A/N: This story was inspired by an adorable drawing I saw on Tumblr, and the artist, mustachioedoctopus, graciously allowed me to take the inspiration and turn it into this fic.

He doesn't remember the first time he saw her.

(That would be so cliché.)

He's not really even sure when he started noticing her. It just hits him one morning, when he's standing in front of the espresso machine pulling shots for two small Americanos (one with two pumps of hazelnut and one of vanilla). He glances over when he hears, "Small skim latte, no foam," and catches a glimpse of softly curled blonde hair.

The order is hardly remarkable, but he knows it's what she always gets. He wonders when he started remembering her order. Or when he started noticing that she was like, an actual person instead of just another faceless customer. A really pretty girl, actually, with blonde hair down past her shoulders and really long eyelashes.

He also wonders how long she's been coming here. He switched to working the morning shift about six weeks ago when he started teaching an evening hip hop class at the studio where he's been working since he came off tour with Usher, and he's pretty sure that he would remember having seen her at night.

He started working at the cafe four years ago when he came to Los Angeles to become a dancer, and even though he's had quite a bit of success in his career since then, he always comes back. It's kind of a neighborhood place, and the owner, Jackson, likes Mike enough that he's always been willing to work around his weird schedule and take him back even after he's been on tour for six months.

He doesn't need the money, but he likes the structure of working at the cafe, and he likes Jackson and the other people he works with, and he really likes getting to talk to people every day. Being the kind of place they are, the customers tend to be a lot friendlier, and most of them aren't the sort of jackasses you run into at the bigger chains. There are a ton of regulars who all show up at different times of day, and Mike's finally getting himself caught up on the early morning regulars.

Like this girl with the blonde hair, 'skim latte, no foam.'

He wishes, not for the first time, that they were one of those places that puts names on cups so he could think of her by name instead of by her drink order, but Jackson's really big on his baristas remembering what customers order on sight instead of relying on names scrawled messily on the side of paper cups. He thinks that you should wait to learn someone's name in a more personal way rather than shouting it across the cafe like you're calling a dog for dinner.

Jackson's kind of weird.

He sneaks a couple of glances at her this morning. The weather is starting to cool off, so she's wearing a long black cardigan sweater over her yellow floral dress, and the only thing she has in her hands is a black leather clutch wallet. It's all she ever carries, which is kind of weird, he thinks. She looks about his age, and every other girl he's ever known their age acts like her phone is surgically attached to her hand.

He pours the steamed milk into the cup carefully, using the flat spoon to make sure that any foam he inadvertently made stays in the pitcher, then gives the drink a quick stir before popping the plastic lid on and reaching for a cardboard insulating sleeve.

He steps to the side so he can look at her without the espresso machine obstructing his view, catching her eye before he speaks. "Skim latte, no foam."

She starts moving forward before he can finish and takes the cup out of his hand before he can set it on the counter. Her fingers almost brush his, but not quite. "Thank you." She offers him a little smile, but even the gesture that he can tell is meant to just be polite brightens her whole face.

He wonders what she looks like when she really smiles.

He wants to watch her walk away - not in a leering sort of way, but just to see her for as long as possible - but Matt, the cashier, hands him a cup marked for a large quad-shot, non-fat vanilla-raspberry latte, extra hot with whip. Judging by the look on the face of the redhead at the counter, this girl's going to throw a fit if her fucking obnoxious drink isn't perfect and in her hand in the next three minutes.

It's okay. 'Skim latte, no foam' will be back tomorrow.

In the two weeks after the day he notices that he's been noticing her, their interactions are exactly the same. After Matt takes her order, Mike makes her drink, hands it to her, and gets a thank you - never a thanks - and a little smile in return.

It's kind of pathetic that it's pretty much the best part of his morning.

The third week of "noticing" her (though he's definitely counting from the day he realized that he's been noticing her for a while to make himself feel like less of a pathetic creep), he catches himself paying an unnatural amount of attention to her clothes.

The fall has been cool for Los Angeles, and it's especially cool when she comes in, before the sun has had a chance to rise high enough to cut through the chill of the previous night. She's usually in some sort of sweater or jacket with a pretty skirt or dress. Her clothes are always really feminine, in florals and delicate patterns and pretty colors.

On Friday, she comes through the door in skinny jeans and a long, floaty top with a short red cardigan over top, and he almost does a double-take. Even as he pulls a cup from the top of the stack between the cash register and the espresso machine (ignoring the look Matt shoots him) to start her drink, he tries to remember if he's ever seen her in jeans before.

It really bugs him that he can't remember.

She's just barely gotten her change from Matt when Mike finishes her drink. "Skim latte, no foam," he says, setting the cup on the counter.

