"Welcome to Café Minuit. How can I help you today?"
"Good morning! What are you in the mood for?"
"What can I get you, sweets?"

Three phrases rotated through her vocabulary every morning. It was the same handful of words for the past six years. Repetition bothered most people.

Most people didn't dream of sitting on a stool behind a cash register and serving coffee to grumpy people in the early morning.

Eleanor Walonet was not most people during the morning. Every day, bright and early, she was wide awake and lively, a lovely smile lit on her face for all hours of the daylight. She was a massively happy person. She was also a massive fan of coffee.

Mixing the two had pushed her to operate her own coffee shop in the small town of Quantico, Virginia. She had been successful in the business for six years.

Familiar people came and went throughout the years. Some faces she recognized. Those she saw everyday, she had usual orders drilled into her head. The trouble was placing names to the faces and their orders.

"Michael. Black coffee with one sugar. Comes in with major bed head everyday," she mumbled under her breath as she whisked away to create his order, "and he never leaves without throwing in a dollar to the tip jar."

"Sarah. Caramel frappé, extra caramel. comes in rushing every three days, takes an abundance of napkins, and frequently appears as though she's going to break into tears at any moment."

"Eleanor tries so hard to remember names that she often forgets their regular orders," teased Nora, one of her workers, "and then she pouts for a solid ten seconds before her face starts to hurt from not smiling."

"At least she doesn't spill orders on the daily," laughed Sydney.

"Says the girl who saw a cute boy and dropped four muffins!"

"I told you both to start using the serving tray. All it's done is collect dust since I bought it," sighed Eleanor.

"Maybe because your fat boy won't quit laying on it," said Sydney.

All three women craned their necks behind the counter to look for the black cat. There he sat, on the end of the counter, sprawled out across the serving tray. He meowed innocently.

"What am I going to do with you, Midnight?" asked Eleanor, approaching the cat and kissing his head softly.

"Sell him," said Nora. She stole Eleanor's stool at the register, glaring at the cat all the while.

"We're not selling my old man. He's a hit with the kid's," said Eleanor.

"So is Kermit," argued Nora.

The three women searched the buzzing café to find the black lab. He was padding throughout the tables, placing his head in customers' laps, getting a good scratch, then leaving to seek out another scratcher.

"Midnight isn't out to get you, Nora," assured Eleanor. "He just likes to stare at you."

"Nobody else thinks that's creepy? I feel like if me and him were in a room together, give us three minutes, and I would be dead. He's secretly evil, El, I'm telling you. I worry about your safety every time I leave you alone..."

Eleanor, though she hadn't meant to, tuned out her young friend. Her eyes flickered to the entrance when the bell chimed, but unlike usual, she didn't look away.

She could never remember his name. No matter how many times she scribbled his name on the to-go cup, it always slipped her mind.

She did remember his strange appearances. There was no method to his mad visits. Sometimes he visited every morning. Sometimes he wouldn't visit for days on end, then turn up at an odd hour, just before close and order for six or seven people.

A snap of Nora's fingers in front of her eyes brought her back. She glanced at the register, then went to work on making the order.

"Where do you even go when you zone out?" wondered Nora as she gathered change for the customer.

"Didn't you see who walked in?" whispered Sydney. She slipped between the girls, carefully placing used cups into the sink. Subtly, she nodded to the end of the line.

Nora handed Eleanor a brown mug to pour into. "I don't see why you can't just talk to him," she said.

"Talk to who? I don't know what you're talking about," said Eleanor flatly.

Nora swept the filled mug from Eleanor's hands. Squinting her eyes suspiciously, she scooted past the swinging door at the end of the counter, delivering her customer's order to where he sat on one of the couches.

"She's right, you know," said Sydney. "All you have to do is talk."

Eleanor resumed her duties at the cash register. "Easy said than done," she mumbled, then preceded to take care of the next three customers.

At the end of the third customer, just before the man, Eleanor asked the girls to take over while she went to the bathroom. She hadn't finished her sentence when they stumbled from behind the counter together, purposely leaving her alone.

