Disclaimer: Everything here worth owning is Rainbow Rowell's.

"Penny?" I ask as soon as she walks through the door of our flat. I have the fewest classes on Wednesdays, so I'm always home first. "Do you think I'd be good at maths?"

Penny sets down her rucksack and starts unbuttoning her coat. "Maybe. What makes you ask?"

"A bloke in my Introduction to Environmental Studies class was talking today about how he's glad he's finally found something science-y where you write essays instead of lab reports or equations. And it got me thinking—if maths isn't about writing essays, maybe I'd be good at it. I mean, I'm pants at everything involving words, so maybe I'd do better with numbers." I rake a hand through my hair. "Either that or I really am just stupid, like Baz always used to say."

Penny takes a bunch of grapes out of the refrigerator and rinses them off in the sink. "You're not stupid," she says, but it sounds reflexive, not genuine. "Did you like maths in primary school?"

I shrug. "I guess so. I don't really remember."

Penny puts the grapes in a bowl and comes to join me on the sofa. I take a grape, but, instead of eating it, I say, "I'm worried because I think it might be too late to start maths. I mean, I haven't taken any since primary school. And it's not like there's Intro to Maths courses at uni, the way there's Intro to Environmental Studies or Intro to Spanish. They assume you already know calculus, at least."

Penny frowns, eats a grape, and then says, "You can't be the only Watford student ever to want to study maths. I can call my mother and ask what people have done before, if you like."

"That might be helpful, yeah," I agree.

"Do you want me to do it now?"

I swallow. "Um, all right."

Penny whips out her mobile, unlocks it, and dials. Then she puts it on speaker and holds it between us.

I don't really expect Mrs Bunce to pick up, since she's busy being headmistress, but, after the phone rings twice, we hear her voice from the phone's speakers: "Hello, Penelope. How are you?"

"I'm doing well, Mum," Penny replies. "I'm calling because Simon has a question. He's wondering if it would be possible for him to study maths, since he didn't take any maths courses while he was at Watford. I'm assuming someone has done this before. What did they do?"

"Well, the first step out be to get a tutor," Mrs Bunce says. "There would be a lot of catching up to do. It's true that we don't provide students with a very smooth transition from Watford to a Normal university, particularly if they want to study something in the sciences, and that's something your father and I have discussed many times."

"But it would be possible for Simon to study maths?"

"Just as possible as it was for Dr Wellbelove to study medicine. If he's serious about it, I would recommend that he talk to the head of the mathematics department and get a tutor."

"Thanks, Mum."

"Did you need anything else, Penelope? Because I do have work to get back to."

"You can get back to work; that was all," says Penny."

"All right. Tell Simon good luck from me." The line goes dead.

I look at Penny. "This means emails, doesn't it."

"And then an actual meeting, probably," she replies.

I pull a throw pillow over my head. (Throw pillows were Penny's idea.)

"Come on, Simon. I'll help you draft it if you want."

I set the pillow down. "Can I have a couple of days to sort out what I want?"

Penny agrees to that, picks up her rucksack, and heads up to her room. I think she relishes not sharing a room with Trixie anymore. For my part, I get out my mobile and text Henry, the Normal from my literature class who I've become friends with: What's your opinion on maths?

I eat another few grapes before I get an alert that he's replied. His text says, Bollocks. Why do you think I'm studying literature?

Okay, but what's maths like? I write back. We didn't have maths at my school.

Lucky, he replies. Then: Numbers. And then letters that stand for numbers.

No essays? I ask.

None. My cousin who studies maths talks about proofs sometimes, but they don't sound like essays.

I think maybe I'd be okay at that, since I'm shit at essays.

No you're not, he writes. Thirty seconds later, he sends a second text: Okay, maybe you are. He would know, since we'd worked together on a peer-editing day. Then he sends a third text: Still cool, though. :)

I don't know if he's flirting with me. He seems pretty gay in person—everything from his clothes to his laugh—but then, Baz mostly doesn't, so maybe I'm not a good judge. I've never mentioned Baz to Henry, so he has no reason to assume I'm not straight (unless I seem gay, I guess), but he also might assume I'm single. Simple compliments could be a way of feeling me out. Or maybe not. Maybe I should talk to my therapist about how I assume everybody's got an agenda. Or maybe I'm just overreacting to absolutely everything.