She looks up from her wallet and blinks at him with wide green eyes, but recovers quickly enough. "Thank you," she says, reaching for the cup.

He wants to tell her that she has pretty eyes, but he can't quite form the words. Instead, he just smiles and watches her turn to walk back to the door.

As polite as the clientele tends to be at the cafe, a rainy day in Los Angeles seems to bring out the worst in everyone, which Mike totally doesn't understand. When he moved from Indiana to L.A. after high school, rain was one of the things that he really missed. He digs a good thunderstorm, and he really loves those long, drizzly, gray days that make you want to spend the whole day inside with a pot of coffee and a pretty girl.

Making coffee for other people isn't his ideal way to spend a rainy day, especially when every third person whose drink he makes is a snotty jackass, but whatever. He's trying really hard not to let people who suck get him down.

"Dude," Matt mutters when a woman already wearing a bitch face walks through the door and heads towards the counter. "Please."

Matt's been working here almost as long as Mike has, and over the years, they've kind of worked out a system. Matt prefers working the register because even after all this time, he can't make drinks without burning himself at least once a shift, and steam burns are kind of the worst thing ever. Still, he reaches his limit with dealing with people sometimes, so he and Mike will trade off for a couple of hours so he can chill out of whatever, and Mike usually stays at the register after Matt takes his last break of the afternoon.

Mike nods, hearing the almost-pleading tone in Matt's voice, and they both move like they're not just switching places so the sourpuss walking up to the counter doesn't freak the hell out about them obviously moving because of her. (And really, it isn't just her, but whatever. Mike doesn't want to make anyone feel bad, and this extra little bit of shuffling isn't a big deal at all.)

He's counting out the change for the woman's large blended iced caramel mocha with a shot of espresso and extra whipped cream (seriously?) when the door opens again, letting in a gust of cool, damp air and a metaphorical ray of sunshine in the form of a pretty girl with blonde hair.

Wait, seriously? Did he just think of 'skim latte, no foam' as a ray of sunshine?

He's pretty sure he has to drink a bunch of liquor tonight to make up for that.

It's the first time since he started noticing her a little over a month ago that he's been a position to say anything to her that isn't just, you know, repeating back her order, the first time there hasn't been a big espresso machine between them. He can't see her feet, but her shoes click as she steps up to the counter, and with her khaki trench coat cinched at her waist, she looks like she belongs in a Hitchcock movie or something. The sides of her hair are pinned at the back of her head, though her sideswept bangs are still sort of falling into her face.

The whole look is really, really appealing.

"Hi," he greets her simply, just like he does everyone. (He used to say good morning, but some asshole ruined that quite a while ago.) He doesn't, however, add the, What can I get you? like he normally would. "Skim latte, no foam?" he asks, uncapping the Sharpie in his hand so he can wite on the paper cup.

She smiles a bit wider than she normally does. "Small, please," she says, glancing with some amusement at the cup he already has in his hand.

He sets the cup next to the espresso machine for Matt (who is finishing the blended thing for the other woman, squeezing caramel sauce over the whipped cream on top) and rings her order into the register. "Three twenty-six."

She hands him the twenty-six cents first, the tips of her fingers just brushing the palm of his hand before she puts the three singles on top of the coins. She has long, slender fingers, and her nails are polished a shell pink that seems strangely appropriate considering that he doesn't really know anything about her except how she take her coffee. (And really, not even that, since espresso isn't at all the same as drip coffee.)

"Have a good day," he says when he hands her the receipt, just like he does with everyone. (He wishes he could think of something clever or funny - and then actually make himself say it - but all he can really do right now is fall back on his habits.)

"Thank you," she replies, giving him the same little smile he gets from her every day before she steps to the side so the guy behind her can order.

Mike stays at the register until he takes his break, and Matt doesn't say anything the next morning when he volunteers to work register again, though the guy does give him a knowing look when 'skim latte, no foam' walks in.

(He ignores the hell out the look and smiles at her when she hands him her change.)

It's stupid, how much he looks forward to when she comes into the cafe every morning.

At least, she comes in every morning when he's there. He only works weekdays - one of the perks of having worked here for so long is that he gets to pretty much make his own schedule, and Mike likes his weekends to himself, thanks - and she comes in each morning.

She didn't come in on the morning after Thanksgiving, he noticed, but it's not like Black Friday is a normal weekday. Most of the people who came in that morning has that crazed look in their eyes that you only get when you wake up way too fucking early go sit at Best Buy or wherever to be the first person in line for the sixty-inch plasma television that's on sale for fifty bucks, except there are only three to be had in the entire state of California so you have to be there at 3:30 a.m. or risk only getting the fifty-two inch.