Eleanor inhaled a brave sigh, then took a seat at the stool again. Staring at the brown strap across his chest, instead of his eyes, she asked, "The usual?"

"Yeah, that's perfect. Oh, uh, for here is fine. I've got time today," he said, wetting his lips absentmindedly.

Eleanor mumbled his total. He slipped the money into her open palm. She placed in the cash register. As she went to make his order, she heard the reoccurring clink of his change fall into the tip jar.

Sydney and Nora came rushing back, whispering excitedly, desperate to hear if anything 'magical' happened.

"I took his order, then he sat down."

"You're going to take it to him, though, right?" asked Nora excitedly.

"That is our policy, yes," said Eleanor, pouring the mixing into a mug. Her hands started to shake.

"All you have to do is ask his name," encouraged Sydney.

"I believe in you," said Nora passionately.

"That does absolutely nothing for me," breathed Eleanor nervously.

Clutching the steaming mug in her hands, Eleanor took slow and careful steps to his table in the back corner.

Kermit beat her there. His head was on the man's lap, and he was emitting a deep whine. When Eleanor approached, Kermit looked up at her hopefully.

"He doesn't bite," she explained, placing his cup next to his opened book, "if that's why you won't pet him."

"Dogs tend to despise me," he admitted.

Eleanor offered a polite smile. Awkwardly, she curtsied, sent a thumbs-up, then felt incredibly embarrassed and tried to hurry from the situation.

He, however, wasn't finished. "And what's the name?" he said hurriedly, trying to keep the conversation going.

"Kermit."

He chuckled. "I meant yours."

"Oh. I'm Eleanor. It's nice to meet you."

"Eleanor," he pronounced quietly. "Eleanor, you're scared of me. I'm curious to know why."

She met his amused brown eyes at last. Frazzled, she rambled, "I'm not scared. Where did you get that from? Are you a psychic?"

"I am not a psychic," he laughed.

"I suppose that makes sense. You didn't even touch my palm."

"Actually, techniques like palm reading don't have to be performed by a psychic. People offering such a service are usually just using ancient knowledge and methodologies to interpret a result."

Eleanor raised her brow. "Wow. You learn something new every day."

"Hopefully, for me, that's your name?" he asked hopefully. His brow raised, surprised by what came from his mouth. He frowned. "Nope. I know your name. It's Eleanor. I'm sorry, I'm a little nervous."

"Why would you be nervous?" she asked, tilting her head.

"It's not everyday a pretty girl brings you coffee on your birthday."

Eleanor blushed. "It is almost everyday that girl serves you, however."

"And yet you were scared to talk to me," he reminded her, sharing a smile. "I've always meant to tell you I'm a fan."

"Of my coffee?" she wondered.

"Of course, but this time, I'm actually referring to your socks. I look forward to seeing what strange socks you wear when I visit. I think my favorite pair was the kittens in little gift boxes."

"I've been told those are a hit, yeah," said Eleanor, shuffling her shoeless feet nervously across the hardwood floor. Her head shot up. "Oh! You said it was your birthday. I'm sorry, I missed that. Happy birthday. How old are you?"

"Thirty," he winced.

"Twenty eight," she answered, nodding sympathetically. "How does it feel?"

"Old."

Eleanor giggled. She looked to the counter, where her girls ducked under the sweets display case. She excused herself from the conversation for a minute.

His focus was intently focused on the book in his hands that he barely noticed her return. He did notice the cupcake she placed beside his coffee mug.

"Eleanor, there's no need, really," he smiled.

"No, it's fine. It's free of charge. Take it as a thanks for coming here a lot," she offered.

"Thank you, Eleanor."

"You're very welcome, Mr.," she stopped, looking to him to finish her sentence.

"Doctor, actually. Dr. Spencer Reid," he said. If she looked surprised, he missed it, due to a text message he had to check. His shoulders fell.

"Duty calls?" wondered Eleanor.

"I'm afraid it does."

"I'll see you soon, I suppose."

Spencer paused gathering his belongings to meet her eyes. "It's a date."

Eleanor watched him leave. She was oblivious to the half cupcake he left for her, nor the fact that her trembling hands had stopped.