Hello friends! I know it's been a while—things have just been so busy that I've only been able to focus on one story at a time ;) Maybe that means I've calmed down a bit. Anyway, a little background about this story—it's AU, but not at all in the way that "You" was. This is basically present day. Things will be a little different, so just stick with me, please. The general idea of this is basically a rip-off of another story. But, I'm ripping off my own story…that I never wrote…more than ten years ago. Not even kidding. Had the idea for a completely different fandom and never got around to actually writing it, but I guess the idea stuck with me. I've also *ahem* borrowed from a couple of other places, but I'll give them credit when I get to those moments, I promise.

This isn't as standard as I usually write, but hopefully it'll be all right. And this first chapter is long, but I think I can break up the rest of it into more manageable pieces. I've written enough of this to know there are some natural breaks in the story.

I don't know if I'm sold on the title yet, so don't be alarmed if it changes.

And this might seem random, but I suppose I need to maybe dedicate this to Kel. If not for her specific words toward me, I would have posted this all the way back in June as just a three or four chapter story. Now…I'm close to 200 pages in with some more crap that I need to get out of me before it's all over. So…there's that.

The rating will change eventually, too, so be on the lookout for that.

Well, without further ado…

I didn't plan on falling in love with you, and I doubt you planned on falling in love with me. But once we met, it was clear neither of us could control what was happening to us.

With a sigh, I look down at my phone to check the time. If this line doesn't start to move soon…well, nothing's going to happen. I don't have anywhere else I need to be at the moment, and it's not so much that I hate waiting in line—I know that the people working behind the counter are only human. But when the person in front of me feels the need to make the excursion into a laugh fest, holding up anyone and everyone behind him, I start to get a little antsy.

I look over my shoulder and try to suppress a groan. Of course, I'm the only one in line. This guy has no reason to keep the line moving for one other human being.

"Come on, Chuckles," I mumble to myself as I tap in the pass code for my phone. I scroll through my emails, not surprised at all to find that nothing new had come in since I checked thirty seconds ago. Then I pull up Facebook and find nothing new there, either.

I look up as the girl behind the counter lets out a loud belly laugh; I truly couldn't have said if the man in front of me was funny because I'm doing my damndest to ignore him. At first, I didn't pay attention to him because I was simply standing in line, waiting for my turn. But after a couple of minutes, I realized that he was just there to hang out and chat. I'm not very good at confrontations, at least not with strangers, so instead of tapping him on the shoulder, I passively-aggressively huff and puff and check my phone to kill time.

For a few moments, I consider the fact that I'm short and probably can't be seen over this guy's shoulder as a factor in why I'm being ignored, but I dismiss the thought as quickly as it appears. I may not be the tallest person on the planet, but I'm not so small that I can't be seen over a man's shoulder. Not to mention that it's extremely cold and windy outside, and when I opened the door a few minutes ago, quite a gust followed me.

No, I conclude, this man is aware of my presence but simply doesn't care that he's not the only person in the universe.

I sigh again and roll my neck as I try my best to remain patient. I always try to remind myself that if I'm not going to make my opinions known in any given situation, then I can't really get upset when things didn't go my way.

I'm not sure what causes me to look up at that moment—maybe it's just a natural motion, maybe I felt him moving. I really can't say. But all of a sudden I can see his body coming at me. I try to step out of the way, and I think he realizes too late that I'm behind him because he tries to step out of the way, too. In those few moments, time seems to slow to a crawl as I watch his coffee cup come barreling at me. I know that I'm in for a world of hurt when I feel a hand grab my elbow. A moment later I'm out of harm's way, the coffee cup on its side at our feet as the still-steaming contents dribble out.

"Oh, my God," he exclaims. "Oh, my God, oh, my God! I'm so sorry! I didn't see you there. Are you okay?"

I take a moment to consider the question, still a little shocked that I don't have coffee burns all over my body. I glance down and see that my boots and jeans are dotted with little drops of coffee, but other than that I'm dry.

He swoops down and grabs my bag—that I hadn't even realized I'd dropped—before the ever-growing puddle of coffee can reach it. He gives it a little shake before he passes it back to me, and I finally look up at him.

