Author's Note: To be totally honest, this has been a very personal piece for me to write, and something I've been wrestling with for some time. This is the story of early college romance, and a first date. And, more than that, I borrowed most of this from my experience with my first serious boyfriend. Except for the names and some serious innuendos at the end, this oneshot is very much a recount of how Andrew and I got together. And it's awkward and cutesy and blah, but such is life, as was our first date.

Hoping you all don't mind the excuse for vent-writing, but I've tweaked and played with this to make it more like the Spencer and Remy duo I love, and distance my own experience from it, too. And, in the end . . . I like it. Not love, but . . . it fits. So, here it is.

Kudos: Many thanks to IntotheWilds for beta'ing this, correcting some mistakes, and reassuring me that it was okay for publishing. This wouldn't have seen the light of day without you, amie. XD

Warnings: Total AU, including all of those delicious things like OOC-ness and vague hints of lemons. no spoilers, just ridiculousness. Such is life, no?

I'd love some thoughts and criticisms on this, since I'm still wary, but don't leave a review if you're not up for it. I totally get it. Just . . . thank you for reading.

Enjoy . . .

"Something Sweet"

Black & Brew was a coffee-house — one of well over a hundred that could be found in Pasadena. Not a big, fancy one, or a chain like the infamous Starbucks or occasional Dunkin' that were also rife throughout the city.

In fact, calling the place an actual coffee-house might have been being just a tad generous.

Occupying less than 500 square feet under a loft on Molina Avenue, Black & Brew was one of the most minuscule walk-in shops that California actually hosted; a majority of the front foyer was taken up by an extensive barista station, complete with antique espresso machines, a copper cappuccino pot, and huge coffee carafes. Mismatched and oversized mugs hung from little hooks on the ceilings, and the pastry case often held the same assortment of chocolate-chip cookies and brownie squares.

What little space there was left in the room was taken up by a rag-tag collection of warped tables and aging armchairs, all water stained and oozing stuffing.

Everyday, from the 5:00 opening time to the later and later close, the smell of freshly-ground beans permeated the entire shop, wafting through the vents and making everyone who walked through the doors perk up instantly, nearly salivating at the mere thought of the encroaching caffeine rush.

Spencer Reid had stumbled upon the Black & Brew completely by accident on his way to campus one evening; he had ventured in because of the early hour and the cheap price listed for a tall cup of coffee. He had gone back the next week, and again after that - until the entire semester had flown by, and he'd somehow become an actual regular, complete with his own 'spot'.

In Spencer's defense, the chair by the window was simply more practical for someone who disliked being crowded in by people and was sensitive to vert noise; backed into one of the nooks in the place's corner, his favorite winged-back was covered in a soft purple material that had been worn to velvety-smoothness from years of bodies resting in it, and smelt faintly of incense — which, especially when combined with the overall aroma or percolation and various scents of perfume and Axe, Spencer found simultaneously overwhelming and enticing.

And so, as the last year had progressed, Spencer had continued to visit the little coffeehouse weekly, then every other day, and then every day, period, for the same order — a tall black with two creams and six sugars. There was nothing particularly special about the drink itself — most mornings, his coffee was only slightly less bitter than some of the employees and customers, and as his degree program switched from Chemistry to Mathematics and buildings on campus along with it, the Black & Brew became a decisively less and less convenient place to breakfast . . . But still, Spencer went. Every single morning.

Somehow, the little shop had become an extension of 'home' for the genius. Everyone there knew his name — or, at least his face, for the newer hires. He got a consistently passable beverage each time he ordered, and the price hadn't changed in the thirteen months that he had been going. And he was a creature of comfortable habit, too.

. . . If absolutely nothing else, Spencer could at least justify his daily venture, rain or shine, by one very cute employee who had been almost as long as he had.

Remy was one of the few people Spencer had ever seen in real-life that was actually taller than his lanky self — although the barista admittedly wore it much better. He moved fluidly and gracefully every time Spencer had spied him, lean muscle packed thinly onto a svelte frame, hands always flinging about as if itching for something more to do. He was Cajun — judging from the few words Spencer had ever heard the man speak, half of which were explicative French terms — and not shy about his mutant status either, winking scarlet eyes and smirking at nearly everyone he served. The man smoked, if the constant cigarette tucked behind his ear was anything to go off of. Oh, and was he a flirt . . . judging from his cocky demeanor and never-ending innuendos he'd uttered when it seemed like no one was listening.

