Author's Note: One more scrap I found in my drafts folder. Just some cute Nix/reader fluff.

You met Lew Nixon through work. You'd just been hired on at a quaint little French café, referred by your friend Renée, who smiled when Nixon walked in at exactly 1:30 on your first day.

You had watched with interest as she trailed behind, apparently already aware of which spot he would pick (the two-seat table in the back, right by a window) and asking if he wanted "the usual," to which he said yes.

After that she'd taken you over to meet him and he'd smiled up at you like he'd never been happier to see someone. It started an unusual friendship that would last nearly a year and a half before leaving the café at all. It's only today, after all that time, that you find him at the door as you're on your way out. He's standing there in the cold, a hand on the back of his neck and a shy smile on his face.

"Do you wanna go grab a coffee together? I know a place a few blocks down."

"Sure," you say, and he grins. You wind up at a hole-in-the-wall coffeeshop you hadn't even known was there, drinking arguably the best coffee you'd ever tasted. Lew watches you intently, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Wow," you say. "This is incredible, Lew."

"I thought you'd like it," he chuckles. "I used to come here for the whiskey shots."

"You drink?" You look up at him, interested. He's never really talked about himslf before, you realize. He'd always listened to you.

"Used to," he corrects. "I'm two years sober."

"What made you stop? I-if you don't mind my asking."

"Divorce," he grimaces. "And my best friend arranged an intervention. It wasn't pretty. But hey, live and learn, right?" Lew looks up at you, his gaze warm. You've entertained the thought of doing this for so long you'd almost accepted it would never happen. But now he's here and it's real, and your heart flutters as you think about what you're going to do.

"Lew," you say quietly, "is this supposed to be a date?"

Lew bites his lip, looking up at you. "I think I'm a little rusty," he admits. "I haven't tried romance in four years."

You reach out for his hand, turning his palm over to grasp his hand in your own, smiling.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he chuckles. "Figured it wouldn't hurt to try. You're something else, you know that?"

"Lew." He clams up, meeting your eyes again. "I'd love to go out with you." You lean across the table to kiss him on on his cheek.

"Oh," he says.