(He hates Black Friday. Everyone who comes in is in the biggest hurry in the fucking world, and a good eighty percent of them are assholes. Mike's usually a pretty relaxed guy, but Black Friday stresses him the hell out.)

She's back on Monday morning though, and he's so glad to see her come in (in a royal blue wrap dress with long sleeves and her hair pinned back behind one ear with a pearly-looking clip) that he actually manages to say something besides hi and thank you.

"Did you have a good Thanksgiving?" he kind of blurts out when he's ringing her order into the register.

He tries to keep his eyes on the screen in front of him, but he catches sight of her wide, blinking eyes in his peripheral vision. "I did," she answers quietly, smiling when he puts her receipt in her hand, "thank you."

He offers her a crooked grin before she steps aside to let the person behind her order, and he's actually kind of glad that there's a line.

It keeps him from thinking about how stupid it is that he just asked her about her Thanksgiving.

He's standing at the bar replacing the pitchers of milk and cream one morning when she comes in. She offers him a quick smile, but heads straight to the register where Matt is waiting to take her order.

He knows it's dumb that he's disappointed. She's here to get coffee, and it isn't like they're friends. He's the dude who takes her coffee order, and that's it. Why would she stop to say hello?

He can see her reflection in the window in front of him. She's wearing jeans - it's Friday - with dark brown boots that go up to her knees and a rose-colored sweater. He wants to walk up to her and run his hand down her back so he can see if the sweater as soft as it looks.

And okay. The fact that the sweater is on her is definitely making him want to to touch it (her) more.

He carries the empty pitchers back to the kitchen to be washed, and when he comes back out, 'skim latte, no foam' is already gone.

His mood kind of sucks for the rest of the day.

He's worked his way up to have a good day with 'skim latte, no foam,' which is only pathetic if you consider that he's been seeing her five times a week for a few months now.

He's watching her walk out (he's a dude, and she's wearing a gray pencil skirt that's a little tighter than the stuff she usually wears; he isn't like, staring at her, but he has to look) when Matt tosses a rag at the side of his head.

"Dude, what is your deal with this girl?"

It's been a slow morning, and now that she's gone, they're alone out in the cafe (though Jackson's back in the office doing paperwork and stuff), so Mike leans against he back counter. "What do you mean?"

Matt rolls his eyes, stepping over to the little sink to rinse out the pitcher he just used to steam the milk for her latte. "You aren't dumb enough to play dumb, man."

Mike rolls his eyes this time, because he's pretty sure that doesn't make sense. "She's pretty," he finally says, shrugging one shoulder.

Matt sets the pitcher aside to dry and shoots a look over his shoulder. "She's gorgeous," he corrects. Which, yeah. Mike's noticed. "You act like a chick every time she comes in here."

"Whatever, dude," he mumbles, trying not to scowl.

Matt snickers, leaning back against the counter next to Mike. "Get her number," he suggests.

"I don't even know her name."

"So get her name."

Mike just shakes his head, walking back into the kitchen to find something to do until another customer comes in. Matt talks like it's so easy, just ask her name, get her number; it took Mike three months to even say 'have a nice day,' to the girl. How the hell is he supposed to get her number?

The week before Christmas, she comes in with a white scarf wrapped around her neck and little crystal snowflakes dangling from her earlobes.

"Nice earrings," Mike says before he can even think about it. It's a good thing, too, because if he'd thought about it, he wouldn't have said anything, but he's distracted by writing her order on her cup in green Sharpie.

She laughs a little, a sound he immediately wants to hear more of. "I've been out here for years, but I still miss snow." She says it like a confession as she's handing him her money, exact change like she has every single day.

"Where are you from?" he asks, the words just slipping off his tongue while he rings her order into the register. He can feel the way Matt is glancing at him while he steams the milk for her latte, but he ignores it.

"Ohio. Thank you," she adds, taking her receipt. There isn't anyone behind her, so she doesn't move aside immediately like she normally would. "When I was little, snow angels were always my favorite."

The smile that she's giving him now is different than the polite one that he's used to seeing on her lips. The corners of her eyes crinkle a tiny bit, and he thinks, for what feel like the millionth time, that her eyes are gorgeous.

"I liked snowmen," he admits. Her eyebrows quirk up just a tiny bit. "I grew up in Indiana."

Matt steps over then and sets her drink on the counter next to the register. "Here you go."

"Thank you," she says, picking it up and holding it in the same hand as her receipt. "Have a good day, guys," she adds before either of them can say anything.

