"What're you two messing with over there?" Linda calls, dropping packets of Splenda one-by-one into their compartment.

"Uh, latte?"

"You don't sound so sure," Linda laughs.

"It's supposed to be a latte; but I don't know how well I'm gonna pull it off," I explain, my arm brushing Nate's as I reach for the white cloth beside the machine. Goosebumps pop up over my skin, but I do my best to ignore it, purging the steamer and sticking the milk pitcher under it.

From the corner of my eye, I see Nate smiling. "You're doing better each time."

I wait until the steamer's off and the pitcher's clear of it before I dare to take my eyes off it. "Yeah, no third degree burns anymore!" I can't help but laugh when Nate shuffles back a step as I'm pouring the milk into the cup.

"Third degree? Your hand wouldn't have healed this well after just two weeks if they'd been third degree burns."

"Second?" I try, handing over the cup.

Nate doesn't answer, just smirks, blowing a slow breath into the cup…and takes a careful sip.

When he lowers it, there's a weird expression on his face that's 60% smile, and 40% disgust. "Best one yet!"

"Your face says it's still garbage," I tease, as he tastes it again.

"No, it's definitely better; I just can't drink coffee without sugar."

Linda's leaning on the counter now, eying Nate suspiciously, and drops a sparse handful of sugar packets onto the varnished wood, holding a coffee stirrer between the fingers of her other hand. Nate sets the cup down, taking the stirrer from her and empties a few packets into the coffee. "Are you really gonna drink that?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because coffee gives you headaches." A blush leeches into Nate's cheeks; instead of responding, he tries to take another sip of coffee, but the forgotten stirrer pokes him just under his eye.

His face turns goes from pale pink to rosy red and Linda laughs, twirling away to continue the sugar refill. "You've been drinking two cups of coffee almost every day for two weeks, even though it gives you headaches?"

Nate shrugs a shoulder. "I said I'd help you, and taste-testing is part of the process…but maybe we should move on to tea drinks."

Some ten minutes later Nate taking a green tea frappucinno from my hand, and he looks happier about it then he ever did when I handed him a coffee drink.

As he tastes it, he gives me a thumbs up, smiling at me around the straw, and it's so damn cute that I kinda melt a little bit.

There's a few change-outs and duty-swaps through the day, to accommodate breaks or whatever, so at some in the afternoon, I end up behind the counter with Linda. She flirts mercilessly and she's full of innuendos and dirty puns, but there's nothing in it, it's just fun for her, so when I finally fire on back about 'grinding her coffee', she laughs and beams at me while she calls me gross.

"So, on a scale of one to ten," she teases, as the customers are walking away with their mochas, "how bad is this crush of yours?"

"The scale only goes to ten?"

Linda tips her head to the side, pouting at me pityingly. "Awww, Matt! Well, I have some information that might help you."

"At a price, though, right?"

"No no, I'm a non-profit matchmaker," she says, toying absently with the paintbrush pendant on her necklace. "I'm not gonna take your soul…just make your ears wish they were never born."

I take a step away from her, holding my hands up defensively. "I can already sign, you don't have to mess with my hearing."

"No, nothing like that!" She laughs. "There's this thing, Friday night…"

"…I need you to put me in for Friday night."

Mihael looks up from his lunch. "You sure about that?"

"Yup. Linda already told me the band's shit, I still want in."

He looks at me for a moment, ice blue gaze trying to burrow into my brain, and decides, "Okay."

"Just like that? You're not gonna be a dick about it…?"

"You're volunteering for extra shifts," he shrugs. "I don't care why, I just care that you're bothering to show up. When I'm done here—" he gestures at the Tupperware container in front of him with his fork "—I'll check the budget and get back to you."

"Thanks, man. Hey, while I'm here…"

Mihael sighs. "Fine. Be quick."

He shakes his head at the hopeful grin I direct at him…and punches my thigh when, as I'm walking past him to get to my locker, I pause to press a noisy kiss to the top of his head and singsong, "Love youuu!" at him.

I spend most of my smoke break half hunched over, trying to rub the soreness out of my thigh and feeling thankful that Mihael didn't decide to stab me with his fork instead.

When I head back in, I get a curious-yet-concerned look from Nate, and Linda gives me a thumbs up and raises her eyebrows expectantly — I smile at both of them.

