She offers him a napkin, and watches him clean his hands, the table, the cup that is now coffee-stained at its side. More keenly does she watch the rising flush in his cheeks, though she wonders at it, too – he is so handsome it almost pains her, he is well-spoken and clever, he is a poet and he has a gentle, kind air about him. Surely to be asked on dates is a thing that must be second nature to him, as average a part of his day as brushing his hair or cleaning his teeth.

Still, that boyish blush is strangely nice to see, and gods, she must be in some deeper trouble here. Perhaps this is the right course of action, then: to ask him out, and to see if he might join her for a cup of coffee at her place after, and then they might unceremoniously fuck on her kitchen counter, and she will have it out of her system by the next morning.

The next week, tops.

Yeah, because getting him out of her system has worked really well so far.

There's a good hint at how far gone she is when her own smile turns more honest in answer to his. "There is a nice place down by the river. It's not far from here at all, less than fifteen minutes by foot." So, assuming he doesn't live terribly far from the café... "Could I trouble you for your number?"