavy lump in her throat, but it only settled around her crippled heart. With a great deal of effort, she gently removed her hands from his and brought the cup of tea to her lips, feigning a sip as best she could and glad that she'd gotten so good at never crying, which was really all she wanted to do about now. A couple of false sips later, and she quietly excused herself from the miniscule table to carry her still steaming cup over to the sink. She poured the murky contents out disgustedly and stretched out the washing of the porcelain mug until she knew she couldn't play dead any longer. With feet of lead, she returned to her chair. This time, the distance across the table from her to him seemed like the damned Grand Canyon.

"Uh...God, I'm sorry," she sighed heavily and her shoulders dropped several impressive inches. "You probably have places to be and I still have...that Philosophy homework and all that. Um, would you like to call a cab, or something...so you don't have to brave the cold again?" She tucked an errant twist of hair behind her ear, tracing the boring pattern of lines across the table.

OOC: Rawr. *struggles to find just the right amount of awkwardness without being too goofy*

Life was such a strange, wacky thing. It didn't get easier when you lived forever, either, it just got longer. "There's nothing to be sorry about," Romax said, feeling some kind of resignation piling up on him. The tension seemed gone now, as if something had been building and building and building and he, with a few damned words, had blown it all away.

Damn the way that works.

He stood as she stood, and then was left to keep standing as she only moved to the sink to pour out what remained of her tea.

Jackdaw fool...

As she sat again, he remained standing, shook his head at her offering to call him a cab. "I'll be fine," Romax replied, leaning over slightly, and gently touching his lips to hers. It was unplanned and unexpected, even though he initiated it, and he drew back quickly. But a fine recklessness seemed to flood him and he kissed her again, deeper this time.

Laughter like a drumbeat.

She watched him standing across the table, miles away despite the proximity of her cramped apartment. It was strange, the emotional montage of the next few moments. There was the initial sinking despair as she realized he truly was leaving. There was the prolonged sense of awkwardness that this entire situation had ultimately boiled down to--let's face it, she was never going to be caught dead anywhere on campus again where they might have to interact in any manner beside a completely professional one. And then...he kissed her.

Caina stared through the first kiss, her eyes wide with shock as he leaned over and pressed his soft, cool lips to hers. But with the next, everything else vanished. Her eyes closed, and her world became this secret, forbidden, unforeseen kiss. Her lips subconsciously responded, saving her from her shy and guarded self, and they whispered a baffled kiss in response. Baffled turned to accepting, and accepting softened into almost expectant as she straightened in her chair, automatically pushing herself closer to him.

Her trembling fingers touched the side of his face and dared go no further. He was freezing cold, like the warmth of her tiny abode hadn't even so much as touched him. But his skin was smooth and pleasant to touch, and suddenly she was hyperaware of every pinprick of warmth in her entire body. Had she any reason, she might have flushed for shame of all the feelings running through her now, but all reason had fled the moment she had bid him step inside her door. What had been a certain ending, an emphatic period on the tail end of their brief relationship, was now a curious blank, a question mark, or perhaps even an ellipsis.

Now...now there was this...

Romax didn't move, almost as if he was waiting for approval from Caina as he let his lips gently, insistently against hers. Every shift in her emotion he could feel, the silky glide from confusion to acceptance to, finally, finally, expectancy. Her lips were warm and so soft, he moved his head slightly to brush his against hers, feathery light touches that somehow sent waves of sensation through him despite the lightness.

He should have drawn back and babbled his apologies. He should have done something like knock the little kitchen table over, or at least a chair. He should have done something klutzy and completely un-romantic to break this moment. But he didn't.

His nose bumped hers as his long fingers gripped above her elbows, drawing her out of the chair so they both stood. Romax's glasses dug into his face and he fumbled to remove them and then tossed the frames onto the small stove where he promptly forgot about them.

Romax's fingers kneaded restlessly on her jacket, his muscles tensed. Unconsciously, his mouth pressed harder against hers, as if he was ravenous for more but didn't want to push her for it.

She rose to her feet slowly, gently urged on by his grip on her arms. Caina was startled by the intensity of this apparently spontaneous kiss, and half of her--perhaps the wizened half--warned her against such a taboo closeness with anyone, especially a man. But the other half seemed to vibrate with radiance, and the sudden high drowned out any more sensible warning.

Slowly, haltingly, she closed her hands over his and helped him tug the jacket from her shoulders. It slipped to the ground, unnoticed, leaving her hands in his. She guided them to her waist. Her fingers ran up his arms, surprised at how strong they felt beneath his shirt, and clung to his shoulders. She practically had to stand on tip-toe to kiss him back the way he kissed her.

