My hands shake. Big. Scarred. Worthless for delicate things. Exactly the kind of hands people expect to break things. To hurt things.
The kitchen smells like coffee and rising dough. Warm scents. Safe scents. But they don't touch the ice spreading through my chest.
Pebble meows from his perch on top of the fridge. Loud. Demanding breakfast.
He's right here. Safe. Fed. Curled up on a blanket Maris embroidered with tiny fish.
But the internet doesn't care about truth. Only about stories that feel right. And apparently an orc stealing a kitten feels more right than an orc saving one.
I thought I'd left this behind. The assumptions. The instant suspicion. The way people see my size and skin and decide they already know what I am.
Stupid. So stupid to think a viral video and some good press would change centuries of reflex.
Footsteps on the stairs. Light. Quick. Maris.
I shove the phone into my pocket. Try to arrange my face into something that doesn't look like rage and shame wrestling for dominance.
She appears. Hair still damp from the shower. Wearing that oversized sweater that makes her look smaller than she is. Soft.
"Morning," she says, and there's a smile starting to form at the corners of her mouth, the small, private one she saves for early hours when it's just us and the cats and the kitchen settling into wakefulness. Then she stops. Really looks at me. Her eyes sweep across my face, cataloguing every microexpression I'm trying desperately to smooth away. "What happened?"
"Nothing." The word comes out too fast. Too clipped.
"Grath." Just my name. But she loads it with enough skepticism and concern to fill a whole paragraph. Her arms cross. She's not moving from that doorway until I answer properly.
I force my shoulders to relax. Let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Just internet nonsense, that's all. You don't need to worry about it." I try to inject dismissiveness into my tone, try to wave it away like smoke, but even I can hear how hollow it sounds. How the edges of my voice catch on something raw and bleeding.
She crosses the kitchen in three strides. Takes my hand. Pulls the phone from my pocket before I can stop her.
I watch her face as she reads. Watch the warmth drain out of it. Replaced by something sharp and furious.
"This is fake." Her voice is flat. Hard. "Pebble's right there. Anyone with eyes can see that's not him."
"Doesn't matter if it's fake. People believe what they want to believe."
"We'll post a correction. Show he's here and safe."
"That'll make it worse. Look like we're defensive. Guilty."
She scrolls. Reads more comments. Her jaw tightens with each one.
"They're calling you trash."
"Yeah."
"Saying you used the café for publicity then abandoned everything."
"Yeah."
"Saying I was stupid to trust you."
I pull away. Move to the window. Stare out at the street. Early risers already passing by. Normal people living normal lives. Not worrying about their past crawling up through pixels to strangle their present.
"Maybe they're right."
"Excuse me?"
"Maybe I was using you. Not intentionally. But still. I needed a place. Needed acceptance. And you gave it. Now your business is suffering because of me."
