"Storeroom. Back left corner, on the bottom shelf." I tap my pen against the board. Professional. Detached. Definitely not noticing the way his forearms flex when he shifts his grip.
He disappears through the narrow doorway, has to duck, turn slightly sideways—and I hear the soft thud of sacks being stacked. Returns thirty seconds later, empty-handed and ready.
"More?"
I point to the sugar. The rice. The industrial-sized cans of tomatoes I use for the daily soup special. "All of it. And be careful with the tomatoes, if those cans dent, they leak."
He nods once, already loading up. Sacks under each arm. Cans balanced against his chest. He moves with the kind of efficiency that speaks to years of hard labor, the kind where you learn to conserve energy and motion because wasting either could mean the difference between surviving a shift and collapsing halfway through.
He hauls it all in two trips. Not three. Not four. Two.
The delivery driver watches from the doorway, coffee in hand, genuinely impressed.
"You hiring?" he asks me, nodding toward Grath's retreating back.
"He's temporary," I say, maybe a little too quickly.
The driver grins. "Shame. Guy like that'd be worth his weight."
Grath reappears, pausing. His gaze flicks between us, curious but not suspicious. "What else?"
I consult the clipboard, running my finger down the list. "Milk. Heavy cream. Oat milk. Almond milk. All the refrigerated stuff. It's in the cooler boxes by the truck."
He nods and heads outside.
I watch him go. Can't help it.
The driver catches my expression and grins wider. I ignore him. Focus on checking off items with aggressive precision.
By 9:45, everything's inside, sorted, and organized exactly the way I like it. Dairy in the walk-in. Dry goods stacked by type and date. Cans arranged label-out, oldest in front. The delivery driver leaves with a friendly wave and a knowing smirk I choose to pretend I didn't see.
Grath's leaning against the counter when I finish the invoice, not even winded. There's a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, but his breathing's perfectly steady. He could probably do the whole thing again without breaking a sweat.
"Useful enough?" he asks. There's a challenge in his tone. Playful, almost.
"Tolerable," I say, signing my name with a flourish.
He grins. An actual grin. Teeth and all. The mismatched ones that should look awkward but somehow just make him look more real. More him.
It does something deeply annoying to my pulse. A skip. A flutter. The kind of reaction I haven't had since high school, and even then it was never this immediate, this visceral.
I look away quickly. Focus on the clipboard like it's the most fascinating document ever produced. Study the itemized list like I'm going to be quizzed on it later.
"You want payment?" I ask, still not looking at him.
"No."
"Grath—"
"I'm staying in your storeroom. Eating your food." His voice is firm. Decided. "Least I can do is carry heavy things."
"That's not?—"
"Fair?" He crosses his arms, and I can hear the fabric of his shirt pull tight across his shoulders. "It is. Don't argue."
I want to. I want to tell him that labor has value, that just because he's crashing here doesn't mean he owes me manualwork, that I'm not the kind of person who extracts unpaid service from people in vulnerable positions.
But he's got that look. The stubborn one. Jaw set. Eyes steady. The look that says he's already made up his mind and I'd have better luck moving a boulder with a teaspoon than changing it.
