I don't argue.
She shows me where the bathroom is. Brings me a towel. Points out the first aid kit.
"There's leftover quiche in the fridge if you're hungry," she says. "And coffee. Obviously."
"Thanks."
She lingers. Barefoot. Hair falling over one shoulder. Looking smaller without the armor of her apron and professional demeanor.
"I meant what I said," I tell her. "At the meeting. It's my home. I'm not leaving."
"I know." She smiles. Small but real. "That was brave. Stupid, but brave."
"Same thing sometimes."
"Yeah." She pushes off the doorframe. "Goodnight again, Grath."
"Goodnight."
She disappears down the hall. A door closes. Locks click.
I'm alone in the storeroom.
I sit on the cot. It creaks. Too small, like everything else, but sturdy. The blankets smell like lavender. Like her.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling.
For the first time since the meeting, my chest doesn't feel tight.
CHAPTER 3
MARIS
Iwake up to the sound of a freight train.
Except it's not a freight train. It's Grath. Snoring.
I lie in my bed upstairs and stare at the ceiling, listening to the rumble vibrate through the floorboards. It's rhythmic. Deep. Like distant thunder that never quite ends.
The clock reads 5:47 AM.
I should get up anyway. Café opens at seven. Prep takes time.
I drag myself out of bed, pull on yesterday's jeans and a clean sweatshirt, and pad downstairs in socks.
The storeroom door's half-open. I peek inside.
Grath's sprawled on the cot, one arm flung over his face, the other dangling off the side. The blankets have migrated to the floor. His feet hang off the end by a solid six inches. The whole setup looks like a children's toy forced to hold an adult.
And there, nestled against his ribs like a small storm cloud that's found harbor, is the kitten.
Tiny. Gray. Curled into a perfect ball of absolute trust.
Rising and falling with each of Grath's breaths, riding the steady rhythm like a boat on gentle swells.
The sight hits me somewhere behind my sternum—something warm and uncomfortable and entirely too softfor this early in the morning. My chest does something inconvenient. Something that has no place in a practical Tuesday morning routine. I stand there, clutching the doorframe, watching an escaped arena fighter and a feral kitten sleep like they've known each other for years instead of hours.
The kitten's paws twitch. Dreaming, probably. Grath's breathing doesn't change. One massive hand rests near the kitten, fingers slightly curled, protective even in sleep.
