His hand covers my mouth. Gentle. Silencing the gasp that wants to escape.
Footsteps move through the kitchen. Clipboard clicking. Pen scratching. The inspector mutters to himself. Something about grease traps and ventilation.
I hold my breath. Count the seconds. One. Two. Three.
The footsteps fade. Move toward the main room.
We wait. Frozen. Until we hear the front door chime. The lock click.
Silence.
Grath's hand drops from my mouth. Neither of us moves. The absurdity hits all at once. Standing in the walk-in cooler. Half-dressed. Post-sex and terrified of building code violations.
I start to laugh. Quiet at first. Then harder. Until tears stream down my face.
He joins in. That deep rumble that shakes his whole frame. That makes me laugh harder.
"This is insane." I wipe my eyes. "We're insane."
"Yeah."
We stumble out of the cooler. The kitchen air feels tropical after the chill. I finish buttoning my shirt. Find my jeans crumpled behind the industrial mixer.
Reality crashes back. What we just did. Where we did it. The inspector who almost caught us.
"I should go." Grath reaches for his shirt. Won't meet my eyes.
"Yeah. Probably smart."
The silence stretches. Different from before. Heavier. Weighted with things unsaid.
"Maris."
"Don't." I hold up a hand. "Not right now. I can't. Process this right now."
He nods. Slow. Understanding.
"Tomorrow. Breakfast. We'll talk properly."
"Okay."
He leaves through the back. The door clicks shut behind him. Leaving me alone with the mess we made. The scattered clothes. The evidence of our recklessness.
I lock up. Clean. Try not to think about his hands. His mouth. The way he said my name.
Try. Fail spectacularly.
Morning comes too fast.
I drag myself downstairs at six together with Pebble. The café needs prep. Pastries need baking. Coffee needs brewing. Normal things. Routine things. Things that don't involve earth-shattering sex on food preparation surfaces.
Grath's already there.
Sitting at the corner table. Two coffees steaming in front of him. Pastry bag from the bakery down the street. Looking uncertain. Vulnerable in a way that makes me tight.
"You're early."
"Couldn't sleep."
