Work Text:
Mon’s barely started her shift, just gotten the ends of the apron tied around her trim back, when the little bell above the door rings. She glances up over the till, smiling on instinct, just the usual polite appearance for whatever customer it is. But it’s her favourite customer, so the smile spans so wide that she has to bite it back; her cheeks quickly grow sore from the dimples.
The woman that strolls through the quaint coffee shop is more than just a lady, she’s a noble, may as well be a princess, a queen—it’s hard to imagine anyone more impressive. She’s wearing a tight-fitted black suit that flares into a short skirt, long legs on full display, gold embroidery swirling around her lapels and down one sleeve, the sort of thing a designer would put at the front of their runway collection. Sam wears it better than any model could. And Sam’s beautiful even without those rich clothes and the glittering jewels along her throat and wrist. She’s tall, lean, severe, with sleek dark hair and deep cool eyes, sharp gloss exaggerating her frown. She commands all attention, or at least, all of Mon’s: whenever Sam’s in the building, Mon can’t look anywhere else.
There are a few other customers clustered around circular tables, chatting away. Yuki’s in the back, making cucumber sandwiches. Sam approaches the till with her gaze trained on Mon, like there’s only two of them in the world.
It seems like fate, in that moment, that Sam’s arrived when she’s working, but Mon’s asked her coworkers, and it sounds like Sam doesn’t show up when she’s not. Either Sam’s secretly bought the business and memorized Mon’s erratic schedule, or they’re just meant to be.
Heels clicking to a stop, Sam’s gaze sweeps the counter, and she seems to find displeasure in every little thing she sees. Those gorgeous eyes pierce Mon after, like it’s all Mon’s fault—like she’s responsible for the overprized chocolate bars and poorly designed gift cards and the cheap plastic knickknacks the owner keeps on the register. Mon smiles anyway and bows her head in reverent respect, giddily greeting, “Welcome, Lady Sam.”
Sam barely even grunts. She says nothing, no hi, no hello, no attempt at Mon’s name even though they both know she knows it. She just stares at Mon with what Yuki calls a ‘dead look’, though Mon still thinks Sam’s beautiful.
Even more cheerful, she asks for her, “What would you like to drink today?”
Sam snorts, tossing her hair and looking aside, like Mon should already know and it’s ridiculous to ask. When Sam’s in regular ruts, Mon does know. But lately Sam’s taken to coming in with new ridiculously complicated orders every time, like she’s trying to test Mon’s skills. There’s something wildly cute about the oh-so-subtle way Sam’s eyes peek back, the way she stands so close to the counter and seems to lean into Mon’s words, the way she faintly rocks back and forth like she can’t wait for Mon to get it right. It’s like a stubborn cat that insists on certain foods, and also on the right person to feed them. For some reason, Mon suspects Sam’s more of a dog person. Mon goes along with it and offers, “Should I just make you something I think you’ll like?”
Sam mutters, “Obviously,” like it took Mon long enough to ask. She’s not quite feigning a pout, but it’s close, and it’s cute.
Mon always finds Sam way too cute. She’s still fully dimpled as she manually types in a low price, leaving the kind of drink a mystery. Then she shuffles over to pull rice milk and strawberries out of the fridge while Sam fiddles open her wallet. She usually pays by card but tips in cash. Mon deliberately doesn’t look, knowing Sam’s pouting at her back for turning away.
Some customers, when it’s slow like it currently is, try to chat with her while she works, and it’s welcome with some more than others. With Sam, it’d be more than welcome, and Mon has a dozen things to ask her, but Sam just stands in the corner and plays with her phone. She acts like she’s conducting business on it, and maybe she is, but she’s swept her long hair to the other side so the view’s unencumbered, and Mon catches more than one covert glance her way. Mon returns them all. She puts together a bright pink strawberry smoothie, basic but delicious. When she finally slides it across the counter, Sam’s instantly there to meet her, phone pocketed mid-tap. Their hands connect around the cup. Sam’s slender digits are sinfully soft, manicured nails painted in a purple-black nebula, prickling with warmth. There are sparks when they touch. Mon’s breath actually hitches, and Sam’s lips part—it’s just a quick, mundane moment that will always have a home in Mon’s memory.
It’s over in no time, and Sam lifts the drink, hiding her reaction to Mon’s hand in a reaction to Mon’s work. There’s only the briefest flicker in her eyes after the first sip, and the expression’s swiftly stifled.
Feeling cheeky, Mon prods, “Is it good?”
“Hardly,” Sam snorts, but there’s absolutely no malice in it, and she immediately takes another sip before abruptly scolding, “If you can’t remember simple orders, you should ask for them in writing.”
“Writing?” Mon blinks, genuinely confused for the split-second it takes her brain to figure out oh, Sam means text. Texts. And then Mon has to bite the inside of her lip to keep from grinning too hard. That must’ve been hard for Sam. There’s already a faint flush across Sam’s cheeks. So Mon takes care to ask as tactfully as possible, “Would you like me to give you my Line ID, Lady Sam? So you can text me your orders?”
Sam stares at Mon for a moment as though she has to think about it first. Then she replies, “If you insist.”
Her phone’s instantly out again, and she thrusts it towards Mon without any of her usual grace, all eager aggression. Mon pulls her own out of her apron pocket and sets them up, shaking her phone over Sam’s. She even says, “Thank you,” while she does it, as though Sam’s doing her a favour.
Sam is. She’s finally broken the ice, even if she made it sound like it was at Mon’s behest. Sam nods stiffly in a curt, silent ‘you’re welcome.’ Returning to her drink, she avidly sucks the fluffy cream down, clearly pleased with Mon’s work, even if she won’t say it aloud. She said enough. Her number’s in Mon’s phone, so Mon’s glowing. She smiles the whole time that Sam lingers, unnaturally long, until Yuki comes out of the back and it seems to startle Sam out of the reverie. Sam throws Yuki an annoyed look, turns on her heel, and marches out of the shop with her full hips swinging. Mon’s glued to the movement, so smitten.
“What the—Mon! Look how much is in the tip jar!”
Mon chuckles and nods without even looking at her startled coworker—she knew it would be a lot—because in a roundabout sort of way, Sam always takes good care of her.
She receives her first text five minutes after her shift ends, admitting the drink wasn’t so bad.