The café's dark when I arrive but the side door's unlocked. I push through into the back hallway. Warm air wraps around me, smelling like coffee grounds and sugar.
Maris appears from the storeroom. She's in pajamas. Flannel pants and an oversized t-shirt with a faded cat print. Hair down. No bun.
I freeze.
"Let me see." She reaches for my hand.
I pull back. "It's nothing."
"Let me see." Firmer now.
I surrender my hand. She takes it gently, turns it palm-up. Her fingers are warm. Careful. She picks out three glass slivers I missed, dropping them in the trash.
"What happened?"
"Vance sent people. Broke my windows."
Her jaw tightens. "Did you call the police?"
"Won't help."
"Grath—"
"They'll say it's vandalism. File a report. Nothing changes." I pull my hand back. "I've seen how this works."
She's quiet for a moment. Then she turns and heads deeper into the storeroom.
"Come on."
I follow.
The storeroom's bigger than I expected. Shelves line the walls, stacked with supplies. Flour sacks. Coffee beans. Extra chairs. In the back corner there's a cleared space with a camping cot, a pillow, and blankets folded neatly on top.
"You're staying here tonight," Maris says. No room for argument.
"Can't."
"You can. You will." She crosses her arms. "Those guys know where you live. They'll come back. And next time it won't be bricks through windows."
"I can handle it."
"I know you can." Her voice softens. "But you don't have to. Not tonight."
The words hit sideways. Land somewhere under my ribs.
"Besides," she continues, tone shifting to something lighter, more practical, "you're viral. The orc who saves kittens and stands up to developers. If something happens to you, my café loses its best PR."
I huff. Almost a laugh. "That's why you're helping? PR?"
"Obviously." But her eyes give her away. Too soft. Too concerned.
I look at the cot. At her. Back at the cot.
"One night," I say.
"One night." She nods. "Or however long it takes for your landlord to fix the windows."
Which could be days. Weeks, knowing him.
