"Fine," I say, finally meeting his gaze. "But you're still learning latte art."
His brow furrows. "What's latte art?"
I smile. A real one this time, not the half-hearted thing I've been managing all morning. "You'll see."
By noon,the café's full. Regulars cluster at their usual tables. Cats roam. Pebble's claimed a sunny spot on the windowsill and refuses to move.
Grath's wiping down tables. He's too big for the space, keeps bumping into chairs, but he's careful. Deliberate.
Mrs. Abernathy waves him over with the imperious gesture of someone who's been issuing summons from café corners for forty years.
"You're the one from the video," she says, not a question. Never a question with Mrs. Abernathy.
He nods, cloth still in hand, looking like he's bracing for impact.
"Good for you. Standing up at that meeting." She pats his arm—has to reach up to do it, her wrinkled hand barely spanning half his forearm. "We need more people like you. People willing to speak plain truth instead of dancing around it with politics and nonsense."
His ears go red. The tips first, then the flush creeps down toward his jaw. "Just said what's true."
"Still. Brave." She says it like she's conferring a medal. "Especially with that lot staring daggers at you."
He ducks his head, mumbles something that might be gratitude or deflection, and retreats to the kitchen like a man who's just survived enemy fire.
I'm pulling shots, double espresso for Gumbo, oat milk latte for the student in the corner, when Grath appears beside me. He moves quietly for someone his size, but I've started to notice the tells. The shift in air. The faint creak of floorboards.
"People keep talking to me," he says, voice low and faintly bewildered.
"That's what people do." I tamp down the grounds, lock the portafilter into place. "Especially when you go viral defending their neighborhood."
"I don't like it."
"You don't have to like it. Just smile and nod." Steam hisses as I froth milk, the sound filling the brief silence.
"I don't smile."
"You smiled this morning." I glance at him sidelong, catch the way his expression shifts, caught, cornered.
His ears go redder. Impressively red. "That was different."
"How?"
He doesn't answer. Just picks up a rag and starts wiping down Beatrice with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for defusing bombs. Every valve, every dial, given meticulous attention he absolutely does not need to give.
I hide my smile behind the rim of a cup, pretending to check the crema.
The door chimes. Bright. Cheerful. Utterly at odds with the way my stomach suddenly clenches.
I glance up.
Two men. Suits, the expensive kind, tailored, probably cost more than my monthly rent. Slicked-back hair. Shoes so shinyI can see the window reflection in them from here. The kind of polished that screams money and trouble, the kind that walks into small businesses and makes threats sound like friendly advice.
One of them spots Grath immediately. His gaze sharpens. Calculates.
"Well," he says, voice pitched loud enough to carry, loud enough for every customer in the café to hear. Performative. Deliberate. "If it isn't the local hero."
Grath goes still. Utterly, completely still. The rag in his hand stops mid-wipe. His shoulders lock.
The man steps closer, weaving between tables with the ease of someone who's used to crowds parting for him. His companion hangs back near the door—blocking it, I realize. Insurance.
