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The vast majority of the regulars at the coffeeshop have a set routine. They come in at the same time, order the same drinks, sit at the same tables, and leave the same trash in their wakes. Yaz knows them all by name. Most of the time, she has their orders ready and sitting on the counter before they even walk through the door.
However, there is one regular customer who is nothing short of chaotic. No one seems to know who she really is or what exactly she does for a living, and that mystery is further compounded by the fact that every single time she walks through the door -- whether that be at the beginning of the day or its very end -- she orders something different.
The only consistant things about her are the tousled blonde hair, the worn grey coat that almost sweeps the floor, and the epigraph scribbled on the side of her cup in Yaz's looping handwriting:
Just The Doctor.
Whenever the Doctor stops by, she stays for a while, chatting on and on about whatever subject catches her fancy. Sometimes it's physics. Sometimes it's engineering. Sometimes it's history. But every time, regardless of the subject, Yaz props her elbow on the counter, leans forward, and listens intently.
It is a bit cliché for a barista to fall in love with a customer, but Yaz keeps catching herself gazing at the Doctor, wondering what it might be like to cut those wandering diatribes short with a gentle kiss, tasting espresso or caramel or whatever else might be in the Doctor's chosen drink of the day with a delicate sweep of her tongue.
At first, such fantasies made Yaz's cheeks grow hot with shame.
Lately, however, she's gotten bolder.
The thoughts have lingered to the point of familiarity, blossoming into something enthusiastic and unabashed, and one day, just as Yaz is taking off of her apron and making her way out the front door at the end of her shift, she bumps into the subject of her affections.
It's the first contact Yaz has ever made with the Doctor while off the job. Weeks ago, she might have wasted the opportunity. Now, however, she takes a deep breath, filling her lungs with nitrogen and oxygen and confidences leeched from the people who have passed through this air before her, and asks, "Would you like to grab dinner together sometime?"
Surprise flits across the Doctor's face, but it is quickly replaced by a rushing torrent of excited glee as she shoves her hands in the pockets of her familiar coat and rocks forward onto the toes of her boots.
"I'd love that. Love a good dinner. Love a dinner with Yaz, especially. Not that I've ever asked you your name properly, I don't think, but y'know --" one hand leaves her pocket long enough to sweep at the air between them -- "I've read your name tag once or twice. Maybe more than that. Definitely more than that. Lost count, if I'm honest."
And Yaz smiles a relieved, pleased, lovely smile, charmed to death by the awkwardness of the Doctor's reply and doing her best not to show it. "Right then."
It takes only a moment to exchange the necessary details. Yaz scribbles down the information using a scrap of a receipt and a golf pencil dredged from the depths of the Doctor's seemingly bottomless coat pockets, and then the two of them part ways with a handshake and a promise.
It's officially a date, and Yaz, for one, is over the moon about it.
She can only hope that the Doctor -- as mysterious and unpredictable as she is -- feels the same.