She wasn't like any other woman.

The very definition of "atypical".

He had hated her. Wished her dead. Wanted to kill her himself, even.

Now, he understood the line, "my only love sprung from my only hate".

Not that he loved her.

Hell, it had only been two weeks! A person couldn't fall in love in two weeks. He still wasn't even sure he liked her all the time. She could be bossy. She was too neat, too organized, too put-together. She made him do dishes, and scolded him for leaving his clothes lying about, and the toilet seat up, and the lights on when he wasn't in a room. They didn't even live together! And that self-satisfied smirk she got when she knew she'd bested him! She could irritate him to no end sometimes. They sparred like Benedick and Beatrice, though, if he were being honest with himself, he would admit that he enjoyed that.

She was smart. Brilliant, even. And she loved books every bit as much as he did. He could reference any of his favorites, and she'd launch them into an hour-long discussion about it. Book club's fault, she'd say, for which he'd tease her. Others 101?

She'd teach him Latin now and again. "Son of a bitch" was the first phrase he learned.

She was funny. As frustrated as she could make him, she also had the ability to make him unabashedly happy. The first time she'd made him laugh out loud, he had been caught off-guard. He couldn't remember what she'd said, but he did remember the flower she had tucked behind her ear. A daisy. He'd picked it for her as they walked back towards their temporary homes.

Temporary.

The memory jolted him from his daydreaming state. He glanced at his alarm clock. 8:15. Son of a bitch!

The sub left at 8:00.

The sub Juliet had agreed to wait for two weeks ago.

That's all I'm askin'. Two weeks.

It hit him like a ton of bricks. His chest tightened. He bolted from his bed, pulled on some pants, and ran, not even bothering to put on a shirt.

He reached the dock to find it empty, the sub long gone. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to jump in the water and start swimming after her.

Too late.

It was then that he finally stopped lying to himself. He'd fallen for her and neglected to tell her. Now there was no way he ever would. She was gone.

Defeated, he trudged back home. What now?

She was unpredictable. The way she'd gone from being his sworn enemy to his most trusted ally. The way she surprised him with her wit and humor. The vulnerability she showed him each time she revealed something personal about her past. The fact that she could calm him just by saying his name. The fact that she'd made him fall in love with her without even knowing it. And most importantly, the fact that when he opened the door to his house, convinced that he'd lost her forever, she was standing there in his living room.

He didn't speak. What words were there for this joy? His command of the English language was not vast enough to know.

Instead, he strode up to her purposefully, grabbed the sides of her face and kissed her, the way he imagined a Romeo should kiss his Juliet.

His Juliet.

And so it began.