"Liar."
I elbow him. He catches my wrist. Tugs me closer. Kisses me quick. Sweet. Then releases me before I can melt completely.
"Work first. Other things later."
"Tease."
"You love it."
I don't deny it.
We finish prep as the sun rises properly. Golden light streaming through the front windows. Warming the space. Making everything feel softer. More possible.
Maybe this won't crash and burn. Maybe we can navigate the complexity. Keep this thing between us while we figure out what it is.
Maybe I can let myself want something I didn't plan for. Didn't see coming. Didn't add to any list.
Maybe that's not failure. Just. Life. Happening despite my best efforts to control it.
Grath ties on the ridiculous floral apron I bought as a joke. It stretches tight across his chest. Makes him look absurd and endearing all at once.
"How do I look?"
"Like chaos in an apron."
"Perfect."
CHAPTER 6
GRATH
The phone screen glows blue in the gray morning light. Too bright. Harsh against my eyes.
But I can't look away.
The photo stares back at me. Blurry. Deliberately blurry. Shows Pebble. Or what looks like Pebble. Small. Gray. Alone on wet pavement. No collar. Eyes wide and scared.
The caption reads:Orc "hero" abandons kitten. Café owner left to pick up the pieces. Where's Grath now? Probably ran back to wherever he came from. #SaveTheKitten #FakeSavior #OrcsAreLiars
My stomach twists. Cold. Tight. Like someone's wrapped iron bands around my ribs and is pulling them tighter with each breath.
I scroll down. Can't help myself. Watch the comments multiply. Faster than I can read them. Hundreds appearing in the seconds it takes me to blink. Each one sharper than the last.
Knew he was too good to be true.
Orcs don't change. Arena trash stays arena trash.
Poor Maris. She trusted him and look what happened.
Someone should report him. Animal cruelty.
Typical. Uses a sweet story to get famous then disappears. Probably sold the kitten.
Once a fighter, always a fighter. Bet he hurt it.
The words blur together. Become a single roar of familiar venom. The kind I heard shouted from arena stands. The kind that followed me through every town I tried to settle in before Weldbend.
I stop holding the phone. Carefully. So carefully. Like it might explode if I'm not gentle. Like my hands might crush it into splinters and glass if I let the rage win.