Not, of course, that Spencer had been granted the privilege of first-hand experience on any of these deductions — because, for all of the great many numerous times that the two had been in the Black & Brew simultaneously, Spencer could only ever vocally interacting with the man but a single time — and that had only been to tell the other man his name and order on their first-ever meeting.

And ever since then, it had been a slew of maddening days in which Spencer would come in, nod a greeting, and wordlessly take his cup to the other end of the coffeehouse, sitting for almost exactly twenty minutes before vacating, heading off to class or a shift at his grocer job.

Excluding holidays or the rare occasion on which he was sick, Spencer's routine never changed or varied by much.

And, much to the genius's annoyance and Remy's unknowing, the Cajun barista had become as much a part of that cycle as anything else.

For, also every day, it was, without fail, that the handsome, stupid man would misspell Spencer's name on his coffee cup.

The first day, it had been "Reed." Fine, fair enough. It was an alternate spelling, and not an uncommon mistake in the least. Spencer had declined to say a word about it as he took his beverage that day and politely moved out of line.

The next time, it had been "Read." Less understandable, but still not unimaginable. Spencer began to wonder if this "Remy" had problems with English. But, again, the young man shrugged it off and took his seat.

And so it continued. Ever day that Remy was the one to hand Spencer his drink, a different mispelling of what the genius had always considered a fairly simple name. "Riid." Ryad." R. Eyd."

What began as amusing rapidly became perplexing, and eventually devolved into a source of annoyance. Still, Spencer's drink was always correct and exactly the way he liked it, so never a word he said.

Even as the names became more and more ridiculous.

The thing about working at the coffeeshop was that . . . it was interesting.

If there were entirely too many days when Remy could think of nothing else positive to say about the minimum-wage, holiday-sucking, soul-crushing job at the Black & Brew where most of the customers were insipidly rude and his boss was constantly a particularly demeaning kind of tool, then at least the Cajun man could take solace in the fact that, if nothing else, not a day went by without some particularly fascinating thing occuring — which, later, of course, he would be all-too-happy to relay to his homme Logan, or even his brother, on the few occasions that henry actually called him

Sometimes, he wondered if the minute traversal of entertainment was worth the low pay and inconvenient commute . . . but then, Remy would think back to the Prime Example of his enjoyment at his place of employment.

It went by the name of Spencer Reid.

Remy had been noticing Spencer every day he came in — which, according to the other workers, was a daily routine. In fact, Remy's first day had been Reid's hundredth or so. He'd considered it a bit of a sign of fate that just as he was contemplating quitting his job (the first time of many), in from the rain had stumbled a completely soaked, puffing, shivering, skinny little cher with chestnut curls and bright eyes that made Remy immediately think of a thousand ways he could be warming the gorgeous being up.

Not that he'd tried anything. Exactly. A mischievous smile and wink had gone unnoticed, and the only thing Spencer had said to him was "Tall coffee, please. Black. Name's Reid."

The order had come and gone, and the moment along with it. Anything Remy had found out since then (and it was a considerable amount) had come from coworkers who took entirely too much pleasure in teasing Remy over his . . . crush.

Apparently, the kid was in college — which, with his age seeming so young, had to make him very smart, indeed. A genius, if his manager Martha was to be believed.

Remy liked smart guys. He'd never met a genius before, but that could only be even better, right?

No one else knew too much about Reid — although Remy had already decided he liked the boy's first name far better; much more beau, matching Spencer's own attractiveness equally. He was a reader, always whizzing through books like they were going out of style. And definitely quiet — shy, even. Barely anyone had ever heard him say more than a sentence since he became a regular, and the only conversations they'd actively seen him engage in had been with some jock-type-looking black guy . . . who, if Remy was being honest, was also very good-looking.

Not that he was even looking! Remy wasn't even on the prowl for a man at the moment! He'd moved to Pasadena in the hopes of finishing out his education, and, as his Pere had 'suggested,' getting some real work experience under his belt — something that made his barista job all the more bitter, as Remy hardly wanted to be serving coffee until his retirement checks kicked in.

The Cajun man never went around boasting of his own intelligence to people, but the he did have a Bachelor's Degree in Art History, and he was looking to turn that into a Master's . . . someday, maybe.