I don't expect to see Nate until Friday night, but the next morning — a Thursday morning — Nate's suddenly in front of me; I don't know how I didn't notice him walk in, or even standing in line, but he's here now and my stomach is full of bees, and there's a giant (probably stupid-looking) grin on my face. "Hey! What're you doing here?"

Nate's smiling, too, but it's the furthest thing from stupid-looking. "Class got cancelled, so…" he shrugs a shoulder. "Um, c-could I get a Soy Green Tea Frappucinno? Mint and vanilla?"

"Sure. Uh, 50/50?" He nods and I grab a napkin to scribble his order on. "Milk preference? Oh, wait. Soy. You said that first. Sorry."

"No, it's okay," he says lightly, shrugging off his backpack to swing it around in from of him.

"Hey, whoa, it's on me."

He smiles at me, looking almost apologetic. "You don't have to do that…"

"I know."

Nate just sorta looks at me for a second, his smile growing — his eyes are silver-gray, nearly steely-blue where the sunlight's shining across his face — before he hefts his backpack up onto one shoulder. "Thank you, Matt."

"I wouldn't thank me yet, dunno how it's gonna turn out." Nate laughs a little and the bees in my stomach turn into butterflies. "Uh, you headed back out, or…?"

He glances over his shoulder, and when he turns back around, tells me, "I think I'll take a seat," and gestures vaguely toward a free table near the door.

"Cool, I'll, uh, I'll bring this over to you." His smile never really left his face, but it brightens up again as he thanks me, and then he heads toward his chosen seat.

It takes me a minute to remember how to make the thing, but, luckily, when it's done it's still quiet enough that I can leave the register for a minute.

When I look toward his table, I see his backpack half-open at his feet, a pencil case spilled open on the table, and a pencil-holding hand moving over a page of the A4 sketchbook in front of him.

Just as I'm getting close enough to maybe see what he's working on, he glances up and hurries to close the book around the pencil he was holding. "So, was it an art class? The one that got cancelled?" I ask, laying down a napkin and setting his drink on top of it.

"Yeah. And thank you," he adds quickly, reaching for the cup. "Studio arts at UCLA."

Maybe that's what busy means, my brain supplies hopefully. "Oh yeah? Could I maybe…see?" I nod toward the sketchbook and Nate's cheeks flush pink.

"No," he laughs nervously, shaking his head. "No, um…this isn't- isn't really my medium, I, um… This is just…" He glances down at the drink in front of him, pulling the paper wrapper off of the top of the straw. "…Maybe when it's done," he offers, glancing up with a small smile.

I can't help but smile back at him. "Hey, no pressure though. Art's a personal thing, I get it… Uh, anyway, I- I should get back, so… Enjoy your tea." He thanks me again, brining the drink closer to his face as I turn to leave.

When I get back behind the counter, Linda's grinning at me. "He's watch-chiiing youu," she sing-songs, like a child in a horror movie.

"You're kinda scary, you know that?"

"I'm try to tell you that he's gazing longingly after you, but if you don't wanna hear it…" Linda shrugs a shoulder, then reaches up to adjust her ponytail. There's a twinge of something warm in my stomach and a disbelieving breath huffing out of my nose, because, yeah, sure, of course he is.

For the next hour, even while I'm trying to concentrate, Linda keeps 'updating me' on what Nate's doing (as if I'm not sneaking glances myself) — "…He's looking at you again…"

"…He's looks like he hates every customer you smile at…"

"…Don't look now, but he's kinda staring at you…" — I'm trying to ignore her, but her teasing worms it's way into my ears and it's starting to get to me, making me feel kinda…nervous; so when I notice Nate's tea getting low, I use it as an excuse to escape.

"So what'd you mean, when you say it's not your medium?" Nate looks up at me, startled, and shifts the book closer to his chest protectively. "I'm not tryna peek, promise," I laugh, offering him the drink in my hand.

Holding the book close to his chest with one hand, he reaches for the drink with the other, meeting my eyes as he thanks me for it.

"I can draw, but it's not really what I do," he explains, sitting up a bit straighter and setting the new drink on the table.

"What do you do?"

His eyes light up at that and he's carefully closing his sketchbook and asking, "Do you have a minute? Do you want to sit?"