My heart nearly stops for a moment.

In front of me is one of the most attractive men I've ever seen. Light brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a sheepish, apologetic expression on his face. I stare at him dumbly for a few long moments, my eyes never leaving his face. Finally, he gently slides the strap of my bag up my arm and hangs it off my shoulder. A wide, bashful grin spreads across his face and I feel my heart melt a little bit. "Uhh, yeah," I finally say, remembering that he asked me a question. "Yes, I'm fine. Thanks for saving my life."

His grin grows even wider, if possible. "Well, don't tell anyone," he says, leaning toward me conspiratorially. "But underneath this suit and tie I'm actually Superman."

I let out a snort despite myself. "So, is Superman so hard-up for a rescue that he's now actually putting damsels in distress?" God, what is wrong with me? Not thirty seconds ago I would have happily throttled this man and now I'm flirting with him.

He chuckles and holds out his hand to me. "Hi. I'm Chandler."

My smile widens at the unusual name. "Hi, Chandler. I'm Monica." I grab his extended hand and bite my lip a little. I'm not usually excessively romantic; I don't believe in love at first sight or soul mates or any of the sorts of things people expect girls to believe. But I do believe that sometimes you meet a person and you feel an instant "click." Sometimes you make contact and feel a rush go through your body, like a bolt of lightning.

That's what Chandler's hand in mine feels like.

"Monica," he says softly, his eyes never leaving mine. "It's nice to meet you."

"Do you want another cup of coffee?"

The two of us jump a little, startled, and drop our hands. The girl from behind the counter has already cleaned up the spilled coffee and has probably been watching us stare at each other for some time. Chandler recovers nicely, though, and answers her while he smiles at me. "Yes, please, and whatever the lady wants, too."

I shake my head in protest as the girl answers, "There's no need for you to buy another cup."

He smiles at her crookedly as she moves back behind the counter. "It's not exactly your fault that I spilled my coffee." He looks over at me, smiling kindly. "And the least I can do after nearly giving you third degree burns is buy you a cup."

I smile despite myself. "There's really no need. You didn't do it on purpose." I really need to get a grip. Seriously, two minutes ago I was positive that he was ignoring me on purpose, completely aware of and unconcerned with my presence. I knew it without a doubt. Now, I'm damn near looking at him from under my eyelashes. I would be disgusted with myself if I wasn't positive that he was giving me the exact same look.

"How about this? Can't a man buy a lovely woman a cup of coffee?"

My eyes grow wide as the smile that's already on my face grows even bigger, hurting my cheeks. "Well, when you put it that way…" I shrug at the girl behind the counter. "Coffee, please. Black." I look up at Chandler, and his cheeks turn pink as I catch him staring at me. "Large." He grins at me again as he pays, our coffees following shortly thereafter.

We shuffle a little out of the way of the customers behind us, both of us holding our coffee cups awkwardly in front of our chests. Not usually at a loss for words, I'm stumped at how to handle this sort of situation. He smiles at me anyway and I tuck my hair behind my ear as I look away. I notice him shuffling his feet and instantly feel a million times better. At least he seems a little out of his element, too.

"Look," he says suddenly, and I look up at him cautiously. "Do you have some time? Do you want to hang out and talk?"

I bite my lip as I try to hold back yet another smile, Aren't I supposed to be playing hard to get or something? I mean, I shouldn't be making it blatantly obvious that I'm into this guy, right? But I can't seem to help myself. "Yeah, I've got time. That sounds great."

He looks instantly relieved, his shoulders relaxing as he breathes a sigh of relief. He glances around the café, the place fairly crowded despite the fact that there's not much of a line. After a moment, he nods his head toward a table near the window and gently touches my elbow—not in an aggressive, "come with me" sort of way, either. More of a reassuring contact sort of way.

I have it bad for a complete stranger. This can't be good.

Well, not a complete stranger. His name is Chandler and he likes coffee.

I roll my eyes as I follow him over to the table—it's a stretch at best and I know it.