And maybe a million other things, too . . . A nice house in New Orleans, marriage to a fine young somebody, finally kicking the smoking-thing . . . But, in the meantime, the here-and-now that Remy liked to view his life in, the only goal immediately achievable was getting a certain Pretty Boy's number.

The tired-and-true methods of Remy's flirtings past seemed to be failing on all fronts. Normally, a quirked eyebrow and a murmured "Cher," in his deepest accent were enough to have knees buckling all around the man . . . But Spencer never seemed to notice his attempts at all.

Ignoring him hadn't worked, either — Remy made a point, after a few days, to not speak to Spencer at all, to let his gestures and actions entice the other to him . . . Equally unsuccessfully.

Either Spencer was completely immune to social cues (which made him seem ever more awkward, and, in turn, even cuter), or he just wasn't that into Remy.

. . . No. Impossible!

Remy wasn't called 'Prince Charming' for no reason; never once before had the Cajun had any problem attracting women — or men, for that matter — to him like flies to honey. He was handsome enough, and his confidence and sharp wit filled in any gaps one could stretch to find. Remy himself was a catch without a catch; one-night stands and friends-with-benefits were his speciality, although he was no stranger with courting.

Which made Spencer's case all the more perplexing; why wouldn't the silly boy respond to Remy's attempts?

An unreturned greeting had bled into time after time of missed eye-contact, smiles desolate and dressing to impress not impressing . . . Until Remy actually made something of a move.

The first time he had served as Spencer's cashier, instead of just a mindless coutner-drone, Remy had decided to play a new game.

He spelled it "R-E-E-D."

And waited for the sparks to fly.

And waited.

And waited.

The kid had noticed — he had to have, Remy had seen the look Spencer "Reed" shot back in his direction after examining his drink cup . . . but the man has only shrugged passively, and gone about his usual routine.

The next time, Remy tried again — and harder. Still no response.

On and on and on this new trial dragged, over the course of months, as Remy struggled to come up with new ways to spell such a simple name, and Spencer fought back by responding not at all.

And though it had initially been fun, Remy was starting to lose patience — as well as spelling errors.

Such had been one of many daily interactions at the Black & Brew, occurrences that went from semi-to-often to nearly required for the day to seem normal to actually the norm. A lot of the regulars knew about Spencer and Remy's little dance between one another — had sent eh longing looks shot from both directions, had giggled every time Spencer got flustered when Remy handed him his cuppa, or the faint blush that adorned Remy's cheeks every time Spencer failed to say anything about the monstrosity that was scribbled on his beverage that day — and some people even went so far as placing bets as to when the two would pull their heads out of their collective asses and just be together.

As it happened, that day was on another drizzly Friday, late fall.

Remy watched, for the uncountable umpteenth-time, as the lovely Spencer solemnly took his coffee with a miniscule nod of thanks, and turned to leave the Black & Brew. No smile, no eye-contact . . . barely a breath in the breath of space that passed between the two.

And then Remy was left with nothing but a view of the chere's backside as he vacated the premesis, biting back a sigh as he turned to help the next customer in line.

"May I help y'?"

The woman — another regular, the Cajun noted dully — had only just opened her mouth to place an order when the door to the coffeeshop slammed open, startling Remy, his guest, everyone else in line, and everyone else in the store in general as glass slammed against teakwood, door shaking in it's frame — though not half as much as the man standing in the doorframe itself.

Somehow, in the mere seconds he'd been outside of the shop, Spencer had managed to get himself completely soaked by the onslaught of rain pouring down; drenched locks hung scraggly over eyes as bright as fire, sendind a wave with equal heat down Remy's spine. The maroon sweater clung to his thin frame, and made Spencer look just exactly like a drowned rodent — though not, Remy noted delightedly, any less cute.

Despite the daggers he was currently shooting at the barista. If looks could kill . . . Well, Remy wouldn't have had to worry about the rest of his life anymore, to put it tamely.

"You," the genius's voice came out soft and scratchy, like it hadn't had a good use in entirely too long as he stared Remy down, unblinking.

"Oui?" Remy couldn't stop the minute flutter his heart gave at the sound of that errantly delectable voice, nor the smirk tugging up one corner of his mouth.

Spencer glared. "Don't you grin," he hissed out, irritatedly swiping a few errant curls away from his lashes.

Remy shrugged innocently, as if to say, who, me? If possible, Spencer's look darkened even further.

