"She was under my porch," he says. "Heard her crying this morning."
"You live nearby?"
"Next block. Blue rowhouse."
I know the house. Peeling paint, overgrown yard, a porch that sags on one side. I didn't know anyone lived there.
The kitten sniffs his finger. He holds perfectly still, breathing slow and even. She bumps her head against his knuckle, and his face softens into something that might be a smile.
My chest does something stupid. A flutter. A pull. I blame the espresso I drank too fast earlier.
"She likes you," I manage.
"She's smart."
"Modest, too."
He glances at me, and the corner of his mouth twitches. It's not quite a grin, but it's close. "I don't lie."
"Good policy."
We stay crouched there, side by side, while the kitten explores his hand. His shoulder brushes mine. Just barely. The contact sends a jolt through me that has no business existing.
I pull back and stand. "I can take her. Give me a second to grab a carrier."
He nods and rises with me. Doesn't move away from the crate. Just stands there, solid and patient, while I head to the storage closet and rummage for a spare carrier. My hands shake. I clench them into fists and force them steady.
When I return, the orc is still crouched by the crate. The kitten's ventured closer, sniffing his sleeve. Nora hovers nearby, broom forgotten, eyes wide. Gumbo's leaning forward in his chair like he's watching a play.
I set the carrier down and open the door. "Want to do the honors?"
The orc scoops the kitten up in one hand. She fits in his palm, tiny against all that rough skin and muscle. He lowers her into the carrier with the kind of care you'd use handling spun sugar.
"There." His voice is softer now. Almost a murmur. "Safe now."
The kitten curls into a ball and starts to purr.
I close the carrier door and straighten. "Thanks for bringing her."
"You'll keep her?"
"That's the plan."
He exhales, and some tension I didn't notice releases from his shoulders. "Good."
We stand there. The cafe hums around us. Someone's phone buzzes. The espresso machine gurgles. Jellybean yawns from the windowsill.
"I'm Maris," I say, because the silence is starting to feel weighted.
"Grath."
"Nice to meet you, Grath."
His hand engulfs mine when we shake. Rough calluses, warm skin, a grip that's firm but careful. He holds on a fraction longer than necessary, and when he lets go, my palm tingles.
"I should—" He gestures vaguely toward the door.
"Right. Yeah. Thanks again."