"You too," Matt says as she turns and heads back to the door. He waits until she's gone, leaving them almost alone in the cafe (there's some guy sitting in the corner with his laptop), then turns and slugs Mike in the arm. "Dude!"

Mike just grins, because yeah.

She comes in a couple of days before Christmas carrying two little cellophane bags tied with curled lengths of red ribbon and hands one each to Mike and Matt.

"What's this?" Mike asks, tugging at the string on his, while Matt starts making her drink. (Neither of them even bothers to ask her any more, though Mike totally still thinks of her as 'skim latte, no foam.') Inside the bag are a few Hershey Kisses wrapped in red and green foil and a couple of miniature candy canes, along with a little white felt snowflake embellished with silver glitter. He pulls the snowflake out first.

"It's a pin," she says, gesturing for him to turn it over to see the little closure there. She smiles a little sheepishly when he meets her eyes and grins. "They're silly, I know, but my kids made them, and there were some extras. I thought about you guys," she adds with a little shrug.

Mike's distracted though, because her kids?

There must be a weird look on his face (or Matt's, maybe) because she shakes her head once, quickly. "My students," she corrects, emphasizing the word a little. "I'm a third grade teacher."

Something like relief floods all through Mike. "Oh."

"It's silly," she repeats, pushing her hair - curled today - behind one ear.

Matt's foot comes out and catches the side of Mike's leg just below his knee, behind the counter where 'skim latte, no foam' definitely can't see it. "No," he says quickly. "It isn't silly." He fumbles with the closure a little, but manages to attach the little snowflake to the strap of his apron above his name tag. (Which, now that he looks, says Charlotte, who's one of the girls who works the night shift. Whatever, he just wears whichever apron he grabs when he comes in, but he'll rescue the snowflake before he leaves today.) He reaches out and slugs Matt hard in the bicep (harder than he probably should, but the guy deserves it). "What do you think?"

Matt finishes pouring the milk into the cup and looks over at Mike's apron. "Festive," he deadpans, shooting a little wink at 'skim latte, no foam' so she knows he's teasing Mike and not her.

"Whatever," Mike says, looking back at her and taking the money she's holding out. "I like it."

She takes her drink with a smile when Matt holds it out. "Thank you," she says, smiling at both of them. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Mike says, grinning wider than he should. "Have a nice day."

She waves a little on her way to the door, and he watches her until it swings shut behind her, the tint making it hard to see out.

"I fucking love Hershey Kisses," Matt comments, tugging at the ribbon on his own little bag, apparently oblivious to the stupid look on Mike's face.

It's for the best, probably.

He figures out that he's in love with her two days after Christmas.

This girl whose name he doesn't even know, who he thinks of as 'skim latte, no foam', for god's sake.

He has a dream about her on Saturday. And not a dirty dream. (He's already had a couple of those. The first time it was the last thing he dreamed before he woke up. He'd had to take care of business in the shower, and when she came into the cafe later that morning, he definitely blushed. Thankfully, they were busy enough that Matt didn't notice or he never would've heard the end of it.)

It's snowing in his dream, and he's with her somewhere that looks like a park. There's a path lined with leafless trees, the branches sparkling with a light dusting of snow instead, and he's walking with her down the path. They're holding hands, their fingers laced together like they each want to be touching as much of the other's skin as possible. And they're just walking together. They aren't talking, and Dream Mike doesn't seem in any sort of hurry to get this version of her naked and sweaty (like Dream Mike has before).

They're just walking.

His hand is warm when he wakes up, and he's really disappointed when reality sets in and realizes that it's warm from being tucked under his pillow instead of from being wrapped up with hers.

He's really, really disappointed when she doesn't come in on Monday.

"School's on break," Matt says around nine o'clock. Mike's been sulking behind the register since about eight, which is a full half-hour after she usually shows up.

Mike shoots him a dirty look without really meaning to. "I'm taking my break," he announces, pulling his apron over his head and tossing it on the shelf under the counter even though a customer just walked through the door.

He's allowed to have a bad day every once in a while, okay? It doesn't have to be because he's in love with a stranger he hasn't seen in almost a week.

"You're up early," Matt comments when 'skim latte, no foam' comes in the next morning. (He hasn't said anything today about the fact that Mike was already standing in front of the espresso machine when Matt came up from the kitchen just before they opened this morning.)

"Habit," she says, shrugging one of her shoulders. Her hair is pulled into a low ponytail over that shoulder, the ends just a little messy. "I wake up early whether I want to or not now."

"Did you have a good Christmas?" Mike asks, pouring milk into a pitcher to start her drink. They've been having these little cursory conversations for the last month or so, and he isn't as tongue-tied in front of her as he used to be.

