Warnings: Language.

"Jesus fucking Christ, are you serious, Hannah? You don't think I know that already? For fuck's sake!"

I glance at the table in the corner. The man sitting there is on his phone. Normally I would ask him to keep it down for the benefit of the other customers, but I'm just about to close up and he's the only one left.

He comes in every night. His name is Jason Crouse, and as far as I can tell, he's some sort of lawyer. He's almost always on his phone, swearing up a storm and being intensely angry about something. I've been tempted to tell him he should probably lay off the espresso several times, but I'm not sure he could take the joke. He barely even manages to say thank you when I take his order, despite the fact that I have it memorized and it's always perfect.

I don't say anything about that, of course. He's not the first ungrateful customer I've dealt with, and he's certainly not the worst.

Despite his demeanor, he's extraordinarily handsome. I imagine that his appearance lets him get away with a lot. He's tall and lean, but his exquisitely tailored suit reveals that he's clearly toned. He has short dark brown hair that's styled to look like it hasn't been. Usually that kind of thing annoys me, but he makes it work. His full beard is carefully trimmed and streaked with silver, and he has beautiful hazel eyes.

I realize that I've been staring when he throws his phone on the table in irritation. "Dammit!" he yells, running his hand over his beard; the other is clenched into a fist at his side. He scowls for a moment and then looks around. I keep my head down, returning to my task of dusting and stacking cups, giving no indication that I've heard his outburst. I have a good poker face; it's essential for my job.

Then he's at the counter, leaning against it and looking sideways at me. I lift my head and smile. "What can I get you, sir?" I inquire politely. My voice is kind and soft-spoken, perfectly pitched for customer service.

"Can I ask you a question?" I stack the last cup and move over to where he's standing; he turns to face me, his hips canted forward so they're pressed against the wood and marble. I wonder if he realizes how graceful he is. I quickly banish the thought. Even if I was interested, he's way out of my league.

I can't resist a little sarcasm. My job requires me to be pleasant, but I rarely get to actually have a conversation of substance with anyone, so I take my opportunities when I can get them. "That is a question, Mr. Crouse, but I don't mind another. Go ahead."

He hesitates. "Do we know each other?" he queries, looking me up and down. I smile at him indulgently. Is he for real? He raises his eyebrows expectantly and I chuckle. Of course he is.

"Mr. Crouse, you come in every day and you always order the same thing. A quad espresso with one pump of cinnamon syrup. Every time, you rather forcefully remind me that it's just one pump, even though I've never gotten it wrong. I suppose I can see why I'd remember and you wouldn't." He frowns at me and reaches up to rub his earlobe between his fingers, and I sigh. "You had a question?" I remind him. He nods, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"Ever served on a jury?" His voice is short and clipped. I imagine he isn't used to people talking back to him.

"No, I've never had that pleasure," I answer. "Why?"

His tongue sweeps over his lower lip; it's really too bad that he's cuter with his mouth shut. "I'm trying a big case tomorrow and I thought it might be useful to have the opinion of, you know, the average person." He gives me a devastatingly gorgeous smile, and for a moment, it works; I'm distracted by his stunning dimples. No grown man should have dimples like that. But the effect is quickly diminished by his comment about being average.

"Are juries usually composed of average people, Mr. Crouse?" I reply coyly, leaning my own hips against the counter, imitating his stance and keeping my arms crossed over my chest.

Now he's confident. "Jason," he informs me; I nod. "And yes, juries are usually composed of average people, so the legal shit often has trouble getting through. That's why I'm curious."

"And what are you curious about, Jason?" I gaze up into his eyes; I try to imagine what they would look like if he were trying to be warm or comforting. I doubt either of those emotions come up much for him.

"What would make a corporation look sympathetic to you?" he asks. I can tell from the look on his face that he thinks I'm going to need him to clarify the question. He doesn't just think I'm average. He thinks I'm a dunce.