"Yeah!" Suddenly my heart is racing. Nate smiles brightly at me, sitting up and taking his feet off of the bar between the legs in the chair in front of him — it screeches against the floor as I sit myself down, maybe too quickly.

Picking up the book again, he flips to the front and starts talking; "My sketchbooks are more like concept books," he says, and a blush rises in his cheeks. "That sounds really pretentious, but what I mean is I'm sort of a sculptor, so all of my ideas get, um, doodled in here…"

He talks me through pages and pages of beautiful drawings, elaborating on the notes scribbled in corners, explaining the materials he's used and why — stone and wood and clay have never really appealed to him, he tells me. He smiles as he talks, even about setbacks and failed attempts at experimental methods, and his joy is infectious, magnetic, and luckily he doesn't seem to mind when we realise, almost at the same time, that I'd been leaning in close to him.

Feeling a little awkward, I move away from him, reluctantly putting a few inches between us. Nate fidgets in his seat, smiling shyly and ducks his head, shutting the book. "Sorry, I…I get a bit carried away sometimes."

"Nah, it's okay…it's- it's kinda nice listening to you." Nate blushes, reaching for his tea. "Maybe I could see some of your work sometime?"

Straw halfway to his mouth, he pauses. "I-I'm sort of in the middle of a project now, but, when it's finished…?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm there." Nate smiles brightly, dazzlingly, and I'm feeling a little dazed as I get back to work.

Linda grins at me, winking playfully as I move back into place behind the register. Mihael, from where he's collecting used cups across the room, shakes his head despairingly.

After a while, when the midday rush has passed, Nate approaches the counter; but before I can get a word out, he's dropping a dollar bill and a folded sheet of paper in the tip jar and turning to leave.

It's not until the end of the day, when tips are being split, that I get to see what the piece of paper is about.

It's a sketch.

A sketch of me, from the chest up, my face slightly turned toward the giant window in the east wall. It's black and white, except my eyes, colored blue with several shades of what looks like metallic pencils, and my name tag in silver. In the bottom corner he's scribbled the date and signed it.

When I walk into the shop at 6:20 the next night, there's a small group of guys setting up; they look like they're about finished up, and thank good for that, 'cause one dude has a fucking banjo and I don't think I could listen to that shit being tuned.

As I'm walking into the staff room, Mihael's walking out. "How did you get in here?"

"Front door was unlocked."

Mihael mutters something threatening-sounding, that I'm pretty sure isn't english. "Get your shit together," he tells me, "they'll start showing up soon."

I do as he says, even though I really wanna see how the murderous glare he's directing at the hipsters translates into words.

A few minutes later, as I'm pinning my name tag to my chest, Nate rushes into the staff room — his face is flushed and he's oddly uncoordinated as he's tugging off his jacket and trying to stuff it in his locker.

"Hey, you okay?"

"I'm late."

"'S not a big deal, Mihael didn't say anything about it, so don't worry about it." I shrug a shoulder. "If he was mad at you, you'd know by now." Nate's mouth curves into a hopeful smile.

Ten minutes after the hipsters start filing in, Mihael goes home; right around then, there's a pre-gig coffee rush, and twenty minutes after that's over, I start to realise how lucky he is — the room is full of people wearing thick-rimmed glasses or suspenders or some kinda shirt with a moustache on it, and every one of them smells like mothballs, and then the 'music' starts.

"I think this shit is gonna kill me."

Nate's shuffles closer, tilting his chin up, his lips near my ear. His breath is warm on my skin. "Keep on eye on the tip jar, it helps. Hipsters are surprisingly good tippers."

I duck my own head, to murmur into his ear. And I don't think for a second about how good he smells. "There could be a 100 dollar bill in there and it still wouldn't make up for having to listen to a damn whatever that is." Nate's shoulders bounce with quiet laughter, bumping my arm a little. "Is it even a real instrument?"

"I think, technically, yes."

"It's a 2x4 with string on it! It's only a step up from a damn tissue box guitar!" Nate tries to shush me and muffle his laughter behind his hand at the same time. "What the fuck is it? Is the fucking banjo not obscure enough, they have to go make up shit? How does it make sound? Is it even fucking making a sound? God, I hope not."

"You don't hear it? It's like…it sounds like styling gel being applied to a moustache and someone scathingly repeating 'you've never heard of it?' over and over again."

