Disclaimer: I don't own Daughters of the Moon.
Notes: References to the Tales of Beedle the Bard by J.K. Rowling, Salma Hayek in Dogma, the television show Scrubs, and the film Waitress. If you know any, see if you can catch 'em?

I got tired of waiting,
Wondering if you were ever comin'.
My faith in you was fading.

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I hugged the crumpled clothes to my chest, the pale blue waitress costume. The fabric smelt of cloves cigarettes and alcohol. I savored it, tasting it on my tongue, remembering the warmth of his lips. Two coffee brown eyes lingered in my mind, how they glittered and hardened, lustful yet so affectionate. I shuddered, the night's previous cold touching my heart and melting the frost in the same fashion he'd done.

Quite shakily, I haphazardly tossed into the hamper, though faltering. I was in my underwear, lace and damp, same as my flesh; I loved how the creamy dark brown of his skin smoothed so magnetically against my own milky white flesh.

He tasted like honey, like sweets and sugars that my teeth would have normally objected to. I tasted Paris, the City of Love, and Arabian spices, whatever those were. He intertwined our fingers, his hand was larger than mine, as a man's should be. I giggled at his accent, at how he pronounced words, at the subtle movement of his lips — I never giggle.

'Why'd you make a move so suddenly?' I had whispered into the crook of his neck, tasting the exotic flavors, the moist skin.

He'd cupped my cheek and stroked the smooth skin with his thumb.

'I got tired of waiting.'

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Fourteen Hours Earlier

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Hanging out with coworkers, how ideal. Frankly, I'd rather drench myself in salt, crawl through barbwire and into a pool of Windex and lemon juice. But I suppose like a star-crossed adolescent girl—which I was, damn—I couldn't deny the chance of being in the presence of my love interest. Who would have guessed that my perfect little story of love would have marked its spot in Joe's Pie Diner (owned by Joe Bob, the guy from Nebraska with two first names)?

I chewed on my fingernails, a pool of blood in my cheeks as I gazed, through thick eyelashes, at the exotic young man perched at the bar. It seemed the girls and boys split; the girls gossiping at the table I now found myself at, and the boys on the verge of playing Beer Pong—juvenile.

But I wanted to join. And I did.

'Hey boys,' I greeted, seating myself directly between Greg and Daniel, two manchildren with nothing but pompous and misogynistic remarks up their sleeves. I was promptly commanded to 'tie my hair in two ponytails and dance on the pool tables,' whilst New Edition's 'Candy Girl' played through little room.

'She's a babe.'

'I'm right here.'

'Don't get sassy,' Greg commented, nudging my side. Some cook he was; he spat in the food, seldom wore gloves, and often shook his lint-infested hair right over the plates of meat and potatoes. And even the pie!

'Cassandra, you're a girl. What should I get my wife for Valentine's Day?' Daniel cocked his head ever so slightly, lips in a crooked smile. Of the duo, he was more exclusive toward my company, although I occasionally caught his objectifying comments about womankind.

I rolled my shoulders into a shrug. 'Hell, if I know! I'm nineteen.'

Greg blinked at me incredulously. 'How'd you get into this bar?'

A smile graced my face. 'I know the people who work here.' Yeah, as a Follower, I may have even slept with them — Ricky Joel, the bartender who continued to leer at me, and Patrick Garcia, the owner who was currently squeezing some poor girl's hips while attempting to foxtrot.

'I'm hot,' I answered simply, to which he snorted and chugged his pint of beer. I twirled my maroon-dyed hair between my fingers, glancing at Zahi once more. He was two seats down from Greg, a shot of vodka in his grasp. It was his favorite, and yet I had initially predicted a fancier, more intricate drink. I blushed at the appletini in my hands, a girly drink for the girly girl. At least I wasn't a "man" like Mr. Hot Shot to my right — Daniel switched from hard liquor to a fruity little alcoholic beverage more devastating than my appletini.

I titled my head, a smile on my face. Zahi fiddled with his glass, but somehow, in his own little dream world, something amusing occurred. He grinned; perfect teeth, perfect smile. I bit the inside of my cheek.

And so suddenly he turned to me, I blanched and jerked in my seat, nearly toppling over in the process. As the blood continued flooding my cheeks, he motioned me to him with his fingers and… I obliged.

I shouldn't have.

The girls sneered and gossiped—they desired him just as badly—and the guys sniggered under their breaths as I perched beside Zahi. Ricky Joel handed me another appletini, grinning and leering at my cleavage.

'I was wondering if you were ever comin' around.' He playfully brushed his hand against mine. I died right then and there. Sure, we'd flirted a bit—the girl in the provocative waitress outfit and the boy who cleaned dishes. Glances and comments, favors and compliments. He called me 'pretty' often, and seemed captivated by my smile. But… I'm confused.

'I'm surprised you made a move,' I murmured, my honesty a bit too forward for my liking. 'My faith in you was fading.'

'That's okay. It's Valentine's Day. I couldn't wait any longer.'

I twiddled my fingers. 'I'm a cold and mean girl. I'd fool you. Do you really want this?' I leaned closer, blinking so innocently that I know I turned him on. Maybe. He just gave me his charming smile.

'You don't have a hairy heart, Cassandra. You're nicer than you'd like to admit.'

'Hairy heart—?'

'And I suppose you'd want to leave this place. It's rather dull.'

'Then why'd you come?'

'Because you came.'

I remembered every scent, every taste, every sound. The jingling of keys — we were sober, thankfully. It was the anticipation that captured my soul that moment. He'd smoked some cigarettes… Cloves. But he smelt like apples. I suppose I wasn't exactly myself. But this form, this manifestation of affection had never been delivered to me in so many beautiful ways. I wanted to bathe in it, to drink it, to love it eternally.

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I woke up. He wasn't there. An imprint sunk into the mattress, but no body; no dark flesh, no charming accent that swathed my spirit in luxury. My stomach dropped and I wanted to vomit. I'd only managed to rub my eyelids and slowly swallow the sorrow in my throat when the door creaked open… The delicious smell of breakfast.

'I'm sorry. You look frightened—'

I was out of that bed and across the room in a second simply to press my lips against his; to embrace him. All those stolen moments in Joe's Pie Diner, the little hugs and playful jokes — how he called my dancing 'cute.' It was well worth it.

Because if you can melt the Ice Queen's heart, you deserve her warm and beating heart as a reward.

You deserve it whole-heartedly.