"Of all of the — I mean, every possible way you've somehow managed to misspell one of the simplest names in history, and — really, I thought this had reached a peak with the E-A-minus-E-D, but this — "

Standing there spluttering, frustration and embarrassment flooding his cheeks and making Spencer look ever more edible as he prattled on to a not-listening Remy was starting to draw attention to the pair — and despite his thorough enjoyment of the decadent bereavement, the Cajun was beginning to think that it might be pertinent — for the future of both their relationship and his job — to drag this spectacle out of the spotlight, so to speak.

Not missing a beat, Remy held up a finger and delicately tipped Spencer's chin, cutting off all rambling immediately. Hazel eyes met scarlet ones, and a light flashed between the two gazes, something more than merely a look being exchanged in that moment.

"Remy didn't know y' was such a talker, cher. Gon' have to remember dat, me — mais, I was t'inkin' maybe dis conversation best be continued inconfidentialité?"

"I — " the amount of indignation the young genius managed to pack into the single syllable was truly astounding — but a glance around at all of the paused conversations and stairs aimed at and around them had Spencer freezing, flinching, and nodding instantly as, in one fluid motion, he disentangled himself from Remy's grip and took a step back.

"I'll wait in the back," he muttered, not at all sullenly.

Suddenly, the last half-hour of Remy's shift seemed like it was going to be a lot longer than thirty minutes.

Spencer's usual coffee had long since run cold by the time he finally saw Remy ducking out from behind the counter and approaching his table — but no matter, the genius kept playing with the reamins of the paper cup, twisting it from hand to hand as he decidedly did not admire the way the Cajun walked towards him, so smooth and confident and graceful and handsome —

Reid shook his head, ridding the thoughts. He was upset, dammit!

Something that still must have not translated to his face very well, as when Remy slid into the only other empty chair at the table, his grin never faltered between meeting Spencer's eyes and flickering to the cup he was still fiddling with in his hands.

There they sat, the two f them, the silence stretching and weaving and wrapping around the both of them, coninuing, suffocating —

"Don' mean t' be rude, cher, but Remy only got fifteen minutes fo' his break, and y' was seeming like y' had somet'in' t' say? A lot of it, oui?"

Spencer startled slightly at the voice, and once more, his eyes flickered up, scanning over Remy's face. He sighed, not sure what he was looking for.

"Rhenium-Iodine-Dysprosium-but-not-Yttrium?"

Remy did a poor job of hiding his smirk. "Beggin' y'r pardon?"

Gnawing on his lower lip, Spencer gripped the cup in his hand more tightly, and thrust it out to Remy for inspection. Though the handwriting was the sloppy cursive typical of what one might expect from a doctor or artist — only one of which Remy considered himself — the chemical equation written on the side was unmistakable; Reid had long since memorized the table of elements, and easily recognized the words.

Though it had taken him considerably longer to work out the meaning behind them. And even then, he still wasn't entirely sure . . .

Remy lightly brushed his thumb over the Sharpie-scrawl. "Y' must have très interestin' parents fo' a name like dis, cher."

Spencer was not blushing, damn it. "You already know that's not my name. I've been coming here since before you were even hired, and even after all this time, you still can't get it right?"

Remy quirked a single eyebrow. "Someone's cranky."

"I — that's not — you're not even — " Reid spluttered, hands gripping the edge of the table more and more tightly. "You're deliberately missing the point!"

Remy leaned in over the table, closer than ever before to the man he'd long been eyeballing. "O' course, Remy likes de sass, Spencer."

Reid's lower jaw his the floor. "How did — Who — How?"

Remy shrugged. "Asked around, me. Known y'r name since de t'ird day y' came into de shop, mec."

A pause, and then —

"You know my name."

It wasn't a question. "Oui," Remy nodded.

"For months."

"Oui."

"And yet . . ." Spencer's face scrunched up, nose crinkling as the confusion melted into his features, twisting them in a way that certainly did not send a shock of warmth straight down Remy's spine.

The genius blinked. "Yet, you've been persisting on playing this ridiculous game of not knowing my name . . . Why?"

Remy leaned back now, tucking his hands behind his head, gloved fingers interlacing. "Never said I didn't know y'r name, Spencer. Surely y've heard dat t'ing about what happens to people who assume."

"You do a fine job of acting like you've never even seen it before," Spencer voiced, tapping the paper cup that lay in the center of the table between them.

