Have I mentioned I don't own shit? 'Cause I don't own shit. Though I wish someone other than Mark Schwahn owned OTH, he doesn't treat his toys very nicely. At least I don't throw them off bridges.

First of three, theoretically. This would be the shortest. Two is complete. Three doesn't really have an end in sight. My attempts to salvage their S1 personalities in various situations as older, experienced, worldly persons. Judge my success.

Things you need to know: Nathan and Haley are neighbors with a very strange relationship with their house keys, and there are time jumps. Things you don't need to know: how Haley the teacher affords an apartment in the same building as Nathan the professional basketball player. Rent-controlled? Relative owns the building? Blackmailing the landlord? Whatever you need to make it work.

Behavioral Patterns In Relation To Keys

She's shy.

Her eyes are shy. That small grin she offers him every chance meeting is shy. Even the way she fumbles with her keys as they stand across the hallway is shy.

It's what sets her apart. No female over the age of 16 is ever anything close to hesitant around him. They're flirty, bold, aggressive, prone to fainting, and on rare occasions inappropriate enough to shock even him. Her shyness drags out the polite and cordial young man that his mother tried so desperately to raise him to be.

Her thumbnail flicks along the edge of her key ring as she refuses to meet his eyes, and he smiles more than smirks. "Well, have a good night." His voice drops low and once she blushes red, the smile pulls into a smirk.

He adjusts the strap of his gym bag and manages to feel slightly bad for embarrassing the girl, but it's just so easy.

And so obviously innocent. As if anything would ever happen there.

"Oh, hi." The surprise, almost a squeak really, is obvious in her voice, and he startles while unlocking his door.

"Hey," he offers cordially, eyes flickering over his shoulder, before he tosses his gym bag into the entryway. He pauses, hand in mid-air and eyes wide, and slowly turns around. Thankfully, her back is to him, securing the lock, which gives him a moment of silent, non-judgmental appraisal.

There is nothing close to shocking about her outfit. A snug and impossibly soft looking green sweater and a fitted black skirt, short but nowhere near indecent. Still, though, far from her usual t-shirt and jeans.

She slowly spins, stashing her keys in a clutch, and he quickly schools his expression into what he thinks is normal. It's an effort to keep his eyes in his head, amazed that there's any cleavage at all on display. "You're dressed up," he comments, careful to keep his voice neutral.

"Open house night. Have to impress the parents." She quirks a shy grin and sets off down the hallway, waving over her shoulder. "Good night."

Yeah, a bunch of single fathers who want to—"Night," he calls back, throat oddly dry.

Damn. He curses mentally at the sight that greets him outside his apartment door. She's bent over, searching through her oversized purse on the floor. "Hi," he croaks and shuts his door behind him.

"Hello," she answers, distracted. Finally, she stands, keys in hand, and he swallows again. Have her t-shirts always been that tight and that short? His eyes focus on the band of skin revealed where her t-shirt and jeans don't quite meet. "Off to work?" she questions, nodding awkwardly to his gym bag.

"Yeah," he replies faintly, forgetting to be polite and rushing down the hallway.

His smirk broadens as he approaches. Oh, she's still impossibly shy. It's just that, somehow, it's no longer impossible. And he has easily come to terms with that.

"Need a hand?"

His voice prompts her to jump in place and she flashes a small smile, shifting a bag of groceries into his arms. "Thank you," she mutters, hands finally free to slide the key into place. Her door opens with ease and the bag switches hands again.

He keeps the smirk firmly in place, the invitation out there, but all she does is duck her head and hip-check the door closed. His shoulders sag but he has only himself to blame. He knows she wouldn't recognize the signal groupies respond to and isn't the type to make the first move.

The door sweeps open behind him and he turns in curiosity. There is nothing shy about the way she grabs his face and jerks his lips down to meet hers. Or the way she leverages him into his apartment and against the wall.

"Excuse me." The voice startles him and, to his embarrassment, manages to heat his face. He clumsily gets the door open before turning to face her.

Her eyes barely lift to meet his gaze and he forgets the tall man standing next to him. Between the two of them, they take up most of the hallway.

"Hi, I'm Devon, Nathan's teammate." He offers his hand and she takes it hesitantly, the shake light and quick.

"Haley. I live here." She motions jerkily to the door behind her and Devon nods. They stand in awkward silence until she flushes bright red and spins around to unlock her door.

"We're heading to the bar on 31st at 9. Team celebration thing. You're welcome to come. Nate'll leave your name at the door," Devon volunteers when she looks over her shoulder to say goodbye.