My eyes trail down his back for a moment, the corner of my mouth quirking up at his cute little ass proudly displayed beneath his suit pants. An instant later I slam my eyes shut, shame washing through me. I hate it when guys do that sort of thing to me—it can't possibly be okay for me to do it to them.

"Are you okay?"

I open my eyes slowly to see Chandler's concerned face peering back at me. I give him a half-shrug and half-smile. "Yeah," I finally answer, pausing when he holds out the chair for me. I honestly can't remember the last time anyone did that for me, or if that's ever been done for me. Without another word or even a judgmental look on his face, he sits down across from me and smiles.

And says nothing.

We both stare at each other for a few moments before we both look away, laughing with embarrassment. I haven't felt this awkward around someone in years. If only it wasn't tempered with this strange, instantaneous attraction.

"So, Chandler, do you come here often? Ugh, oh, my God," I groan before he has a chance to answer me.

"What?" he asks, his hand covering mine for just a second before he moves it away.

"That was the worst conversation starter ever," I moan, disappointed and embarrassed. Does he come here often? It's such a bad, clichéd pickup line that I'm tempted to go stand in traffic just to put myself out of my misery. "I'm sorry. I just ask because—well, I'm actually—you know, I'm, uh, I'm here all the time, and I've never seen you here before, and…" Yep—this is it. I'm calling it. Time of death: Far too soon.

"Monica," he says softly, his hand covering mine once more, though this time he leaves it there, and I feel a tiny kernel of hope spring in my chest. I lift my eyes to see him looking back at me kindly, almost relieved. "It's okay. I'm nervous, too."

"You are?" I ask before I can help myself. "You seem so…relaxed."

"Oh, trust me; I'm still in shock that I've managed to make it this far after nearly burning you with coffee and that horrible line about being Superman. Honestly, I have no game whatsoever."

I let out a relieved laugh and turn my hand beneath his so that I can squeeze his fingers. "Oh, my God, really? Because I thought…"

"Monica, I'm completely stunned that you agreed to sit here with me. The fact that you haven't left in a huff because I can't stop staring at you is astounding," he answers with a smile, his soft blue eyes crinkling at the edges. My heart flips over in a way I don't expect.

"You can't stop staring at me?" I ask softly. I can feel my cheeks heating up in embarrassment at even asking that question, but he's managed to catch me completely off-guard. I hadn't even noticed him staring—I've been too busy looking away in embarrassment.

"You're gorgeous," he answers just as softly before he clears his throat and looks away. "I'm sorry. I don't usually…I'm not really as forward as I seem. I'm actually hopelessly awkward, which is why I say things like that."

"You think I'm gorgeous?" I ask, my mind stuck on that one thought.

His mouth quirks up at the corner and his fingers squeeze mine again before going loose, giving me a chance to pull away. Instead, I move my chair just a little closer to his and tighten my grip on his hand. I've never held hands with a stranger before—it's not usually the wisest of ideas, honestly—but there's really something about this one particular person that just makes me want to be close to him.

He looks relieved that I'm not moving away. With his free hand he grabs his coffee cup and takes a tentative sip. "I come here pretty often, actually, either on my way to work or on my way home. But I had to go in for a few hours today and…" His voice trails off as he watches me and I swallow nervously. Not because I'm being watched, though I can't really put my finger on it. It doesn't feel bad, at any rate. "You really come here all the time? How have I not seen you?"

"I'm usually here in the early afternoon."

He shifts his chair just a little closer to me. "Are you a student or something?"

I burst out in surprised laughter. "A student? Really?"

Chandler shrugs and looks bashfully down at his coffee. "You look like you're young enough, and you have what sounds like a strange schedule."

"Good genes," I answer, finally taking a sip of my own coffee. "I'm well past my college days, but thank you." He opens his mouth to say something, but a worried look passes over his face and he hesitates. "You can ask how old I am. I don't mind."

"Okay, now, see, that contradicts what just about every woman I've ever met says. I thought we weren't allowed to ask about your age."

"Well, I can't speak for women as a whole, but I don't mind. I'm twenty-seven. How old are you?"

