Grath stands there. Still damp in places. Shirt clinging. Hair pushed back from his face. He's cleaned the beer explosion.Reorganized the prep station. Even washed the dishes I'd abandoned earlier.
"You didn't have to do all that."
"Wanted to help."
I step inside. The door swings shut behind me. Suddenly the space feels smaller. Warmer. The overhead light casts harsh shadows across his face. Makes his eyes darker.
"So." My voice comes out too bright. Too sharp. "We should talk. Like you said. About. Whatever this is."
Smooth, Maris. Very articulate.
He watches me. That steady, patient gaze. "You're nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"Your hands."
I look down. I'm twisting the dish towel into knots. I drop it. Force my fingers to still.
"Okay. Maybe a little nervous."
"Why?"
Because this is insane. Because I don't do this. Don't fall for people in days instead of months. Don't let strange orc men into my café and my life and the space behind my carefully constructed walls.
Because you scare me.
I don't say any of that.
"I don't know what this is. What you want. What I want." The words tumble out. Clumsy. "You're. I mean. We barely know each other. This whole thing is ridiculous. The timing's terrible. The circumstances are worse. And yet."
"And yet." He takes a step closer. Just one. Testing. "You feel it too."
Not a question. A statement.
I could lie. Deflect. Make a joke and dodge the truth like I always do.
Instead I lock with his eyes. "Yeah. I feel it too."
The air shifts. Charges. Like static before lightning.
"What do we do about it?" His voice drops lower. Rough.
"I don't know."
"Yes you do."
He's close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. Close enough that I can smell him. Salt and metal and something earthier underneath. Close enough that the heat radiating off his skin makes my pulse skip.
"This is a bad idea." The words taste like ash on my tongue. Like warning. Like prophecy I'm too far gone to heed.
"Probably." His voice is gravel and smoke. Agreement that sounds nothing like surrender.
My fingers curl tighter in his shirt. The fabric bunches beneath my knuckles, rough cotton holding me to this moment, this madness. "Terrible timing."
"Yeah." The single syllable rumbles through his chest into mine. He doesn't pull away. Doesn't stop the slow drag of his thumb across my cheekbone, tracing the arch of bone like he's memorizing the geography of my face.
Heat pools low in my belly. Spreads outward like spilled wine. Like blood in water.