Still, I answer his question, partially because I'm hoping to prove his assumption wrong; I try not to be petty, but it just works sometimes. "I suppose that would depend on the corporation and what they're being accused of. I'd be more sympathetic to a corporation that donates to charity and publicly takes stances I find favorable on certain issues. It makes them seem human. And it would help if the accusation against them is something ridiculously obvious, like someone suing a cigarette company because they got cancer. No matter what you think of smoking, you can't deny that there's a warning right on the box. That tends to make the accuser look stupid." I tilt my head and tap my foot as I wait for his response.

Jason smirks at me before his tongue darts out and swipes over his lips again. "That's a very astute answer," he remarks. His eyes are sparkling devilishly; he's making fun of me.

"I suppose it is, for an average coffee girl," I retort quietly. For a moment, he actually has the decency to seem taken aback. "Maybe I'm not a good choice as a test case, Mr. Crouse," I add, gritting my teeth together behind a close-lipped smile. "Can I get you anything else before I close up?"

He pulls his sleeve back to glance at his watch; his eyes flick back to my face. "Wait," he starts. "Are you actually mad at me?" He seems legitimately surprised, but he can't possibly be that oblivious, can he? He's a goddamn lawyer. Aren't they supposed to be good at reading people?

I was going to tell him that I'm not upset just so he would leave, but now I really am upset. It's against my better judgment, but he opened the damn door, so he can't blame me for walking through it.

I sigh at him and roll my eyes up to the ceiling. "Shouldn't I be?" I fire back testily. "People like you come in here all the time. You bark your coffee order at me, reminding me that I better get it right. You know that it's literally my job to get it right, don't you? Besides sucking up to assholes, that's all I do every day. Make coffee. Do I make mistakes? Sure I do. I'm a human being. But 99% of the time, I get it right, and I'd like to see how well you would do if I stuck you behind this counter for a day and made you do what I do. You'd break in a second, Jason; I guarantee it." My voice is intensely bitter, and suddenly I feel guilty. I shouldn't be dumping all of this on him. He may be a dick, but the way I feel isn't entirely his fault.

Then he flashes that smirk at me again and laughs. "Got some serious baggage there, huh, sweetheart?"

"Fuck right off, Jason!" I snap at him; I'm shocked when he actually takes a step backwards, holding up his hands like he's surrendering. "Yes, I have baggage. Everybody does. Excuse me for wishing that someone gave a shit about me, even if it was as simple as a thank you for making their coffee. Not all of us can afford fancy dinners and cleaning ladies and $3,000 suits. Some of us have to take care of everything for ourselves. And don't call me sweetheart. Sweetheart is what men call women when they don't respect them and can't remember their damn name."

Jason straightens up, still smirking, his hands in his pockets. He licks his lips again, walking back up to the counter. Finally, he says, "This is a $4,000 suit…" He makes a show of looking at my nametag and then reaches out to gently flick it with his fingers. "Robin. But if it means that much to you…" He gives me another million megawatt smile. "Thank you for making my coffee." He's completely smug, and suddenly I'm blinking back tears. I've gotten good at not crying when I'm upset in the past few years, but he's testing me.

"God, you're an ass," I tell him, but my voice no longer has any bite. "What you say doesn't matter if you don't mean it. You don't care about people at all." I turn away, fumbling mindlessly with the random items on the counter behind me. "Do you want anything before you go?" I force myself to ask. "I have to close up." When he doesn't reply, I grit my teeth and say what I know I need to say. Even now, it might not be enough. He could easily return tomorrow and complain about me; I could lose my job. So I cover my ass.

"I apologize for what I said, Mr. Crouse. I've had a long day, and not a particularly good one. I shouldn't have taken that out on you." I'm only half-sincere; I don't know if he can tell. Part of me does really want to apologize; I know I'm being unfair. The other part wants something to get through to him, as if that's even possible.

I don't know why I care so much. It's not like he means anything to me. I stand very still, waiting for him to acknowledge what I said.

"No, I don't want anything," he finally answers. His voice sounds odd. "Sweet…" He stops, and I can't help but turn and look at him now. Is he actually hesitating? Why? "Robin," he corrects himself carefully. His fingertips are resting against the counter, and he tilts his head to ask me to come to him. "Please?"