By now her heart was racing. It had been so long since she'd been in a situation like this. Each one had ended the same way: nice, but brief and fleeting. And thinking about it filled her thoughts with worry, distracting from how hard his lips were and how cool his touch felt even through her clothes. Caina decided then and there, as she had so many times before, that it just wasn't worth the worry. Better to enjoy this lovely moment, however short, and deal with the rest as it came. She was tough. She could handle it.

Her hands slipped from his shoulders and down his chest, just grazing him as though hesitant to linger too long. His entire body seemed as though it was made of stone, but she liked that, and she moved in closer.

OOC: >__< Short and nowhere near as pretty as yours. But I done diddid my bestest. ;)

There was silence in the room but for their quick, choppy breathing. The slight chill in the air, stubbornly hanging around even with the heating system chugging away, seemed dispelled. Romax let his lips wander from hers, slowly moving from her lovely mouth to the sensuous line of her neck to just above the collarbone where her pulse danced seductively. He took his time, nibbling and sampling, like a man with nothing more to do than savor.

Caina's warm hands whispered over his, and he cooperatively let her tug them down till they rested on her hips. Still, his hands kneaded against her, his cool grip flexing over the flared bone.

As she brushed her hands over his chest, he lifted his own to tug his sweater and the shirt beneath away, ignoring how his elbow rapped smartly against the oven hood. With the staid sweater, Romax looked plain and ordinary, but beneath his pale skin stretched over muscle and the white lines of scars crept over his shoulder.

((Fwee, I love pretty Romax and his slightly awkward, always dashing goodness!))

She shuddered in his arms as his shirt came away. Caina could feel the power in his touch, skimming just beneath the surface of his skin through each and every muscle in his hands, in his shoulders, across his chest. He was beautiful, etched like a living Adonis, and his eyes bore through her, cutting her up, tearing her apart, and leaving her standing there, bared before him as though she were brand new and all the scars that marred her body were disappeared. She wanted to feel him all over and at the same time she wanted to run, because this kind of closeness spelt danger in her mind. But even amidst the underlying fear of being hurt, crushed, broken, whatever, she knew that no amount of fear could stop what they had begun and the threat only made her heart beat faster.

"Come with me," she whispered against his skin, blindly finding his hands and catching them in hers.

She led him back into the bedroom--granted it was hardly more spacious than the tiny kitchen, but in a place as small as this, every inch mattered. She released him as they entered the room, her fingers fumbling at the buttons of her shirt. When at last she'd rid herself of it, she let it slip to the ground and hurried back to those strong arms and that hard, cool chest. Her fingertips brushed along the razor-thin scars, drawing him near.

He was so cold, like a statue, a man of stone.

OOC: I love the whole, Romax as a sexy Adonis thing, since he's normally such a goofy doof! :)

Had he known all along, then, that this is where their meeting would lead? Logically, the answer was, of course, no. Illogically, perhaps they had both known. Why else the easy acceptance of the ways the path had wound, why else the unquestioning desire? It was easier without questions, without even words.

Who needed words when there was flesh?

Romax let his hands skate over Caina's skin, drinking in the warmth that she carried. His was cool, almost eerily so. Cold as death, as the saying went, but he moved and lived. He knelt before her like a supplicant, his lips pressing gently at every delicate ridge of scar that lay on her soft, soft skin, his fingers traced them. They made her unique. And he, scarred as well, could appreciate the beauty in a scar's ugliness.

His mouth slipped lower, pausing langorously at the succulent valley between her breasts, as his hands, patiently restless toyed with the button of her jeans.

They were one and the same, then, only cast into separate molds and forged from different flesh. Pale as porcelain, and strong, their bodies lacquered with secretive scars from past sufferings--in this, they were identical. But he was a man of stone, every muscle as unyielding as his persistent will. And she was a woman, hardly more than a girl by age, but a woman in any other way. Just a woman, and him just a man, and nothing else mattered.

His touch was frigid, but the will that backed it did not seem so. Even as she felt the strength behind his every move, she knew the gentle way he handled her was no mistake, no accident. And the feelings washing over her now were not like any she had ever known--not like the sticky fumblings of would-be lovers past and gone. Not like the forceful hands that had struck and beat and crushed. This unnamable sensation made her immobile, and all she could do was bask it in--bask in it, and help him along.

She gasped as his cool kiss worked between her breasts, her fingers gently knotting through his hair, pulling him closer to her bosom. Her fingers tangled with his as she helped him help her step out of her jeans. She gently nudged them aside with her foot, desperate to kiss him as he kissed her. She found the side of his neck, as smooth and muscled as every lovely part of him.