Her hand shoots up to tuck a mass of hair behind her ear and she smiles nervously. "Maybe."

He stares at her closed door until he's slapped on the chest. "She's cute, man."

Yeah. Cute. Nervous. Jumpy. Shy. Exactly.

He curses mentally, letting his head drop back and slam against the wall. She glances up to give him a strange look.

Then she's bent over again, searching through knee high boots that apparently contain her apartment key. Except this time the skirt is tighter and shorter and the top offers an excellent preview of her natural assets. And she hasn't been shy all night, laughing with Devon and being cheerfully introduced to his other teammates.

"So. How are you?"

He opens his eyes to find her unlocking her door. Her other hand clutches some money, her driver's license, and what looks like pepper spray. He shrugs, knowing she can't see him.

"Night," she says to her door and slips inside.

Weeks ago, he would have followed eagerly. But she stopped crossing the hallway, and he never asked why.

His hand hovers above the wood paneling. Finally, he lets it drop and then rests his forehead against the cool surface.

"Hi. What are you doing?"

His head snaps up and he immediately regrets it. It's unfair that she's standing there, looking so sweet and so shy. Her hand twitches steadily, the keys chiming. All he wants to do is touch, just once more.

I miss you. Do you need me like I need you?

"Nothing," he chokes out, hurriedly backing away and stumbling into his own apartment.

He hears a male voice in the hallway and pauses by the door. He shoves his feet into shoes, grabs his keys, and tries to look casual. It wouldn't do to let her know.

The door swings open wide, in time to hear a peal of laughter, and he almost winces seeing her eyes shine. She pauses abruptly and the man looks over his shoulder at the interruption. "Hi," he greets amicably, extending a hand to him. They stare at his hand awkwardly before the man withdraws it, clearing his throat nervously.

His eyes shift up to the face, evaluating. Older, but in a way that's obviously to his advantage. Especially with timid, seemingly inexperienced females like the one fidgeting uncomfortably before them.

"I'll see you, Haley," he nods and backs away with a tentative wave.

He approaches slowly, crowding her against her door. He revels in the way she shrinks into herself, her fingers drumming against the wood surface, the flush of her cheeks. Because it isn't fair for her to be so unaffected when she turns him inside out.

"My bos—the principal," she stutters, locating the doorknob and twisting into freedom.

He wonders when and how the lust and jealousy twisted into love.

He walks down the hallway, slowly and cautiously. He slides his key into the lock and eases the door open. Suddenly, the hinges behind him creak open, and his entire body cringes.

"Hi," she calls out, purposefully.

"Hey," he mumbles over his shoulder. His gaze catches on the tank top and shorts, the glorious amount of tan skin exposed. Her lips twitch while her fingers rub along the hem of her top.

She leans against the doorway, legs crossing, and he freezes. "The other week, did you want to tell me something?"

The gym bag drops off his shoulder and he kicks it inside, breathing steadily. "No."

"You sure?"

He moves to face her and nearly shrinks at the look in her eyes. They aren't just suspicious and pushing for an explanation; they know.

"You were mistaken," he states icily, watching as she steps back. Her bare feet squirm uneasily on the cold floor.

"Must have been," she murmurs, shutting the door.

He surprises her, grabs her from behind and spins her around. No longer polite and cordial. He pins her palms flat against the wall. Her eyes meet his, steady and accessing, and her lips draw into a tight line. For a second, he thinks she'll kiss him. Boldly, like the first time.

Somehow, he finds his old swagger and the crude words tumble out. "Is there a reason you climbed into my bed and screwed me for months before leaving without a word? Or is that just some game you play?"

"You played with me. For months. On purpose. You saw how you affected me and toyed with me because it was amusing."

"I'm sure you got plenty of amusement out of bedding an NBA player. Make him fal—infatuated with you."

Her eyes widen and he almost relents, thinking she'll pass out from sheer terror. Then her courage pushes out the words.

"It wasn't because you're rich and famous. I didn't even know that. It was because I dropped my keys and you picked them up. You were nice and polite, and it isn't what I expect from incredibly handsome men. And you kept being nice and polite and I thought it was something to build on, but nothing ever changed. Not even after we—"

"I'm not normally polite to shy, pretty girls who drop their keys."

His hands release their bruising hold to clasp her fingers lightly, and her stare drops to her feet.

"I'm not. Shy, that is. Not with others. Just you."