I don't own Twilight, but I want a nerdlisle of my own.

This will be a short fic with frequent updates. It's just some fluffy fun to take the edge off of angst fest, I mean AtR.

Mackenzie L. is the beta and is so wonderful to me. Kr2009 and texasunshine pre-read and send me such lovely comments and ideas. Kelley is 100% responsible for the title. That's all on her.

First day of the semester. Sophomore year of college.

I'm scrawling notes in the corner of my Civil Engineering as a Career syllabus the first time I see her.

I don't know why I look up, but I do. She's sitting in the middle of the front row directly in front of me.

She's perfect.

Her hair is brown but it's not. I can't explain it, but I've never seen anything more beautiful. She turns her head slightly to the left, and all I see is creamy skin and one bright green eye.

It's like the color of the stone in my Nana's wedding ring. The ring my mother insists I'll give to some lucky girl one day.

Her eyes are always so full of hope when she talks about it, but who am I kidding? I'm twenty years old and have never even been kissed.

Girls like this one don't want an awkward, shy kid with glasses.

…

Later, when we're sitting on the grass eating lunch, my brother Edward tells me her name is Esme.

Esme. It means beloved. No name could be more suited to my beautiful mystery girl.

I pretend I don't know what he's talking about. He tells me I'm full of shit.

"She has a boyfriend."

My heart drops into my stomach. I feel sick. I don't know why. It's not like I would ever have a chance with someone so perfect.

"How do you know?"

He shrugs. "I've seen them around campus together. He's very… hands on. He's the guy who was sitting next to her."

Black hair, hard eyes, no warmth, cocky attitude. I shake my head, trying to get rid of the image of him being with mystery girl. He's not right for her. She's light and he's dark. Everything about him is just… wrong.

"You like her, don't you?"

I nod my head slowly. I can't deny that Edward is right. I don't know anything about her, but I know I hate the thought of not being able to get to know her.

"Well," he says, getting up to throw his trash away, "you've got some stiff competition, bro."

He's right. It's no competition actually. She would never look twice at someone like me.

…

I go to my parents' house for dinner that night. Edward is oddly quiet on the ride over.

I can't stop thinking about mystery girl. Esme.

She's studying to be an engineer. Just like me. Her major only adds to her appeal. She seems like she was one of the popular girls in high school. The popular girls don't major in engineering.

I have to unravel the mystery of mystery girl.

I'm distracted all through dinner. Edward smirks at me over his fork the entire night. He knows I can't get my mind off her.

I wonder why he hasn't tried to let me down easy yet. Edward was always part of the "in crowd" in high school. He played football, dated cheerleaders, went to parties every weekend, and still managed to make straight A's. He would bring girls to the house all the time, and I would disappear to my bedroom so I didn't have to see what I knew I couldn't have.

Edward was cool. He's always been part of the same world mystery girl had to come from. He knew she would never be interested in me.

I was the quiet kid in high school. The nerdy guy with glasses who hung out with the band geeks and spent lunch in the library doing homework. No one gave me a second glance the whole four years. Half the kids we graduated with probably didn't even know my name. They probably never even knew I existed till graduation day when I had to give a speech.

…

The next day I'm in the library on campus when I see them.

I don't like the way he's gripping her arm. Like he owns her. Like he's afraid to let his status symbol go.

That's all she is to him, I decide. She's his most prized possession. Who wouldn't love to have such an amazing woman on his arm? That's obviously all he cares about.

I wonder if he even really knows her.

Not what's on the surface, but what's underneath. I wonder if he knows her heart.

I want to know her heart. I want it more than anything.

…

He doesn't come to class with her that day.

I briefly wonder where he is until she turns to look directly at me. My heart skips a beat, and I think I'm about to pass out. Then she opens her mouth, and I'm sure I'm about to pass out.

She asks me for a pencil.

Eight simple words. Do you have a pencil I can borrow?

Her voice is like an angel's. I'm not sure I believe angels exist, and I've certainly never heard one speak, but if there is such a thing as an angel, mystery girl surely must be one.

I barely pay attention to our first lecture that day. I can't take my eyes off her.

She's always wearing thin, professional looking skirts and nice tops to class. And heels. Really high ones. They look like they would hurt a lot, but she never seems uncomfortable in them.

I wear scuffed converse and jeans. I could never compare to her. She is perfection, and I am invisible.

My blond hair is always messy, and my eyes are hidden behind my glasses. I'm afraid to try contacts. I would have to touch my eyes. What if I poked one out?

Her light brown hair is curled in a way that is more reminiscent of the black and white films of the forties. She reminds me of Rita Hayworth. I wonder if when I'm sent to prison for stalking her I can have a poster in my cell like in Shawshank.

Her eyes are the greenest I've ever seen and so warm. I never want to look away from them, but that would be weird if I stared at her all day.

She's such an enigma. She's warm but aloof. She might be friendly if I spoke to her, but I would never know what to say.

I want to hear her voice again, though.

Do you have a pencil I can borrow?

I think about those words and her soft melodic voice the rest of the day.

…

Day in and day out for the next two weeks.

Go to class, daydream about mystery girl, go home, study, go to sleep, rinse and repeat.

Every day I sit behind them; my dislike for her boyfriend grows.

I hate the way he touches her. I hate the way he looks at her. I hate the way he smirks and slips his arm too low around her waist. She's not an object. She's a person. He doesn't understand.

I hate everything about him. She deserves better. She deserves to be treated like the royalty she should be.

The more he treats her like his property, the more the light leaves her eyes.

She's sad. I can tell.

I want her to be happy. She's beautiful when she's happy.

…

I sneak in a look at her first test of the semester when we get them back.

She failed.

Why did she fail?

She participates in class discussion like she's spent her life in construction. I watch her work in class and in the library. She knows the information and she knows it well.

Why did she fail?

Her boyfriend glares at her as she stares at the test. She looks like she's in shock. I want to help her. I don't even know what's wrong or what to do, but the need to fix whatever made her fail is overwhelming.

What if I offered to tutor her? That could work, I think. I could find out what makes her so good at class work but fail tests.

I could help her study.

We could work on homework together.

Most importantly, I could learn more about mystery girl and why she is such a mystery.