Author's Note: This story began as a part of @averymerryspnxmas' 2016 Christmas challenge on Tumblr. There is one prompt for every day of December.
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Robin
Denny looks at the slice of blackberry rhubarb pie in front of him. "Are you sure?" he asks playfully.
I raise my eyebrows. "Do you remember the day we met?" His face lights up as I lean over the counter to kiss the tip of his nose.
"You know I do," he answers, grinning mischievously.
I turn as the bell over the door chimes, alerting me to a new customer. For a moment, I can't speak. The man who just walked in is tall and extraordinarily handsome, but what's really striking is that he looks happier than anyone I've ever seen. When he notices me, his face blossoms into a sweet smile.
"Are you closing up?" He rubs his neck bashfully with a large hand. "I don't want to be a bother." He's so sincere that I can't help but give him a big smile of my own.
"I was just about to lock up, but I have time for one more person." I flip my sign around to the closed side before fishing my keys out of my skirt pocket.
"You sure?" His smile falters for a moment, but quickly reappears as I nod.
"Positive. What'll you have?" I slip behind the counter, leaning against it and waiting for him. He sheds his heavy black peacoat after shoving his hat, gloves, and scarf into the deep pockets; underneath, he's wearing an olive green t-shirt over a white long-sleeved shirt. The color of the t-shirt makes his hazel eyes look lighter. I watch him as he walks, noticing that he's long all over. Long legs, long arms, long fingers. He tousles the back of his messy brown hair as he sits down in front of me, laying his jacket on the stool next to him.
"That picture in the window looks amazing," he says. "That's why I stopped."
"One Valentine's Day special, coming right up." He tilts his head curiously as I set a plate in front of him and place the bottom of a shortcake biscuit in the center of it.
"Is it really Valentine's Day?" he wonders, and I laugh a little as I pile fresh strawberries on the biscuit.
"That must mean you don't have a date," I tease, though I find that extremely hard to believe. I continue building his dessert as he blushes and shrugs.
"Women aren't really into a sick guy," he admits shyly. I place the second half of the biscuit on the strawberries and put a big dollop of whipped cream on top of everything, handing him a fork. He leans down to breathe in the smell of the dessert appreciatively, and then his eyes flick up to mine. "What is that?" He's suddenly wary.
"Balsamic vinegar and black pepper." He squints at me skeptically; I pull myself up onto the stool on my side of the counter so I can sit with him while he eats. "Just trust me. I made it, and I don't make bad things."
He digs in, taking a big bite. I'm pleased when I see his reaction to the food. "Oh, wow," he sighs contentedly after he swallows, "that's good."
"Told you," I gloat nonchalantly as he takes another bite. "You don't look sick," I observe quietly.
He dips his head, blushing again, that satisfied smile still plastered all over his face. "I'm not anymore," he reveals, glancing up at me. "Can I show you something?"
"Okay." I watch as he lifts his hand, pulling the collars of his shirts down enough to expose dark curls of hair and a large scar that extends down the center of his chest. My eyes widen and my hand shakes a little against the counter. He reaches out and grabs it with his own.
"I'm fine," he assures me gently. "I had a heart transplant seven months ago. They gave me a clean bill of health today." He looks down at his plate. "It's been years since I had dessert." He lets go of his shirts and dips his finger into the whipped cream, sucking it off of the tip. My eyes are drawn to his lips. "The black pepper is in the whipped cream?"
"That's right," I reply softly, gripping his hand in mine. "Your hand is very warm." I'm surprised when the comment makes his infectious smile return.
"I haven't had warm hands in years either," he divulges, rubbing my fingers between his. He bites his lip and picks his fork back up, but he doesn't let go of my hand. After a moment, he adds, "I'm Denny. Denny Duquette."
"Well, hello, Denny Duquette," I greet him, my voice a little breathy. "I'm Robin Ballard."
"Robin," he repeats. His smile somehow manages to get broader. "I like that name." It's my turn to blush; I've always hated my name. "Do you want my last bite?" he offers, holding the fork out to me.
My natural instinct is to tell him that it's his, but he looks so earnest that I lean forward instead, letting him put the fork in my mouth. He slowly drags it out until it's clean and sets it aside.
I wipe a tiny bit of whipped cream from the corner of my mouth. "Damn." I wink at him. "I am good at my job."
He laughs. "You are. I'm glad I came in." He pauses, clearly reluctant, then finally lets go of my hand and pulls his wallet out. "What do I owe you?"
"On the house, Denny Duquette," I refuse lightly. "In celebration of your warm hands." He blushes again, and looks like he's about to protest, so I firmly shake my head. "I insist."
"Thank you." He gazes at me longingly. "I should get out of your hair, I suppose. It was very nice to meet you, Robin." He glances at the door. "Will it lock behind me?"
"I'll get it." I jump down from the stool to follow him to the entrance as he slips his winterwear back on. As I fiddle with my keys, I realize that we're standing very close to each other. We're not quite touching, but if either of us moved...
Impulsively, I stretch up on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek gently. "It was very nice to meet you too, Denny."
He flashes me that brilliant smile one more time, and then he's gone.
I thought about him for the rest of that night. It was only when I counted the money in the tip jar that I realized he'd shoved a fifty in there while I was distracted.
I didn't know if I'd see him again, but he came back every night for two weeks. He always arrived five minutes before I closed. He'd check for customers, flip the sign, and wait for me to lock the door. Then he'd follow me back to the counter, sit down, order the special, and we'd talk until he fed me the last bite.
Each night, he ate slower and slower. Each night, our conversations got deeper and more personal. When he showed up with flowers on March 2, I thought he had figured out when my birthday was. When he told me he hadn't known and that the flowers were to give me before he asked me out on a date, my heart had skipped a beat.
Now it's December 1, and we've just moved in together. I've never been happier in my life, and, as he frequently reminds me, neither has Denny.
"So trust me," I admonish lightly. He rolls his eyes dramatically and cuts off a piece of the pie, sticking his fork into his mouth. "There's that look again," I chastise him. "I'm right. You're wrong. You should know that by now." I wink and he laughs.
"Shush and let me finish my pie, woman," he scolds.
I come around the counter to sit next to him, waiting patiently until he feeds me the last bite and then pulls me in for a kiss.
