"Hungry?"
"Always."
I plate two scones, add butter, slide one across the counter to him.
He takes a bite. Closes his eyes. Makes a low sound that should not be legal before seven AM.
"Good?"
He swallows, opens his eyes. There's a smear of butter at the corner of his mouth that he doesn't seem to notice. "Best thing I've eaten in weeks," he says. Not flattery, just observation, delivered in that same matter-of-fact way he says everything.
I reach for my own scone, break off a corner. Still warm. "You need to eat better."
"Can't afford better."
The words land flat. No drama, no self-pity dragging at the edges, no attempt to soften the admission or dress it up as something else. Just plain fact, spoken like he's commenting on the weather. Like this is simply how things are.
I pause mid-bite. Think about Vance and his goons and the brick-sized fists that came through my windows. Think about Grath stepping between me and violence without hesitation, without asking for anything in return. Think about the worn state of his clothes, the way he mentioned sleeping rough before the apartment upstairs, the careful way he approached that first meal I offered like he wasn't sure it was really meant for him.
I set down my scone. Brush flour from my fingers onto my apron, leaving white streaks across the denim.
"Well," I say, and my voice comes out firmer than I expect, "you're staying here for now. So you eat what I make. Got it? Breakfast, lunch, dinner if you're around. But you don't skip meals under my roof."
He goes very still. Just looks at me across the counter, and something shifts behind those dark eyes. Something careful and startled and maybe grateful, though he doesn't say it.
A long moment passes. Pebble chirps, paws at his wrist.
"Got it," he says finally. Quiet. Solid.
We eat in silence. It's not uncomfortable. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that happens when words aren't necessary.
Pebble investigates the butter dish. I relocate it before disaster strikes.
"You need help today?" Grath asks.
"With what?"
"Café things. Deliveries. Heavy lifting." He gestures vaguely. "I'm not good at sitting still."
I consider. Tuesday's delivery day. Flour. Sugar. Milk. All the bulk items that make my back ache.
"Actually," I say, "yeah. Truck comes at nine. If you're serious."
"Serious."
"Okay." I rinse my plate. "But first, you're learning how to make coffee."
He blinks. "Why?"
"Because if you're going to lurk around my café, you're going to be useful."
"I don't lurk."
"You absolutely lurk."
He doesn't argue.
At 8:15,I stand Grath in front of the espresso machine.