"Remy's put exactly what y' told him to every day since de first time he served y', mon petite."

"And, yet, somehow, despite these many months, you appeared to have made no legitimate progress in spelling it at all correctly." Spencer frowned slightly. "It's R-E-I-D," by the way."

"Somet'in wrong wit' bein' creative? Remy an artist, y' gotta understand."

"Hmm." Reid huffed out a small breath. "Art." He squinted at the hasty scrawl on the side of the cup.

"Rhenium, Iodine, Dysprosium, subtract the Yttrium . . . Re, I, Dy, nix the Y . . . Reid." A look of bafflement still on his face, the genius shook his head. "Did you think me a fool, or were you trying to convince me that you were?"

"How about neit'er?" Damn that grin, that infuriating, smug, tempting grin of his. Spencer mentally slapped himself out of the admiring reveries, trying to force himself to focus on what the Cajun was saying.

"Your actions certainly suggest otherwise," Reid mumbled.

Now Remy looked slightly offended. "Ain't never t'ought y' were any sort of dumb, Spencer! Remy likes y'! Been trying to talk to y' since day one!"

"By playing jokes on me? By perpetually getting on my nerves? By never actually saying a word, just being incredibly and consitantly irritating in my day-to-day life?" Reid's confusion and surpprise overwhelmed any real anger that might have been in his voice.

"Well, we're talkin' now more dan we ever have before, ain't we?" Remy shot back.

"I — " Reid paused, thinking; technically, it was true . . . "I don't even know what to make of you," he finished lamely, leaning back in his chair, fight draining from tensed shoulders.

Remy smiled again. "S'cause y' don't know me period, cher. If y' did, y'd know dat Remy be a big flirt — especially wit' someone as beau as y'rself."

He winked, and Reid had to bit back the smile that was trying to break through his quiet demeanor; this was so far out of his league, and while a recognized genius, social-anything had never fallen under Spencer's speciality of knowledge.

Still, the amusement was written clearly all over his face when Spencer finally gathered the courage to respond, hazel eyes nailing those red ones dead-on.

"That's what you call flirting?" Spencer ran his gaze over the Cajun's form, not quite disapprovingly.

"Some of my best," Remy nodded.

"Sorry, cher," Spencer said, ignoring Remy's slight wince at his painful butchery of the word, "But I'm sure you can do better than that." Much, he added silently.

Remy cocked his head to the side. Was Spencer actually playing the coquette? Spencer?

It surprised him, certainly, took the man back more than he'd like to admit — almost went so far as to actually throw him off his game. Remy Etienne LeBeau, the Ragin' Cajun and self-declared mutant-form-of-the-human-hotter-than-Creole-seasoning, was struggling to flirt?

It utterly confounded the man, which only made him angry — and Spencer's victorious smirk at his floundering only made Remy bristle further.

He would not be bested by this twig of a man, no matter how cute. One way or another, Remy always came out on top.

Always.

But none of this struggle, nor his newfound determination, showed on Remy's face. Instead, the elder man merely winked his eye, and shook a heavy head.

"Y'r French is terrible, mon ami," he purred out, voice lowering by octaves — and he didn't need his empathy to feel Spencer's shudder of interest at the tone, or the things it suggested.

Oh, did Remy love to play.

"You think so?" Reid finally responded, slightly huskily. Remy's eyes lowered halfway, and his poker face of assurance never slipped a knotch.

"S'il vous plaît, Remy can teach y' a lot of t'ings about de . . . " He made no secret of the inspection his eyes were performing as they drank in every visible inch of Spencer's body, " . . . de best kind of French. De proper way."

"Like the art of seduction?" Reid didn't miss a beat, resting his chin in the palm of his hand as he continued to watch Remy watching him.

Remy grinned predatorially. "Oui."

"I don't consider myself the easiest man to sway, Remy," Reid spoke with confidence, but deep in his gut, a knot of uncertainty twisted the words, not showing how self-conscious he was trying not to feel.

After all . . . How could someone like Remy be interested in someone like him? Him?

The other man's smile only grew more teeth, if that was even possible. "I already know y' too good, Spencer. Easiest way to y'r coeur is a cup o' coffee."

