It wasn't the first time they saw each other, and neither was it going to be the last.

-

Mail Jeevas remembered the time he and Misa Amane had met in person. It was kind of somewhat odd to him, that he had met her in such a bizarre place for a girl like her. She was a teenage model, or around twenty—at least. Little did he know, that he was going to see her that night, for the second time. The clock almost stroke one in the morning, signaling Matt's dismissal from his temporary shift he needed to use as an occupation, other than saying he was socially equipped in a mafia, who, legitimately stole information, abducted people, and terrorized certain unjust people.

He grabbed his fur vest from the coat hanger at the exit of the game shop at the furthest end in town. He worked—or well, sat around playing random games—at a rather large electronics store. Usually his shift was as a clerk assistant, or a help station, since he knew where every single game in the department was. But not tonight. Tonight he had to close and lock up the whole store. He was pretty fucking hungry by then.

He strolled out the back door after setting up the closing alarm and twisting the knob to lock all the doors. Before he had even made his way toward his Chevrolet, he noticed her, shifting around, obviously lost. The odd thing was he didn't know it was her. Not at that moment, at least. He only saw the back of her body, her burnt caramel hair long behind her, clinging to her back. She wore a thick black pea coat, underneath, a velvet dress that reached above her knees. He almost saw her as a prostitute; and the fact her shoes were nearly six inches, did not contradict his perspective.

She stood behind a fence, looking out at the rode. He assumed she was looking for a taxi. As he trailed closer to her, he noticed black cross earrings hanging in front of her hair. It brought a sense of reminisce for about an instant, before he rubbed the idea out of his mind. A lot of girls wore cross accessories, he believed. But the way she stood, the way her blonde hair clutched at the nape of her neck and cascaded down behind her, the way her shoes could be described as gothic; he had the sense this was the girl he formerly spied on. There was that possibility. It had only been a couple months since the case had ended.

"Excuse me, miss?" He said with a somewhat smile, remembering he needed to use his charm.

She rotated her whole body curious to whom she'd see. Something about his stature seemed recognizable to her—almost, too familiar. But she couldn't place her finger on it. He wasn't from Japan—so how would she have been able to meet him or see him at all, if that slightest bit of her memory was even real? They were in Los Angeles; had she flown here last year? She couldn't remember—and Misa had no clue why her conscience from the year before had blurred away, as if it was trying to disappear; like it wanted her to forget.

"Hello?"

He was British.

"I'm sorry, I," she hesitated, her face still focused downward in the dim light. He couldn't tell if it was her or not. "—I spaced out for a second. Hi!"

That cheery, American-washed voice. It was her. He had just bumped into Misa Amane.

"I'm Misa, and you are?"

She was a little too vivacious, especially at this time of day. Had she always been like that? He couldn't recall, although it hadn't been that long since he had stopped spying on her. It was probably just because of the fact he had gone through an awful lot afterward. An image of Mello had cleansed his mind; his best friend, murdered by Kira; or an accomplice perhaps? The only particular person he had been sure about was that Misa had not killed him. But Mail did regret that day—he couldn't take the pressure that Mello had been forcing on him; trying to get him to help out on someone else's imprisoning. What was her name again; Takeda, was it? But he had quit, he didn't want to; he couldn't. He left that mafia after that, and the next thing he had known, his best friend—Mello—had been—

Her memory was erased—

She didn't hold ownership of a death note—so it had to be—

He stared into Misa's eyes for a split second before coming back to present day.

"I'm Matt," he replied with friendly eyes, even if she might have not seen them. She noticed his goggles, coming closer to him to pull it away from his eyes. He resisted the urge to slap her hands away, as he would do for anyone else; but he couldn't—not to her anyway. She dropped it to his neck and looked into his orbs.

He remembered staring into her blue eyes before. He also recalled the feeling it gave him.

It was years ago, but hell—

It was still feelings.

Their first confrontation was in Los Angeles, like where they stood now; except on the roof of an office. It was multiple stories high; he wasn't assigned to spy on her yet. This was the time Mello and his mafia were looking for a hideout; the red-head had to see if there were any empty offices in this building, and whilst doing so he pulled out a cigarette and security had told him to go outside. Already on the highest floor, he decided to just go onto the roof, and there she was. She was standing at the edge of the railing, her blonde hair flying along with the wind.

Was she going to jump?

This building was pretty fucking high; it would have definitely took quite some time before she'd hit the road. Literally.

"Hey, get down from there!" He called out, cigarette in his mouth. Maybe it was an instinct to try and help others, although his gang seemed to do the opposite. He shook his head at his thoughts, trying to make himself believe he only didn't mind his business this one time because this girl was pretty; and therefore—guy logic—he liked to think of it—she shouldn't die. To his dismay, he had no clue who she was, or that she was secretly being spotted as the second Kira at the time.

She pivoted her head to the sound of his voice and stared him in the eyes. His goggles had been on his head. Her pools were a deep blue, surrounded by dark lashes that he could surprisingly see from where he stood. "I want to die." He heard the confidence in her voice. And with that, she dived forward with a big breath and a shut of her eyes. He sprinted toward the railing and grabbed her ankle while holding onto the edge of the roof. It left her in a state of weakness while she hung upside down. "What the hell are you doing?! Let me go!"

Her voice had been so feminine. He jolted her upward, and threw her body onto his shoulder. Thank god she had been light. "What's your problem, Miss?" He placed her on her feet and noticed the wetness in her eyes as she avoided contact. Her answer better be good; he risked his life for a complete stranger, and he had even spit out his cigarette when leaping forth her.

"You are!" Her face was in obvious indignation to his actions. "Holding me like I'm a potato sack! Mind your own goddamn business!"

"I saved your life, lady!" He grunted, grabbing his Marlboro box only to find out his last stoke had burned out as he saved her. "And I wasted my last cig' on you! You oughtta thank me."

An indirect pout formed at her lips. "Shut up, smoking kills."

"So does jumping off a building," he commented snidely, watching as her expression had softened. She ran off after that, through the door and down the stairs, and out of the building.

The meeting was bizarre. It bewildered him every time he thought about it. But he understood, now, after-all, he had watched her—day and night, for about a month after their first encounter. It shocked him at first, when he realized he was watching the same girl he saved. But as time lapped, it began to make sense. This girl—she had problems; her family was killed, the man she loved used her to kill people and for sex, and the pressure to murder with a god-like book of death, the pressure to impress her one love. She definitely felt the insanity, and he didn't blame her for wanting to commit suicide that day. She was confused, underestimated, misinterpreted.

"It's nice to meet you, Matt."

She broke their gaze, rain beginning to fall from above them outside of the electronics department store. Her expression was dull; amused, at most. He wondered if she was hurting inside, and he was interested to find out her story, and just maybe, she would get to learn his. "Where are you headed? It's kind of late for a girl like you to be alone on the streets."

"A girl like what?" She grinned, her cheeks becoming pink. He wasn't sure if she was blushing or if it had been from the cold.

Cute. He snickered, "Why not I take you out, Misa? Let's get a burger?"

"I'll take a salad; I could never eat something so high in calorie," she stated. Oh right, she was a model. "But I'd like that."

He didn't mean to smile so friendly, but her captivating expression made him. They walked toward his beat up car, her—polite enough to not make cracks about how broken down it appeared. He swung his car keys around his finger and opened the passenger door for her. Seeing as she hadn't slid inside, he turned around to see her staring at him again, a thoughtful yet confused look plastered on her porcelain face. She looked a bit stunned before a soft curve formed on her lips. Rain drenched the two of them.

"Thank you."

And Mail Jeevas knew she wasn't talking about his gentleman-like gesture.