I text back, Thanks, just as Baz walks in the door. He's allowed to come in without knocking between the hours of 9:30 a.m. and 9:30 p.m. if the door is unlocked—that's the compromise he and Penny have worked out.

I turn to face the door. "Baz? Do you think I'd be good at maths?"

Baz takes off his coat and joins me on the sofa, setting his bag at his feet. "Well, it's not too word-heavy," he says, "so maybe?" He takes a grape and bites into it, fangs popping as he does.

"That's exactly what I thought," I say. Then I unlock my mobile and show him the texts from Henry. "Do you think he's flirting with me?"

Baz frowns as he reads the texts, I think (it's still hard for me to tell expressions when his fangs are out), but it's more of a thinking frown than a displeased frown. I think. "Maybe?" he says. "I'd need more information. Do you think he's gay?"

"Probably."

"Why?" He pops another grape into his mouth.

"He dresses well. His laugh—I don't know, it just sounds kind of gay. But I missed you being gay, so obviously my gaydar is fucked."

Baz smirks around his fangs. "Right. Does he compliment you often?"

I think back. "Not really. He called my coat nice the first time I wore it."

Baz shrugs. "Probably straight." He eats another grape and then says, "Intro to being queer, Snow: assume everyone else is straight. Doing otherwise just sets you up for heartbreak."

I take his hand. "I didn't assume you were straight, and that worked out all right."

He arches one perfect eyebrow. "Just all right?"

"It worked out bloody brilliantly," I amend before kissing his ear. Baz's eyes flutter shut and he moans a little as I continue. I first figured out that ears are sensitive back when I was dating Agatha, but her reactions were never anywhere near this satisfying.

"Aleister Crowley, Snow," Baz says when I stop. "Don't do that when my fangs are out. Merlin."

I grin at him. "Can you put your fangs in so we can take this to my room?"

Baz concentrates for a moment, face screwing up, and his fangs retract back into his mouth. "All right. But only for half an hour." He gets out his mobile, and I know he's setting a timer. He's explained to me that he can scarcely trust himself where I'm concerned, and that all the mental energy that would otherwise go toward time management gets directed toward not biting me. And I do intend to keep placing top of the class, he always adds.

I don't know what that's like. Feeling smart. Trying to reach—or hold on to—the top spot rather than just hoping to avoid the bottom. If I try maths, though, and if that goes well, then maybe someday I'll find out how Baz and Penny feel.

No. If I turn out to be good at something, it'll be like finding out I had magic. I'll treasure it more than anyone else because I have so much experience being without it.

Baz and I manage to fit quite a bit of fun into half an hour, and then it's homework until dinner time. It's my day to cook dinner, which makes me happy, even though I'm a little stressed about this literature essay and wish I could work on it uninterrupted all afternoon and evening. (Who am I kidding, it'll be shit no matter what.) But the fact is that I'm a better cook than either Penny or Baz, and I also enjoy it more. Since it's a weeknight, I throw together a stir fry rather than bothering with something complicated. When we eat, though, Penny takes one bite of the pork and sighs happily. "How do you do this?" she asks. "I can never get it this tender."

I shrug. "I just do, I guess."

"You don't need to search for something you're good at," Penny says. "This. This is it."

"You think I should be a cook?"

"Why not?" Penny asks. "You used to say you'd like to herd goats with Ebb."

Baz snorts. "You were serious about that?"

"I didn't think I had a future, when I said stuff like that," I shoot back.

Baz's smirk softens the tiniest bit, but all he says is, "Neither did I, and I never joked about doing anything that stupid."

Penny rolls her eyes and changes the subject, and the rest of dinner passes uneventfully.

I've almost gotten used to Baz eating with us, almost stopped appreciating the miracle that is my vampire boyfriend eating with anyone at all. Almost. But not quite.

A/N: Reviews, favourites, and follows are lovely. More chapters are on the way!