Reid shook himself free of the inner doubts, and bit his lower lip for half a second. " . . . It's a start," he admitted — not getting to finish the rest of his sentence before Remy had vanished out of his chair. And, before the genius could so much as blink, the Cajun was already in line at the coffee bar, notes in hand and scrutinizing the menu with the same seriousness one might read a legal document with.

Spencer sighed, good-naturedly but exasperated at the Remy's antics; the man was fun, and gorgeous — and evidently very clever, if his scheme was to be believed — but Spencer could already sense that being with Remy was going to be exhausting, a strain on both his physical limits of energy and his patience . . .

A worthwhile challenge, though, Reid had to admit to himself as he stared unabashedly at Remy's butt. And anyone who had put that much effort into a ruse, just to talk to him . . . it was flattering. Endearing, really, when one thought about it. Probably not creepy . . . Maybe awkward, true enough . . . But am I really one with a place to judge something like —

And, once again, Spencer's thoughts were interrupted by a light risk of air as Remy sat back down, two huge coffees in his hand.

"Penny f'r 'em," Remy drawled as he passed one cup to Spencer.

Spencer blinked. "Pardon?"

He had to wait a moment while the other man finished his first sip. "Y'r t'oughts, cher. Penny?"

One corner of Reid's mouth tugged up. "I doubt these ones in particular were worth that much," he murmured, turning the proffered beverage in his hands, gazing at the sides for a distraction.

Good. Two creams, six sugars, exactly how he —

Reid barely refrained from rolling his eyes as they stumbled and tripped over the clunky handwriting on the logo. "Remy."

"Yes?" The other man didn't even look up — though he knew exactly what Spencer was on about, judging from the evident smirk in his voice.

Spencer sighed; it seemed like he'd be doing a lot of that where Remy was involved. "Read-y?" He pronounced the long e, irritation stretching it out further. "Really? Read-eee? Still? Did we not just go over this thing?"

Remy's lips pursed, and when his eyes finally peeked out from beneath his auburn bangs, there was something unreadable in his expression. "Dat's not what it says."

"Yes, it is! I'm not blind, I can see on the — "

"Read it right, cher."

Reid froze. "What?"

Remy shrugged. "Y' heard me. Read it de way it s'posed to be read."

Gnawing his inner cheek, Spencer looked back down. "Ready." He looked up. "Ready? Ready for wha — ?"

The words were cut off by Remy's leaning forward and pressing their lips together.

Instinct had him wanting to jerk back, but the hand that knotted in Spencer's hair at the back of his head prevented him from doing so, and after a moment, the genius relaxed, leaning into the kiss and, after a moment more, beginning to press back harder, thoroughly enjoying himself.

It was a long minute before either of them pulled back, and by the time they did, Spencer was seeing stars.

Damn. For someone who prided himself on being verbose and grammatically fluent and dexterous, that was the only word running though Spencer's head.

His expression must have showed something of his inner thoughts, because Remy was leering again.

"Y' taste like coffee, Spencer. Parfait."

It took the younger man a few deep breaths before he could respond.

"And you're sweet."

"Sweet enough f'r y'rself?"

Reid lifted one shoulder mildly, loving the flash in Remy's eyes at his cheek.

"Change y'r mind about dat right quick," the Cajun growled.

"Maybe after coffee," Reid said.

Remy watched Spencer drink for a moment, expressionless, before adding a sugar to his coffee and stirring, eyes never leaving Spencer's. Without blinking, the man then lifted his cup to his lips and slugged the entire thing down in three long swallows that, really, Spencer shouldn't have enjoyed watching as much as he did.

That done, Remy leaned over the table and pulled Spencer closer, tipping his chin and brushing lips only briefly before moving back a step, gazes meeting intently.

"Better?"

Reid couldn't vocalize his thoughts, because his knees were rapidly tuning to jelly beneath his skin.

Remy nodded, satisfied. "Let's go," he commanded, gently but firmly tugging Spencer out of his chair.

"It's still raining out," Reid protested weakly, making trailing behind Remy nevertheless.

In front of him, the Cajun let out a hearty chuckle. "Don't y' worry, cher. Remy'll keep y' warm."

The door whooshed shut behind them, and everyone else in the Black & Brew went about their daily routines, no one any the wiser that two of them had finally, forever, and lovingly been changed.

Author's Endnote: Annnnnnd checkmark writing a "Coffeeshop AU" off of my Bucket List. Up next? New Star Wars movie. Happy Holidays, everyone!