AN: This is something I wrote a while back as a sort of exercise and then shelved: Sybil's first look at Tom and her thoughts leading up to approaching him. Since I haven't updated A Real Education in a while, I thought I'd put it out there. Hope you enjoy!

OK, this is starting to get creepy.

She'd been shadowing him for the last twenty minutes like something out of a Cold War-era farce. The brogue had caught her ear through the clink of crockery and the jangle of whatever nonthreatening indie pop they had on heavy rotation this week. But it was his eyes—good God, they practically glowed across the café when he turned round—that made her snap her book shut and stuff it into her bag. She'd pitched her still half-full cup into the bin on her way out and stuffed a stick of gum into her mouth. Just in case.

They'd gone up South U and into Ulrich's, where she'd feigned interest in a display of maize-and-blue sports memorabilia while he asked about something at the textbook counter. He had left empty-handed, but not before smiling at the girl behind the till, those eyes crinkling up in a way that just screamed I've got a sense of humor! And I'm probably great in bed! Now he was crossing the Diag, Sybil closing the distance between them ever so gradually and trying to work up the nerve to talk to him.

For once she had no idea what to say. The sensation was unfamiliar, and deeply unpleasant for a girl who'd always been able to talk to anyone. Anyone. On her last visit home she'd got stuck entertaining a friend of Granny's and had ended up describing what it was like to attend an American football tailgate, to the lady's polite bemusement. Later that evening Granny had wearily requested that Sybil refrain from using the phrase "beer bong" in the drawing room ever again.

Oh, this is ridiculous. Just... say something!

It wasn't that he was particularly intimidating. On the contrary, he looked… well, nice was much too bland a word, too fraught with unflattering connotations, but even from a distance his eyes looked kind. He wasn't overly tall or too handsome, didn't have that almost feminine beauty that Sybil, rightly or wrongly, associated with men who called when they felt like it (never often enough) and never, ever stayed at a party for even one minute after they'd stopped having fun, no matter how Sybil felt, or if they did they'd pout for days afterward. This guy looked reasonably well-adjusted, as far as one could tell from ten yards away and never having spoken to him. He didn't look as though he'd think he was special and scarred because he was afraid of bloody heights or something.

She smiled as he tossed his cup end-over-end into a bin, tea-bag string trailing, after sipping and shaking his head in what she could tell even from behind was disgust. He knows what he likes, she thought, and almost laughed at herself. She'd barely seen the bloke's face and already she was ascribing personality traits based on the way he disposed of his rubbish. Well, at least now you know he doesn't litter. She stifled a grin and continued to watch him. He strode across the quad decisively but not hurriedly, his head swiveling slightly in either direction, taking in his surroundings. Sybil liked to do the same when she walked. Just because you had somewhere to be didn't mean you couldn't enjoy the view en route.

Case in point, she thought, her eyes straying to his lower half, and not for the first time. I do like a man who can fill out the back of his trousers. Then she did laugh, more of a snort really, before straightening her face with a rather severe inner admonishment to act her age and either leave off ogling the guy or strike up a conversation already. And what's the worst that could happen? Sybil was not someone who worried much about rejection; if a man she approached wasn't interested, she shrugged and figured it just wasn't meant to be. Truth be told, more often than not she was the one turning them away. She didn't get satisfaction out of that the way some girls she knew did—well, not much satisfaction—but it happened often enough that she was well aware of her appeal to the opposite sex. So there was a pretty good chance that calling out to Mr. Blue-Eyes-Nice-Arse would lead to a coffee or a drink or a meal together, further interactions to be determined. That was Sybil's favorite part of relationships: that spark, the anticipation, what's going to happen? Could be anything before dreary reality set in. And it always did set in at some point. With the last guy it had been when Sybil realized halfway through dinner—their first together, which she'd agreed to against her better judgement—that apparently he was not going to stop talking about how television was in the midst of a golden age. She liked to lose herself in a bit of telly as much as the next person, but she'd never made weekend plans around "marathoning" a series (nor had she ever used the word "marathon" as a verb). Not meant to be. But just how many not meant to bes could one woman be expected to endure?

But this was no time for pessimism. Start as you mean to go on was what her sister always said, Mary with her wry smiles and determined Englishness. Wise advice from someone who'd come through her share of trouble. Keep an open mind: more good advice, always having an American twang in Sybil's mind, though her mother usually issued it in connection to something that would require adherence to tradition rather than the opposite. And then there was Sybil's own experience, which had taught her that even if the train eventually derailed, the stops along the way could still be tremendous fun.

Blue Eyes was approaching the midpoint of the Diag, Sybil hot on his heels, and she made up her mind to speak up. All at once she felt an urgency, as though she needed to make her move before he reached a certain point or she'd lose the game. It didn't really matter what her opening was; only that she had one. She'd opened her mouth before she even knew what she was going to say, trusting that it would all fall into place.

She was right.