I head back to the counter. Gumbo's finishing his scone, Nora's restocking napkins, and the espresso machine's wheezing again. Everything's exactly the way it was ten minutes ago.
Except now there's a kitten in the back room, and my apron's covered in black fur, and I'm smiling for no reason I can defend.
The bell jingles.
I look up, ready to take the next order, and my day keeps moving.
The lunch crowd trickles in around noon. I'm elbow-deep in dish soap when the bell chimes again, and I don't look up immediately because my hands are slick and the sponge keeps sliding out of my grip.
"Be right there!"
No response. Just the shuffle of heavy footsteps and a sound like wood scraping concrete.
I rinse my hands and turn.
The man, no, not a man, an orc, fills the doorway. Not figuratively. Literally. His shoulders brush both sides of the frame, and he has to duck to clear the top. Mossy green-gray skin, broad chest straining against a faded work shirt, and hands the size of dinner plates. Mud streaks his forearms and clings to his boots in thick clumps.
He's holding a crate. Scratched wood, rope handle, the kind you'd use to haul fish or tools. It's got claw marks gouged into the side.
Our eyes meet.
My lungs forget how to work.
It's not fear. I've seen orcs before. The bakery supply guy is an orc. Mrs. Pemberton's landscaper is an orc. This isn't about species. This is about the way he's looking at me, like I'm the only solid thing in a room full of smoke. His eyes are dark amber, flecked with gold, and they lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my ribs feel too tight.
He smells like sea salt. Like metal and rain and something earthy I can't name. It cuts through the coffee and cinnamon, sharp and clean, and I inhale without meaning to.
"Hi." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He blinks. Shifts his weight. The floorboards creak. "You take strays."
"Cats, yeah."
"Found one." He lifts the crate slightly. "Thought you might want her."
I cross the cafe, weaving past tables. Gumbo watches over the rim of his mug. Nora's frozen mid-sweep, mouth slightly open. Big Pete's pretending not to stare, but his phone's angled just enough to catch a view of the door.
I stop a few feet away. The orc is taller up close. I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze, and the motion makes my pulse skip.
"What's wrong with her?" I nod toward the crate.
"Nothing. She's scared."
"They usually are."
He sets the crate down gently, like it's made of glass. His hands are scarred, knuckles rough, nails blunt and clean. When he straightens, he doesn't step back. He stays close. Too close. Close enough that I can see the faint white line bisecting his left eyebrow, the uneven edge of a tusk poking past his lower lip.
"Your hands," he says.
I glance down. My hands are small, perpetually dusted with flour or streaked with espresso. Nothing special. "What about them?"
"They fix things." He says it simply, like it's an observable fact. "I like that."
Heat crawls up my neck. I shove it down and crouch beside the crate. Inside, a tabby kitten huddles in the corner, ears flat. She's bigger than Urchin but just as wary. Her tail flicks once, twice.
"Hey, sweetie." I keep my voice low. "You're okay."
The orc crouches beside me. The motion is surprisingly fluid for someone his size. He doesn't crowd the crate, just rests one hand on the edge, fingers splayed.
