Author's Note: Maybe not what was intended by the prompt for Day Seven of Chair Week – AU history – but I was reminded of some behind the scenes photos of Ed and Leighton filming in front of the Plaza I saw on tumblr by the prompt and couldn't resist. Happy last day of Chair Week, y'all!

Her hand curls around the black bag slung on her shoulder, holds it in place because she grew up in this city and knows better than to allow easy access to her wallet. Not that her wallet has much in it – an emergency twenty dollar bill, her Metro card, and her real ID nestled behind her fake ID. Her tight, black uniform is stuffed in her bag, ready to be slipped on for another night of cocktail waitressing for stock brokers and other Wall Street types who will hit on her without fail and think they still have a shot even after they leave her less than ten percent in tips.

She had planned to quit at the end of July, planned to spend the last two weeks of her summer vacation with her boyfriend before heading to Yale. But now she's looking at making the trip from the Village even after the semester starts because there is no sense giving up a paying job now that she's not leaving the city. Her mother had socked away as much as she could, picked up side jobs in addition to her full-time job as a seamstress in the Garment District to help pay for her college education.

Even so, a substantial gap between what is covered by the savings and the scholarships and loans she was offer and what NYU charges per semester exists. The money has to come from somewhere, and giving up some of her weeknights and most of her weekends to work at the cocktail lounge seems like the only option. And no sense quitting now that neither of those two caveats of her original plan had worked out – Yale rejected her back in March and the boy she wanted as her boyfriend rejected her just last week.

The memories of Mike Lane's graduation party filter through her head as she pauses at the corner of the next major intersection. The music had been so loud and the cheap beer courtesy of Mike's older brother flowed so freely, but it hadn't been enough the dull the pain of his rejection.

She had been content to spend the night dancing with her best friend, to ignore her hand being squeezed in encouragement and the confident smiles thrown her way by the blonde. But then someone on the yearbook staff anonymously labeled her as a weak-willed person when they stripped her of the descriptor assigned to her by her classmates in a cruel prank. She had been left with no choice but to face what she been trying to do since their graduation ceremony that morning, to march up to him and acknowledge what she had been denying for so long.

She cornered him in Mike Lanes' messy bedroom, sat him down on a broken futon, and confessed that her love for him consumes her. She begged him to say the words he had freely spoken to both her ex-boyfriend and her best friend to her. And he had refused, told her that everything they had done to one another meant nothing because –

She closes her eyes, commands herself to stop thinking about that night. She had wanted to die and maybe a part of her did, but she has more important things to do with her life than mourn the loss of him. Like practicing her pretending to be interested face so she can up her tips for the night and finally purchase that laptop she'll need for college.

She rounds the corner, turns down one of her favorite streets in the city. It's the long way to walk to work, but something about the grandeur of the Plaza Hotel always manages to cheer her up. Her mother had taken her once when she was younger. They weren't guests; they couldn't afford even a single night's stay on the lowest floor. But that day they had ridden the elevator to the top floor so her mother could correct a dress construction error for the owner of the fashion house she works for. The dress had been beautiful, but she had been charmed by the classic opulence of the hotel itself.

Sometimes she likes to slip inside, pretend that she is one of the guests of such a famous hotel. But she really doesn't have the time today, and besides she could hardly be expected to fit in dressed in a pair of jeans, a gray t-shirt, a black cardigan, and scuffed brown boots. Even the light blue scarf around her neck looks cheap compared to those worn by the women walking along Fifth Avenue, shopping bags and designer purses in hands.

She knows all the names and all the labels by heart and can rattle them off on command because even she can afford the latest issue of Vogue. She sweeps her eyes from the woman in the Burberry coat walking past her to the street running concurrent to the front doors of the Plaza, nearly stumbles over her feet when she sees him leaning against a stretched limo with his booted feet crossed at the ankles and his hands jammed in the pockets of his worn, black leather coat. She slows, stops in front of him because she is hopeful and intrigued and ultimately foolish.

"Why aren't you out of town?"

The question is bitten out, tossed in his face as a reminder of all those times he went on and on about getting the hell out of town and crisscrossing the county. He moves away from the car, moves to stand in front of her.

"I made it to the Lincoln Tunnel," he offers with a shrug. His hands are still jammed in his pockets, and he's standing at least two feet away from her as people bustle past them on the busy sidewalk. "My new employer only lets me go as far as Union City."

"Your employer?"

He jerks his head towards the limo parked next to them, kicks the tire of the limo next to them with his worn boots as he pauses with adverted eyes. He sweeps his eyes back up to her, waits for her to recognize that he has gone into the family business and taken over his old man's job as a chauffeur for the rich and pretentious. It's on a trial basis. Joe wasn't too keen on hiring him after he got fired from his job as a bouncer at Victrola, but his dad had some sway amongst the drivers and he used to that to his advantage.

"So you're picking up a client then?"

She nods her head in understanding, looks to the Plaza and then back at him. And yet something is out of place because he should be wearing a suit and one of those ridiculous caps instead of jeans and a leather jacket.

"You were right, you know?" He informs her, and she adverts her gaze to the ground because she's not sure she wants to hear the words coming out of his mouth. "I was a coward running away again. Everywhere I went, you caught up with me. I had to come back."

She refuses to look at him, desperately tries to squash the elation running through her veins because she isn't a fool. Because she believed him once before and paid for it when he stood her up for the spring formal, left her to attend "A Night in Tuscany" alone.

"I wanna believe you," she replies with a shake of her head. She lifts her head, narrows her eyes at him as the words leave her mouth with barely masked emotion. "But I can't. You've hurt me too many times."

"You can believe me this time."

"Oh," she replies on the exhale of a breath. Maybe it is enough; maybe it isn't. "That's it?"

And then he pauses, offers her to slightest hint of a smile before the words she has waited to hear for over a year slip past his lips. They are firm, solid, without the slightest hint of hesitation.

"I love you, too."

The breath leaves her body, leaves her gasping for air as the words fill her ears and roar in her head. She moves quickly, throws her arms around his neck as she captures his lips with hers. He turns them, spins them in place as their mouths mold together and the fire roars between them.

This time is different, though. This is not the desperation of the past, but rather tenderness over a firm understanding that what exists between them is real and has a name – love. She breaks away from him, leaves him grinning and smiling wider than he previously thought possible.

"But can you say it twice?"

He laughs and so does she, smiling at the way she teases him. They kiss again – twice more before she pulls away and informs that she is serious, commands him to say it twice.

"I love you," he says with a kiss. "I love you. That's three. I love you. Four. I love you."

She giggles and laughs as he punctuates each of his declarations with a kiss. His lips against hers, his lips against her jaw, and then his lips against that spot against her neck only he has been able to find.

"We should celebrate," he whispers against her skin.

She nods her head in agreement as her body vibrates against his in happiness. A wicked grin settles on his face; she can feel it forming as he presses his face against her neck. And her eyes roll in the back of her head at his words, at the reminder his next words carry.

"I have the limo."