Title: An American Girl in Paris

Summary: A little Bamon fluff composed of cafes and Paris from A-Z

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ANGEL

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Fall in Paris, the leaves have changed to burnt ochre, the air is crisp and love is in the air.

There's a small café on Rue de Rivoli next to Angelina's, just across the Louvre museum where a young American sits. She goes there every Tuesday for the latte, at least that's what she tells herself. She can smell the warm croissants and lusty hot chocolate wafting from Angelina's but she doesn't care because this is her favourite place in the world. It's a small place where they write the menu on a wooden framed chalkboard and she sits hurdled in a rust velvet wing chair in a corner with a tattered book in her hand. She blissfully flips a page, smelling the crispness of the book but her eyes stay locked onto the barista as he moves behind the counter and her lips dare to edge into a smile behind the cover of her book. She tries to keep her composure whenever she's around him but the butterflies in her stomach still rage every time he steals a glance in her direction. She saw his eyes once, close up. They were blue like the blue forget-me-nots growing in the garden on her balcony.

There's a soft glow to him as he makes the latte, warm and ethereal like the city itself. She twirls the ends of her ponytail around her dainty fingers, watching as he glides from table to table before dancing toward her own table. They never exchange words, no conversation because words are trivial especially when she has to invent them because she is quite certain that he speaks a different language. He is too divine to speak human and she fears what ever promises she could relate with her words would be lost in translation.

When he leans over to set her cup on the table in front of her, she presses her nose against his sleeve, just ever so slightly. He smells like freshly washed alpaca blankets, burning cinnamon, smouldering cigarettes and too much wine. As he moves away from her table, she lifts her cup to take a sip but before she can enjoy his creation, her eyes take in the art that he has drawn in her latte.

It's an angel with a halo.

She smiles and takes a moment to appreciate their language and the insignificance of words between the two of them.

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BEE

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Seven days later, she leans her bicycle against the wall of the café, her sneakers slapping against the cobblestone as she rushes inside for her weekly cup before her classes start. Its morning and sunlight spills into the room making the macaroons on the counter dazzle like Persian gemstones.

"Name?" he asks, his marker poised over the cup after she makes her order. It's the first time he's asked her that, it's the first time they have spoken and his accent is distinctly Italian and this makes her mind churn.

"Bonnie" she tells him and watches as he writes her name down on the label wrapped around the paper cup.

"Actually, it's Bonnie with two n's" she corrects him, knotting her scarf beneath her chin. A slow smile spreads across his lips and he rakes a hand through his dark tousled hair. Suddenly she wants to be that hair, she wants to be every strand that he caresses with his hand, to tickle his temples, to stroke the nape of his neck as his hair does. She wants to be that hand, to know that hand, to trace every line and own his hands like he would vow to own her hands.

"There you go, Bonnie with two n's" he smiles as he hands her the latte and she tries not to melt when his hand brushes against hers. The sigh of her name from his lips is a warm murmur that drapes around her like honey dripping off his saccharine tongue. Stepping out of the warmth of the café, hand shielding her eyes from the wintry sunlight, she looks down at her cup and beams when she sees the new drawing floating on top of her latte.

Today he's given her a bee.

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A/N: Hope you enjoyed. Any suggestions for the letter C from Damon's POV?