She is 22 and she is free.

She is 22 with a world of possibilities at her fingertips and, try as they might to claw their way back under her skin, her mother's parting words are at her back.

Not only at her back, but trapped across the Atlantic Ocean and safely isolated on a different continent. And with no permanent address or destination in mind, there's no way for her mother to find her.

She breathes easier with every step she takes down the ramp, away from the plane and towards the airport, growing lighter the further she moves.

In the pack on her back there is mostly clothing, her passport, and the money she'd saved through years of bartending and waitressing through college. The emergency bank card Ellis had given her years ago is lost to the depths of her pack… and Meredith intends to keep it that way.

(But the practical side of herself, try as she might to otherwise smother it, had been unwilling to leave that safety net in the States.)

There's an address scribbled on a napkin in her pocket for the hostel she needs to find in the city, and Meredith is so happy she can't erase the smile from her face.

Sadie is meeting her in a week and they already have plans to visit over ten other countries, beginning here in England.

In a little under an hour since landing on the other side of the ocean, Meredith slinks into a pub near her hostel, where her pack is safely stowed in the footlocker of her bunk, and settles herself on an empty stool at the end of the bar.

When the bartender moves close to take her order, she asks for two shots of tequila, taking the first as soon as it arrives and slamming it under the bartender's quirked brow, before tossing some money on the bar to pay.

"Do you want to start a tab?" he asks, amusement flickering through his accented voice.

"That'd be lovely, thank you," Meredith responds, grin bright and impossible to dim.

As the bartender moves back to the cash, Meredith sucks down the second shot and grins around the trail of fire in her throat.

If asked, she would swear up and down that alcohol in Europe tastes infinitely better than in the States.

As she basks in the spreading warmth of her drinks, the hair at the base of her neck prickles. She feels his presence before he speaks, including a waft of cologne that smells deliciously male.

"Is this seat taken?" he asks, a low growl that does vicious things to her insides. And peaks her interest; the American accent seems out of place in the British bar.

Turning slightly on her stool, she takes him all in in one quick glance, from eyes that hold promises of mischief, to the leather jacket wrapped around his rangy form. She likes what she sees.

"Only if you take it," she offers, turning back to catch the bartender's attention, signalling for another round for herself.

As he slides in next to her, their shoulders brush. There's no spark, no electric surge, nothing but a strange acknowledgement they see in each other, hiding in the dark behind their eyes.

"Mark," is all he says, offering his hand.

"Meredith," she takes his hand and grins.

They each down a shot.

And something begins.

A/N: Really just gauging interest on this. Background being Meredith and Mark meet in Europe before she goes to medical school and progresses as a re-write from there (if I continue).

Hearts always, A.