Nate and I talk between customers — wondering how the band formed, whose neighbors suffered through the most rehearsals, how the hell they have this many 'fans' — before the music suddenly stops, and turns into some kind of open-mic poetry recital.

I'm not 100% sure what prompts it, maybe that it's quieter in here now that the instruments (save for the banjo) have been abandoned, but Nate's taking the smallest step away from me and starts signing, »This is new. They weren't doing this before. I wasn't trained for this.«

I can't help but follow suit, »They've been here before? You've done this more than once? Why?«

»Unfortunately yes. At least five times. I'm not sure why I did it the first time, but every time since then has been for the tips.«

For the first time since he's mentioned it, I look at the jar; it's fuller than I've ever seen it, and I've got a good feeling that a solid handful of those bills are bigger than singles. »While we're on the subject of the tip jar, that sketch you did yesterday was really great.«

Nate smiles, bashful, but obviously happy. »Thank you. You're easy to draw.« Even with the lights dimmed, I can see the rosy blush blooming under his skin. »It was–« he starts, pausing as he drops his gaze…and brings it back up. »It was missing something. I realised after I'd given it to you.«

»There's no way you're getting it back. You'll just have to draw me another one.«

»I'd be more than happy to. You're very good at standing still,« he tells me, his smile turning teasing.

The heat of embarrassment creeps up the back of my neck. »Don't tell Mihael that.« Nate laughs and promises he won't.

When the tables have been moved back into place, the cash drawer shoved into the safe, the last hipsters shooed out, and the tips split, we can finally leave.

As soon as Nate gets to his locker, he pulls out his phone. He messes with the screen for a minute, then turns it on its side and sits it back inside the locker; after a moments pause, he's signing. I try to give him some privacy by grabbing my jacket from my own locker.

He's only on the phone for a minute or two, but he still apologises when he's done, and hurried to shrug on his jacket.

I'm standing outside, waiting, as Nate sets the alarm and it's then that I notice my car's the only one in the parking lot. As he's locking the door, I bring it up. "Hey, um, how're you getting home?"

"Bus; there's a stop just down the street."

"D-do you- you want a ride home? I'm not tryna be weird or anything, just…you don't have to wait for the bus. I, I-I, I don't mind driving you home. If you want."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, no, it's no problem." I feel like the smile in my face is kinda creepy, but Nate doesn't seem to mind, and smiles back at me.

The drive's pretty quiet, except for Nate's directions, but it's comfortable. Until I pull up in front of his house. I get an aching, sinking feeling in my gut that only gets worse as he's thanking me and unbuckling his seatbelt and pushing the door open.

But as he's halfway turned to step out, he pauses and turns back toward me. "C-could I…could I call you? When I have some time?" The aching sinking stops so suddenly and my stomach's twisted up so tight with nervous excitement that I feel a little sick. "I- that- that sounds terrible but–"

"It sounds great. You're busy, I get that; we can figure something out. Uh, here…" With a bit of awkward fidgeting, I manage to dig my phone out of my pocket and hand it to him. He types with his right hand, freeing his phone from his pocket with his left, and then he's typing with his left, too. "Impressive."

"Thanks." When I take my phone back from him, it's warm from his hand. "So, um, I'll- I'll call you? Well, I'll see you Sunday, but…I'll call you. Not to say that you can't call me…" His face is deep red now, and I kind of want to say something to stop his nervous rambling, but a bigger part of me thinks it's adorable and wants to just sit here listening to it. "…Uhm, I-I should go… Keys. So. I have to open up in the- i-in the morning…"

"Right, yeah. But, Sunday, right?"

Nate nods. "Sunday," he agrees, and this time, when he moves to step out, he actually does. But he lingers after he shuts the door. "Thanks again, for the ride home."

"No problem. Hey, maybe…maybe Sunday, if you want, I could…? It's no problem…"

"Sure! I'd like that."

"Great!"

He stands there for a minute longer, looking at me and smiling at me and twisting my insides up, before he declares, way too soon, that he "really should go;" and I smile and nod and "yeah, sure," but I can't quite leave until the front door is shut behind him.

"Sunday," I tell the ceiling as I'm laying in bed. "I'm looking forward to work on a Sunday morning…maybe I did bust my head."