He gasps and clutches his hand to his chest, pretending to be insulted. "How dare you ask a gentleman his age? Don't you know that's personal?"

I roll my eyes even as I smile, and gently kick his shin under the table. "Chandler."

"Hey! It's a little early for abuse, isn't it?" he asks, rubbing his leg for a few moments. "I'm twenty-eight." He pauses for a moment before barreling forward. "So what do you do? That came out awkward, I know, but I thought it'd be better than staring at you again. Though I've been wrong before."

What is it about this guy that keeps drawing me in? He's hot—true, but it's more than that. I wouldn't normally suspect that I'd go for someone like Chandler with his silly little jokes and obvious awkwardness, but there's something about the fact that he knows this about himself and embraces it that's a huge turn-on to me. But I think I'd like him even if he were completely unaware of it.

"I'm a chef," I answer, surprised to find that I've already moved my chair even closer to his.

"A chef? Wow. Sounds impressive."

"Hardly. It's loud, noisy, hot, sweaty, sometimes dirty. The pay is negligible most of the time, and the waiters usually make more than I do."

"And you love every minute of it," he says matter-of-factly.

A smile spreads across my face once more and I prop my head up on my hand. "And I love every minute of it. Cooking's my passion, and it turns out that I'm really good at it."

"Lucky for your customers."

I nudge him with my foot again. "Yes. Lucky for them. Anyway, it's not much, but it pays the bills and it keeps me happy, so I don't know if I could ask for much more out of life." That last part isn't completely true—there are a lot of things I'd like to ask of life, but job-wise I think I'm doing all right.

"So, this is where you stop for your pick-me-up on the way to work?"

"No, this is where I stop for my pick-me-up on the way home." He gives me a confused look so I just shrug. "I usually work the lunch and brunch shifts. It's hard to jump right into a restaurant as a chef for the night shift, and even harder to be the chef for the weekends, so when I was offered the chance to work lunch, I took it. I figured it'd be a foot in the door and I'd be able to prove myself at the same time. That was four years ago."

"If you're not going anywhere, then why…"

"That's the thing—I don't feel like I'm not going anywhere. I've actually been there longer than the head chef who works primarily on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. It turns out that if you work at night in the average restaurant, you will almost never have a night off again. It sounds glamorous on paper, but in practice it's very grueling. This way, I'm at work most of the day, but then I still have nights free to hang out with my friends or whatever."

"Well, that doesn't sound too bad," he agrees, taking another sip of his coffee.

"It's not. I really like what I do, and it's not as if we don't get crazy crowds for lunch, you know? I mean, this is Manhattan, after all. People go nuts for brunch, too, so I'm held in fairly high regard at work. I make a hell of an omelet."

"Where do you work?" I feel myself hesitate, but a moment later he holds up his hand to stop me. "Nope. Never mind. Don't tell me. This way I can't stalk you."

"That might not be the worst thing," I tell him softly, the thought slipping out before I have a chance to censor it. "What do you do?" I ask before he can respond to my apparent delight at the idea of being stalked.

"I'm in advertising."

"Advertising, huh? So you're an expert at selling yourself?"

He chuckles a little and shifts, and I'm almost surprised to realize that we're now actually bumping shoulders. "Pretty much. How's it working so far?"

I giggle a little—actually giggle like a little girl—and duck my head. "Too soon to tell. I may need some more convincing." God, Monica. Throw yourself at the man a little harder, why don't you? I'm about as subtle as a gun.

"More convincing, huh?" His mouth is close to my ear, his breath sending shivers down my spine. Ordinarily, I wouldn't be comfortable with someone I hardly know being this far into my personal space, but something is very loudly telling me that this man isn't like anyone else I've ever met. "Would you maybe like to be convinced in the form of dinner some night?"

I look up again, his face close enough to mine that we almost bump noses. His eyes are so blue—the color of the autumn sky on a clear day, and even though I'm sitting down, my knees go weak. He looks so nervous, as if I'm actually going to turn him down. Whatever it is I'm feeling right now, at least he seems to be feeling it, too.

