"So you could text him and ask."
"And say what? 'Hey, strangers on the internet want to know your schedule?'"
She shrugs. "That's one option."
I finish pulling the shot and pour it into a waiting cup. Steam curls into the air, smelling rich and bitter. A customer hovers nearby, scrolling through her phone. When I slide the cup across the counter, she looks up.
"Are you the owner?" she asks, eyes bright with interest.
"Yeah."
"That video's amazing. Absolutely adorable." She leans in slightly, conspiratorial. "Do you know the orc? Like, personally?"
I keep my expression neutral, professional. "He's a neighbor."
Her smile widens. "Is he single?"
The question hits me sideways. I blink, caught off-guard by the sudden shift from café business to... whatever this is. My brain scrambles for a response that doesn't reveal how oddly proprietary I feel about the question.
"I have no idea," I manage finally.
She grins like I've just confirmed something instead of deflecting, then slides a five-dollar tip across the counter before heading to a corner table, phone already out.
I gaze at the bill for a second too long.
Nora appears at my elbow, practically vibrating. "Did she just?—"
"Don't," I warn.
"She totally did."
"We're working."
"You didn't know if he's single?" Her grin is wicked. "Interesting."
I turn back to the espresso machine, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck. "I'm not his social secretary."
"But you could be," she sing-songs, dodging my elbow with practiced ease.
By noon, the cafe's packed. Not overwhelmed, but busier than usual for a Wednesday. People linger, phones out, snapping pictures of the cats. A few ask about Grath. I deflect politely and focus on keeping the line moving.
Gumbo's in heaven. He's appointed himself unofficial cafe historian, spinning tales for anyone who'll listen. Most of them are half-true at best. I let him have it.
The bell jingles.
I glance up from the register, expecting another curiosity-seeker.
It's Grath.
Conversations stutter. Heads turn. Someone whispers,that's him.
He stops just inside the door, shoulders tensed, eyes scanning the room. When he spots me, the tension eases. He crosses the cafe in four long strides, mud-free today but still imposing in a clean shirt that stretches tight across his chest.
"Busy," he observes, his deep voice pitched low enough that it doesn't carry over the ambient chatter.
"Little bit," I admit, wiping down the steam wand with more focus than strictly necessary.
His gaze flicks from me to the crowded tables, lingering on the phones pointed at the cat trees, then returns to my face. There's something uncertain in the way he holds himself, like he's waiting for a verdict. "Because of the video."
