It's not quite a question, more like he's confirming something he already knows to be true.
"Yeah." I rinse the cloth in the sink, buying myself a moment before I gaze at his eyes again.
He frowns, a crease forming between his heavy brows. The expression makes him look almost boyish despite the scars and the sheer size of him. "Sorry."
The apology comes out blunt and sincere, like he's personally responsible for every phone camera currently aimed at my cats.
"Don't be," I tell him, meaning it more than I expected to. "It's good for business."
He doesn't look convinced. Just stands there, solid and uncertain, while the cafe buzzes around him.
"Want coffee?" I offer.
"Sure."
I pour him a cup. Black, no sugar, because I'm guessing and he doesn't correct me. He wraps both hands around the mug, dwarfing it completely.
"Kitten okay?" he asks.
"She's great. Want to see?"
His face brightens. It's subtle, just a slight lift at the corners of his mouth, but it transforms him.
I lead him to the back room. Urchin and the tabby are awake now, wrestling in a pile of towels. Grath crouches and extends one finger. The tabby pounces immediately, wrapping tiny paws around his hand.
Someone gasps behind me.
I turn. Mrs. Boris's, phone raised.
"Don't—" I start.
Too late. She's filming. Grath's focused on the kitten, oblivious, murmuring something too low for me to catch. The tabby climbs his arm. Urchin joins in, claws scrabbling for purchase.
Mrs. Abernathy zooms in.
I'm about to intervene when Grath laughs. It's a low, rumbling sound that fills the small room, and the kittens freeze, ears perked, before launching a renewed assault on his sleeve.
Mrs. Abernathy's grinning. The phone's still recording.
I sigh and let it happen.
By the time Grath leaves, the second video's already posted.
CHAPTER 2
GRATH
The unit’s too small. Or I'm too big for it. Hard to tell which.
The listing called it acozy studio. That word doesn't mean what he thinks it means. I stand in the center of the single room and can nearly touch both walls if I stretch. The ceiling's low enough that I have to duck when I cross under the light fixture, and the kitchenette looks like it was built for children.
Still. It's mine. No bars. No handlers. No crowd screaming for blood.
I drop my bag on the narrow bed and the frame groans.
The window faces the café. I can see the painted sign from here, the cheerful lettering Maris must've done herself because theSin Saltwater tilts just slightly. Warm light spills onto the sidewalk. A couple walks past with a cat carrier, probably heading home after an adoption.
Good.