I glance down at his lips for a split second and feel my heart start to race. This is such a stupid idea, I tell myself as I worry my own lower lip between my teeth. Don't kiss a stranger. Don't kiss him, don't kiss him, don't kiss him.

But, God help me, I want to. I want to know if it's a perfect as I think it'll be.

It's still a bad idea, though. Kissing a man you've just met is something you do in college, when you're young and stupid. Kissing a man you don't know when you're an adult can't possibly lead to anything good.

The corner of his mouth quirks up a little and he backs away a few inches. I wonder if he had the same inner turmoil I just did, or if I'm really over-thinking this whole thing.

"Sorry," he says softly. "I was really invading your bubble, wasn't I?" Before I can answer, I hear a strange, almost growling noise and he groans loudly. "That's me. Sorry." He reaches into his pocket and I realize his phone was vibrating against his leg. I take a deep breath and sit back, startled to see that our hands are very thoroughly tangled. Somehow, once we grabbed on we never let go, and now I can't help but be fascinated at the way we managed to do this without ever realizing it.

He holds up his phone for a second before silencing it and tossing it on the table. "I'm going to have to give them a call back," he tells me, but I can't help but be a little flattered that he didn't answer right away, opting instead to talk to me. "Umm…if dinner was too forward—"

"Oh, no," I exclaim, not even pausing to be embarrassed by my outburst. "No, that's not too forward at all. I'd…I'd love to. Whenever." Yep—that ought to scare him off. Let him know that you're instantly available and have nothing else going on. That's always attractive.

But he doesn't seem turned off by my eagerness at all. Instead, he just grabs a napkin out of the dispenser on the table and pats his jacket, looking for a pen. I shove my hand into my bag and, mercifully, find one almost instantly. He smiles gratefully as he writes his number out, sliding the napkin in front of me. He lets out a sigh and stands slowly as he grabs his coffee cup, looking just a little sad. "So…"

My eyes grow wide and I snap myself out of my haze. "Wait!" I grab another napkin and scribble out my number, pausing to make sure I've actually written down the correct information. "That's my cell. I can't always answer if I'm at work, but I promise I'll call back." I hold the napkin out to him and he slowly takes it, his hand lingering on mine, and I feel dizzy again, my entire body shaky at the contact.

"I promise I won't do the guy thing and wait a week to call you," he tells me, and I feel relief rush through me. I hadn't realized I was worried about that until he mentioned it.

"I'll hold you to that," I tell him with a smile, not bothering to wonder at the absurdity of that statement. As if I could make this person I don't know do anything.

"So…bye," he says, taking a few steps backward, his hand still holding mine.

"Bye," I answer, watching him walk away from and feeling my heart inexplicably break at the thought him leaving already.

"Bye," he says again, taking a few more steps before finally turning and walking out the door.

I let out a long breath as my body starts to shake, still completely caught off guard by what just happened. I just made googley-eyes at a stranger while I held his hand. What the hell is wrong with me? I've never done anything like that before and with good reason—it's dangerous. It's stupid and dangerous. But everything in me is telling me that this is okay, that he's a good person. I don't know why I'm so inclined to believe that about him—other than the fact that I find him to be incredibly attractive—but my gut instinct is that he's a good guy, a genuinely good guy that I can trust, though I should definitely get to know him for a while first.

I feel my phone buzzing in my coat pocket and pull it out, staring at the unfamiliar number in confusion for a few moments before I finally press "accept."

"Hello?"

"Told you I wouldn't wait a week to call you."

A grin instantly spreads across my face, my cheeks aching from the effort. Chandler. "I'm glad," I answer softly, tears prickling the corners of my eyes because I'm so happy that he's already calling me. "How far did you get?"

"Not very," he answers. "Look up."

I look out the big picture window in front of me, my eyes finding his just a moment later as he smiles at me sheepishly from across the street. "Hi," I say, unable to tear my eyes away from him.

"How many cool points did I lose by calling five seconds after leaving you?"

I just roll my eyes and shake my head. "You just gained about a million."

"Really? It's not creepy and pathetic that I wanted to hear your voice again?"