Sometimes sex was merely sex; a quick meeting of flesh to flesh and nothing more. But sometimes there was more. Romax kept his hands steady and slow as she peeled out of her jeans, even as the urge to grab and jerk rose up inside him. There was something special about slow. He didn't fumble, for once, or squeeze, but instead caressed, his fingertips gliding over her smooth skin and her bumpy scars. Romax couldn't help but wonder where they came from, but only briefly.

There were more pressing matters on his mind.

Rising up, his mouth took hers once more, pressing firmly with such heat it seemed they would be fused together. His arms banded around her, lifting her smoothly before letting her down again. Romax stepped back long enough to strip away his trousers, then paused to just look at her, laid out like a feast for him to take.

Slowly, impossibly, tormentingly slowly, he lowered himself over her once more, his mouth hungrily moving over her--from her devilish mouth, to the sweet line of her neck, to the gentle slope of her chest. There seemed to be miles of her to taste.

To feel wanted again. Even if just for one night, for just a short and lovely while, the heat with which he kissed her—the feeling of being wanted—was glorious. And he was so strong, so finely-crafted, worthy of admiration. His arms held fast around her, and she liked that. There was an obvious part of her that didn’t for reasons made apparent by her turbulent past, but sometimes despising something made it all the more desirable. Call her twisted.

She watched him approach, her body pressed into the soft sheets, and instantly drew him closer when at last he lay over her, glancing feverishly into his eyes as her legs ran up across his own. The simple feeling of her smooth skin against his made her tremble beneath him, with uncertainty, with anticipation. It was all so muddled, but the confusion was intoxicating.

She made soft sounds as he touched her all over, her breathing becoming increasingly terser. Her own hands moved up along the hard muscles of his narrow waist, his back, and at last to his broad, sculpted shoulders, drinking in the glory of his masculine presence against her. She kissed the side of his face, running her nails through his hair, and moved on to his cool neck. Yes, she’d missed this.

It was like falling into soft warmth. She wrapped around him in a haze of scent and heat and he groaned low in his throat--the sound of a man who was drowning and willingly. Romax felt her tremble and felt a burst of pleasure at the reaction. Her shiver pleased his vanity.

He shivered a little himself as she trailed those hands over him, not questioningly but greedily. On a murmured word, he rolled so that their positions were reversed, so that she rose over him like some bewitching night goddess with her slashing features and coal-dark eyes.

Romax pressed his face to her collarbone, just beside her neck, and shuddered a little at the feel of her blood pulsing beneath the skin. The hunger was there, urging him to let his fangs slide down, to plunge them into tender skin so willingly bared to him. But he turned his face away, trailing a kiss instead over her rounded shoulder and letting the hunger ebb away, to be replaced by a ferocious lust.

Pulling back, he let his hands fall to her hips, his eyes studying hers; blue to black. Romax brushed his fingers over her heat, tempting them both, then simply let his hands linger, and his eyes question.

She gazed down at him, slightly startled by the sudden reversal, her dark eyes reflecting the same questioning look in his pale, cooler ones. Everything about him was cool, soothing. She wanted to lie against his bare chest for hours and hours. But at the same time, he made her squirm in the most wonderful of ways. She’d been with men before. She knew when two people physically clicked. But this wasn’t just a click. This wasn’t just a little flame. This was a fucking bonfire. But why?

As she peered down at her perplexing mystery, her reservations eased into an easy, knowing smile. She leaned into the kiss he placed against her neck and shoulder, her hair gently sweeping across his bare skin. His bare skin that she loved and craved and had to touch. She leaned into him, straddling him, acknowledging the momentary self-consciousness of having her scarred body on display like this and allowing it to pass. She ran her fingers up and across his bare chest, leaning into him until her chest touched his and her lips found his throat.

“Touch me everywhere,” she whispered at his ear, his hands on her hips making her entire body ache and tighten.

For as strong a man as Romax, he trembled at her light touches, at the feel of her fingers whispering over her skin. Who knew a whisper, a brush, a skim of flesh to flesh could be so cataclysmic? As she settled over him, he made a sound, some deep sound between a groan and a sigh. Romax arched upwards to press against her warmth.

If she craved his coolness, he coveted her heat with equal passion.

She leaned over him and her name spilled from his lips at her touch--like a prayer, perhaps. Romax slid into her, slowly despite the way his blood told him to hammer forward. Slow enough to make him shiver. His breath was a ragged gasp as he pressed his lips to her breast and listened to the thrum of her heartbeat.

His hands gently pressed her closer to him and moved as if to obey her command to touch every part of her and all at once.