Of course, he's still too chickenshit to ask her name. (Matt's phrasing.) So.

"I went home to see my parents," she says, grimacing a little like that's her answer. Mike raises an eyebrow at her. "They're...my parents," she finishes after a second, sounding resigned.

"Mine hate each other," Matt offers, making her laugh a little.

"Mine do, too, but they pretend like they don't," she says, rolling her eyes. "They drink to make the lying easier."

Mike looks up and realizes that both she and Matt are looking at him expectantly. "My parents like each other," he says slowly, "they just hate that I'm a dancer instead of a doctor."

Matt snickers, while she looks at him thoughtfully. "You're a dancer?"

"He toured with Usher last summer," Matt says before Mike can answer.

Something flickers in her eyes that he can't name. "That's amazing."

He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want to say it isn't a big deal, because it is, even to him, but he doesn't want to sound like he's bragging either. In the end, he doesn't say anything, and Matt saves him by taking her money while Mike finishes stirring her drink.

"You should ask her out."

Matt says it one morning in the middle of January. It's completely out of the blue, because she left the cafe like, three hours ago. But maybe not so out of the blue, because Mike doesn't have to ask who he's talking about.

"I don't even know her name," he says stupidly, and Matt looks at him like he's stupid.

"So ask her name."

Mike loves grocery shopping.

When he was really little, he always went with his mom when she did the grocery shopping, and she made into this really fun thing. He can't even explain now why it was so fun; he thinks, honestly, that it's just because it was time that he got to spend with her that was just them, something special that they did together.

Anyhow, now that he's an adult and he lives on his own, it's one of those things that most people bitch about that he loves doing. He likes the whole process, from making a list and crossing things off as he puts them in the cart to putting all the new stuff away when he gets home.

Wednesday night is grocery night.

He decided when he was making his list that the weather has been as close to right as it's going to get in California to justify making chili and cornbread, so he makes a rare trip down the baking aisle to get some cornmeal, checking the crushed tomatoes he just grabbed off his list as he turns the corner.

"Skim latte, no foam."

He cringes the second the words leave his mouth, but she's right there, and now she's looking up at him, smiling as the recognition lights in her eyes. "Hi," she greets, standing up from where she was kneeling in front of a display of cake and cookie decorations, sprinkles and colored sugars and stuff. "I'm going to make cupcakes for my kids' Valentine's party," she says, holding up a little bottle of heart-shaped candy sprinkles.

It occurs to him for the very first time that since she comes to the cafe every single morning, she probably lives in the same neighborhood, just like he does. He wonders what other places they both frequent, how many times she's been right there and he just hasn't noticed.

"That's awesome." He sees her eyes flicker over the items in his cart and he's stupidly grateful that he hasn't made his journey down the junk food aisle yet. (Cheetos are definitely on his list.) "Chili and cornbread," he offers, which explains most of the items he's already picked up.

She makes an appreciative noise. "I can't remember the last time I had chili."

"You could come over, if you want," he says before he thinks, and honestly, he doesn't know how he's still able to speak since he already stuck his foot in his mouth once. Now he should be gagging on it.

Her mouth opens just a tiny bit in surprise. "I-"

"I'm sorry," he interrupts before she can shoot him down. "I didn't mean to-" He cuts himself off. Fuck. "That's weird."

"No," she says quickly. "I-

He cuts her off again before he can stop himself, an effort, he thinks, to keep from being rejected in the middle of the grocery store. He really likes grocery shopping, and he likes this store, and he doesn't really want to associate it with this moment forever. And he just invited this girl, who is still basically a stranger, to his house. She doesn't even know his name. "I'm Mike."

She blinks her pretty green eyes at him. "I know."

"Oh."

"It's printed on the receipts from the cafe," she says gently, apparently seeing the question he doesn't ask. "Actually," she adds, laughing a little and stepping towards him, holding out a little piece of paper that he realizes is a receipt for a small latte that has his name printed at the top. "It's my shopping list." She turns it over and shows him the back (unsalted butter, confectioner's sugar, sprinkles?, all written in elementary teacher-perfect cursive) before smiling up at him.

He manages to stop himself this time before he opens his big, fat mouth, but she's really beautiful when she smiles.

It makes his heart beat more than a little bit faster.

"What I was going to say," she says softly after a moment, "is that I'd love to try your chili." He watches her bite the corner of her lip, struck dumb. "Or maybe we could go out to dinner sometime."

"Really?" he asks, struggling to keep his voice from going all high-pitched and weird.

She smiles again, nodding.

"I don't even know your name," he points out.

He watches her eyes soften and feels something (butterflies?) flutter in his stomach.

"It's Quinn."