The first time she sees him, he is wedged uncomfortably into one of the antique desks in one of Stanford's older classrooms. His frame is folded in ways that seem physically improbable, if not impossible, but he is hunched over a thick and battered notebook, scrawling notes as fast as his oversized hands can possibly write. The only seat open is behind him - she's late, of course - and she has to crane her neck to see around him, as seeing over his shoulder is out of the question.
She doesn't say anything - he looked so earnest and focused as she'd shuffled her way past him to her seat - but he turns and murmurs apologies with such genuine embarrassment that she smiles and says it doesn't matter, if he'll share his notes with her after class.
He grins. It's a lopsided, shy grin that lights his face up, and absolved of note-taking responsibility, she spends the remainder of class making idle mental guesses as to his name.
After class, he offers her his hand to help her out of her seat, and she stammers at the attention of a man for the first time in years. His accent speaks of rolling golden hills and summer afternoons lit with fireflies, a front porch, and the calluses on his hand speak of strength and honest labor. As they walk to the front of the classroom, she realizes that the frame she thought of as gangly and out of control is precisely driven, fully conscious of every movement that he makes. He introduces himself at the door, smiling shyly down that head-and-a-half of height difference, and she bites her lip and pushes her hair behind her ears as if she were thirteen years old again.
"I'm Sam," he says. "Sam Winchester."
"I'm Jessica," she says. "But you can call me Jess."