"What about 'What happens in London, stays in London?'"

Bonnie rolls her eyes to an unseeing Caroline. "I was about four tequila shots down when I said that."

"Doesn't matter! It's the principle! What's the point of a semester abroad if you can't go on a date with, to quote you, 'the sexiest professor you've ever seen?'"

"He's thirty-one! It's weird he even likes me!" She flings herself down on the bed, shoes and bags still attached to various limbs.

Professor Salvatore had walked away, like the damned mystique he was, leaving only a scrawled note in her palm. The World's End, Camden. 7pm. Naturally, she'd pocketed it and called her best friend, voice, heart, mind, everything, leaping into frenzy.

"You can't help you fall in love with, Bon," Caroline deadpans. This girl.

Bonnie shifts the phone into the crook of her shoulder and fumbles with the laces on her red Converse. "It's reckless."

"It's like a fucking movie. I swear, if you don't go, I'm flying to England and going myself."

"Care."

"Hurry up and get dressed. Wear something sexy, but classy, obviously. Put on the new lipstick I got you. Maybe a heel?... Or a fucking bin-bag, I don't care, just GO."

The blonde disconnects and Bonnie screams, silently, at the dial tone.

/

These things just don't happen to Bonnie Bennett. She's shy to strangers, reserved, tentative, her bite hidden, seething, rarely emerging. She's not the one people look at first – she's the one they look at the longest, trying to decipher. She likes being unreadable: it keeps her safe.

But going across the Atlantic, leaving her home – that wasn't very Bonnie Bennett. Refusing to take Jeremy back, even when he begged and cried and whispered sorry down the phone, in her ear, on the pillow – that wasn't very Bonnie Bennett.

Standing on Charing Cross Platform, curled hair, red dress, denim jacket, knee high boots, she entertains the thought that maybe, Bonnie Bennett is unpredictable. A smile flirts with her lips. The butterflies simmer too. Fuck.

She keeps her hands curled into her lap on the tube. It rattles and groans with the effort of rush hour and when she has to give up her seat for a pregnant lady, her hands sweat around the pole. Bonnie traces the shoes of commuters; with every stop she grows more nauseated.

A group of blue shirt wearing young professionals clamber aboard and her heart swoops thinking it's Damon, charming with his witticism and grin. Meeting him here would be so painfully awkward – squished together and sweaty. The tube jolts. Shit. Camden Town.

Her legs feel more like jelly than skin and bone and with the throes of tired Londoners waiting to take her space on the tube, a part of her wants to be swallowed in their masses and travel far, far away from whatever the fuck is about to happen.

Caroline's warnings rattle through her and she steps onto the platform. You got this, Bonnie.

…

It's 6:30 when she emerges into the chill of a December evening. 6 fucking 30. Half an hour to kill. Great. Google Maps estimates the walking time a generous two minutes. She has two options: she goes in, gets a drink, finds a table, downs said drink, gets another, waits, or, wanders around Camden in 43 degrees Fahrenheit and a denim jacket.

With Jeremy it had never really been dating. They were hanging out, friendly, until one moment, it wasn't, and they were kissing. First dates, the jittery unpleasantness of it all, is very unfamiliar. Still, sitting and waiting for him to arrive seems too torturous – she'll just have to walk fast… and call Caroline.

"You better not be calling to say you're in bed."

"Can't you hear the traffic!?"

There's a pause, then she squeals. "Elena, she's there!"

Bonnie hears a distanced whoop down the phone. "And shitting myself. I've got twenty minutes until we're meeting. I'm literally just walking up and down the main road. Getting lots of stares."

"Probably because you look hawt. Is it cold?"

"It's England in winter. Practically tropical."

A shuffling as the phone is passed over and Elena giggles into the speaker. "Hey Bon, I can't believe you're doing this."

"Neither can I," she groans, dodging a dude trying to shove a business card for weed in her face. "My first proper date since your brother and it's with my Professor." The absurdity of the statement makes her snort, then want to throw up.

"Well if nothing else, take it as a compliment. He's gorgeous. And intelligent."

The butterflies beat their wings in agreement. "Fuck my life."

"More like fuck my teacher!" Caroline's yell is just audible and Bonnie and Elena squeal.

"Okay, hanging up now."

"Bye Bonnie! Good luck!"

She checks the time on her wallpaper. 6:25. Show time.

The pub is on the corner, unmissable in burgundy and, worryingly, a line of people huddling outside. Bonnie forces her numbed fingers into her purse pocket to check once more the name with Damon's scrawl. Heart now louder than the street traffic, she joins the end of the queue.

…

It's 7:05 by the time she's swallowed in the warmth of the yellow lit room. It's near full – an aggregation of office workers, hipsters and hippie-types. And, at the edge the room, by a make-shift erected stage, raven hair, and long fingers leafing through the pages of a novel. He's in his usual shirt except the cuffs are unbuttoned and pushed back to expose toned forearms, giving him a relaxed, off-duty vibe, which - she inhales - is incredibly sexy. When he lifts his head, his eyes are narrowed, scanning the room, looking for her. This realisation propels her forward.

Damon's mouth twitches when he sees her, and for a moment, his stare is captivated; turning her over with every blink. Bonnie curls around the scent of confidence he awakens and yanks, hard. You can be gorgeous too.

"Good evening, Bennett." He stands to smooth down his shirt, placing his book on the table to usher her forward. They don't hug.

"Good evening." Her limbs feel heavy with his stare as she finds her seat. In the low light, his face is balanced between shadow and luminosity… what that does to his eyes is dangerous.

"You look lovely."

The blush is inevitable. "I figured I should make a bit of effort."

Damon quirks a brow. "You wanted to impress me?"

"No," she says quickly.

"Shame…" he stretches back against the chair, "because it worked."

Bonnie shifts from his stare, suddenly fascinated by the cover of his novel. She's about to ask him whether it's worth a read when a man on a microphone calls for silence. Poetry, remember?

She steals glances at the man during the readings – his pressed lips, furrowed brow. When he smiles, she notices it first in his eyes, the crinkled skin around them, before the kicking up of his lip, the folds in his cheek. He looks at her too, between snaps for the finished poet and the next, the light like glitter.

At the end of the third, he bridges the space between them with a whisper. Her shiver is instinctual. "What did you think?"

"I… liked it," she says lamely. He's an English professor, idiot.

"You liked it?"

She nods at the table.

Damon exhales. "But did it make you feel something?"

Bonnie hesitates, then shakes her head.

"Then it wasn't good poetry."

He stands, unhooking his jacket from the chair and shrugging it over his shoulders. Bonnie looks at him in alarm, "Where are you going?"

Damon scoops up his novel. "For a contemplative walk. Come on."

A/N: Sorry this is another short one. I always get inspiration at night and am too impatient to wait until morning to continue… At least it means more frequent updates, right?

Thank you for all the support! Please keep the reviews coming.