"Not even a little bit," I confirm. This is completely new territory. Most guys really do wait for days before calling, while we sit at home on pins and needles, overanalyzing every moment of time we've spent in contact with him. Feminism has come a very long way, but some habits are harder to break than others. But a guy who actually calls when he says he's going to, a guy who doesn't seem to be playing any games and is just as into me as I am into him…it's a brand new experience. One I'm hoping I get to take part in for a very long time.

His face lights up, relief written all over his features. "It was really nice to meet you, Monica."

"It was really nice to meet you, too."

"I actually do have to go, though."

"Okay," I answer, watching him not move from his position across the street. "I'm not stopping you."

"If only that were true."

Somehow, my smile gets wider. "Go. I'll talk to you later." That came out a lot more confident than I feel.

"Definitely. Bye for real this time."

"Bye." I watch as he hangs up his phone, his eyes never leaving mine despite the people rushing past him on the sidewalk. Finally, he gives me a tiny wave and turns, putting his head down against the cold wind as he walks away. Immediately, I add his information to my phone's contacts and save, checking it three times before I feel like I can trust myself to have his number secure. Still, I put the napkin he gave me in my wallet just in case.

I glance at my phone again, surprised to realize that Chandler and I spent over an hour talking and staring at each other—it only felt like five minutes. I sigh and stand, grabbing my own coffee cup and sling my bag over my shoulder before I head out into the blustery winter day. In a trance, I walk back to my apartment, any plans I'd had in mind for the day completely shot as my head fills only with thoughts of the time I spent with this incredible guy.

The front door of my building appears and I pull out my keys to let myself in, dreamily drifting up to the fifth floor. I turn the knob to my apartment door, rolling my eyes to find it already unlocked. I love my roommate—we've been friends since we were little kids—but even after living in Manhattan for three years, she hasn't managed to catch on to the fact that you're supposed to lock your doors. Just because we mostly trust our neighbors and people either need a key to the front door or need to be buzzed in doesn't mean we're in some sort of protective bubble.

Rachel looks up from the couch as I make my way in, surprise registering on her face. "Hey, Mon. I wasn't expecting you back for a while."

"Yeah," I answer. "It was just kind of cold, so…" I let my voice drift off as I take off my coat and hand it up slowly, Chandler's bright eyes and cute little smile dancing across my mind. His touch still lingers on my hand and I can still feel his fingers between mine, the feel of it so natural, so perfect that—

"Mon!"

I blink a few times, looking over at Rachel. "What?"

"You've been staring at your jacket for, like, two minutes. Are you okay?"

That's a loaded question. "Yeah. Sure. I'm fine." Just then my phone buzzes in my pocket and Rachel's next question falls by the wayside. I pull out my phone and see that I've gotten a new text. I can't even fight the grin because I know it has to be from Chandler. I tap in my pass code impatiently, sighing in frustration when I hit the wrong numbers in my rush to see the message. I take a deep breath and make myself go slow, leaning back against the door as I see his name pop up on my screen.

Friday night good for dinner?

I smile, not even hesitating in my response. Friday's great.

I mean, I'll call you later to officially ask you out, but I wanted to make sure I booked the day before someone else could.

My social calendar has been glaringly empty for the last couple of months, but he probably guessed that already. I'll make sure to pencil you in ;)

So it's not completely lame that I texted you?

No, texting's fine. Text any time you want. Geez, even when I have the chance to censor myself I don't. I'm completely available and this guy knows it.

I'll keep that in mind. Talk to you later, okay?

Okay. Later. It takes everything in me to not send a little heart emoticon after that.

"Monica, what's going on with you?"

I blink a few times, pulling myself from my phone to turn my focus back to my roommate. "Huh?"

"You look like you're in love with your phone over there; you won't stop smiling and sighing. What is it?"

I look at his texts for a few more moments before I lock the phone and slide it back into my pocket. "Rache, you're never going to believe this, but…I think I met someone."

They say when you meet the love of your life, time stops, and that's true.

*A/N…please tell me it didn't suck, please tell me it didn't suck, please tell me it didn't suck…