"My business is fine."
"Is it? How many people saw that post? How many will stop coming because they think you're harboring some. Some kitten thief?"
The words taste like rust. Old blood. Arena dirt.
Maris sets the phone down. Comes up behind me. Doesn't touch. Just stands close enough I can feel her warmth.
"You're not responsible for what strangers decide to believe."
"I'm responsible for being here. For being visible. For making myself a target and dragging you into the blast radius."
"Dragging you? I invited you in. Remember?" Her voice cuts through my spiral of guilt, sharp and sure. "I offered you shelter. A place to stay. I made that choice myself."
"You didn't choose this," I counter, gesturing vaguely at her phone, at the invisible mass of strangers deciding what I am. "You didn't choose a smear campaign. Didn't sign up to have your café associated with some... some accused thief."
"No." She crosses her arms, plants her feet. That stubborn set to her jaw I've come to recognize. "No, I didn't choose thecampaign. But I chose you. And I don't regret it. Not for a second."
The words slam into me like a fist to the sternum. Not painful, exactly. Just... overwhelming. A physical weight that makes breathing difficult in a different way than fear does.
I turn slowly from the window. Look down at her properly. She's still in yesterday's clothes, hair escaping its bun in wild wisps, exhaustion shadowing the space beneath her eyes. But her gaze is steady as stone. Certain in a way that makes my chest ache.
"You should regret it," I say quietly, the words coming out louder than I mean them. "Would make things simpler for you."
Her mouth quirks. Almost smiles. "I don't do simple, Grath. You might have noticed."
Despite everything—the post, the comments, the creeping dread—my mouth twitches in response. The ghost of a smile trying to break through.
She doesn't wait for me to speak. Just reaches up, slow and deliberate, until her hands cup my face. Her palms are cool against my skin, small and steady, and I freeze under the contact like something wild learning trust.
"We'll figure this out. Together. Like we figured out the developer and the fundraiser and every other disaster that's landed on us."
"This is different."
"How?"
"Because it's about me. What I am. What people think I am. You can't fix that with a plan and a color-coded list."
"Watch me."
Her confidence should be reassuring. Instead it makes the knot in my heart tighten.
She doesn't understand. Can't understand. What it's like to be reduced to assumptions before you even open your mouth.
I've spent years trying to be small. Quiet. Unthreatening. And one viral moment made me visible again. Made me a story people could tell.
Now the story's changing. And I don't know how to control it.
"I should leave." The words fall out before I can stop them. "Just for a while. Let things cool down. Give you space to distance yourself."
Her hands drop. Her expression shifts. Hurt. Then anger.
"That's your solution? Run?"
"It's damage control."
"It's cowardice."
The word stings. Sharp and accurate.