I step closer. When I take a deep breath to calm myself, I breathe in the smell of his cologne. Usually I hate cologne on men too, but his is intoxicating. I find myself wondering if it's the cologne, or the combination of him and the cologne. I don't know which answer I would prefer. "Yes, Mr. Crouse?" I venture carefully, not wanting to say anything else I'll feel obligated to apologize for.

"Jason," he reminds me. I nod, but don't say anything; he seems to be thinking. The look in his eyes has changed. Now they're cautious, but there's something else that I can't place. Finally, he says, "You shouldn't ever apologize for telling the truth. Most people don't understand what the truth is worth."

My lips part as I look up at him curiously. I'm trying to think of something to say, but I'm drawing a complete blank.

Before I can collect my thoughts, he surprises me by reaching up, grasping my chin in his long fingers, and kissing me.

I gasp, which may be a mistake because my mouth opens further; he takes advantage and pulls my upper lip between his to deepen the kiss. Suddenly, I'm leaning over the counter toward him, and since it's the only chance I might have, I curl my fingers into the hair at the back of his neck; it's so soft.

I should be embarrassed by the noises I'm making, but he's such a good kisser that I couldn't care less. His mouth moves again, grazing over the skin between my nose and upper lip. Then his hand wanders from my chin to my cheek and he splays it over the side of my neck before his mouth slides down to my lower lip. He kisses it slowly, almost lazily, but there's a passionate urgency between each movement. He glides back up; I know that he can feel me trembling.

My brain is trying to process what's happening, but my instincts are in control, and they are wishing that I was pressed up against him with his arms around me. His mouth is warm and wet, and his beard is soft against my face, so much softer than I thought it would be. He pulls away for just a moment and I whimper in protest. His lips twitch up into a smile; I feel it against my mouth.

"I mean this," he whispers, panting.

I reply without thinking. "I believe you," I breathe.

It's not a lie, but I don't know why I believe him.

"Okay," he acknowledges. His mouth descends on mine again. We stay locked together for what feels like both eternity and barely a second at the same time.

Then his phone rings from across the room; the moment is gone. He smooths an errant strand of hair back over my ear and into the bun at the nape of my neck and then goes to answer his call.

For a second, I just stand there with my fingers resting on my lips. They're tingling. Then I look over at him. He's talking quietly enough this time that I can't hear what he's saying. He slips on his jacket and picks up his coffee cup, bringing it back to me at the counter. I'm still paralyzed; I can't even say thank you.

I feel like I would sell my soul just to kiss him one more time.

I glance down at the cup and then back up at him. I have literally no idea what to say.

He smiles at me. It's a real smile this time, but his eyes are confused. I want to ask him why he kissed me, but the question sticks in my throat.

"Thank you," he says carefully, his finger tracing the lip of the cup idly. "The coffee here is better than it is anywhere else. That's why I keep coming back." He pauses, gazing at my face. "I'll see you tomorrow, Robin," he murmurs. Then his phone is back at his ear and he's walking out onto the street like nothing ever happened.

I don't have time to think; I just run after him. "Jason!" I call his name and he turns to face me, lowering his phone and slipping it into his jacket pocket. I stand close to him in the chilly night air, looking up into his face, searching for something there to give me any clue as to what he's feeling. I don't find anything, so I make myself ask.

"Why did you kiss me?" I hate how desperate I sound, but I can still feel his kiss in my toes, and I'm not willing to let it go. He stares at me for a moment; I think he's measuring his options.

Then he pulls me close and kisses me again. I lean against him, putting my arms around his neck; his arms are tight around my waist. This kiss is softer and briefer, but just as mesmerizing.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he exhales in frustration. He brushes his nose over mine gently, then steps back, still holding my hand in his, tracing his fingers over my knuckles. "Jason," I repeat. "Why did you kiss me?" I try to convince myself that I don't really care. I just… need to know, otherwise I don't think I'll be able to sort myself out.

He presses his lips to my hand before dropping it. I fold my arms against the cold, and I'm sure that my eyes are begging him for an answer.

"I really have no idea," he finally says. Then he turns and starts walking away, and I'm left alone with my thoughts.