Purr for the Orc

1. Maris

MARIS

The espresso machine wheezes like an old accordion, and I slap the side panel twice before the steam wand stops shrieking. Mrs. Pemberton glares from her corner booth, one bony finger tapping the laminate table.

"This is unacceptable."

I wipe my hands on my apron. Flour dust puffs into the air. "What is?"

"The foam." She shoves her cup forward. "It's not stiff."

I peer at the cappuccino. The foam sits in perfect white peaks, exactly the way I've made it every Tuesday for three years. "Looks stiff to me."

"I can see bubbles."

"That's how foam works."

Mrs. Pemberton's mouth pinches into a line so tight it could slice bread. Behind her, Jellybean, a marmalade tabby with one chewed ear, stretches across the windowsill and yawns, exposing all his teeth. He knows a lost cause when he sees one.

I scrape the foam off with a spoon, dump it, and start over.

The cafe hums around me. Gumbo hunches at the counter, peeling a blueberry scone into crumbs.

Nora sweeps near the bookshelf, headphones in, mouthing lyrics I can't hear.

Big Pete sits by the door, coffee untouched, staring at his phone like it might explode.

Mrs. Pemberton sniffs when I place the remade cappuccino in front of her. "Better."

"Glad I could help."

She doesn't tip.

I retreat beyond the counter and start the next order.

A macchiato, extra hot, oat milk. My hands move without thought.

Measure, tamp, pull. Steam hisses. The milk swirls into a pale cloud.

I pour and the pattern comes out wrong—a blob instead of a heart.

Good enough. I slide it across to Nora, who ferries it to a table near the cat tree.

Gumbo clears his throat. "Heard the health inspector's due this month."

"Rumor or fact?"

"Rumor. But solid rumor."

I scrub at a coffee ring on the top. "Then I'll panic when it's fact."

"Smart." He taps the counter twice, his version of applause, and shuffles toward the pastry case. "Got any more of those almond things?"

"One left."

"Save it for me."

"I just told you there's one left."

"So save it."

I wrap the croissant in wax paper and tuck it behind the register.

Gumbo grins, all gaps and satisfaction, and heads for his usual chair by the window.

He's wearing his knit cap today, the green one with the anchor stitched on the side.

It's May. The man's internal thermostat died sometime in the nineties.

The bell over the door jingles. A woman in yoga pants and oversized sunglasses breezes in, scanning the room like she's evaluating real estate. She doesn't look at me. She looks at the cats.

"Are they all adoptable?"

"Most of them." I nod toward the bulletin board by the coat rack. "Profiles are posted. If you're interested, fill out a form."

"Do you have any Persians?"

"No."

"Ragdolls?"

"No."

"Anything purebred?"

I pause mid-wipe. Jellybean flicks his tail. "We specialize in strays."

Her lips twitch. "Oh."

She leaves without ordering.

Big Pete mutters something under his breath. I catch the word "snob" and pretend I didn't. He's loyal that way. Loyal and terrible at whispering.

The next hour passes in the usual rhythm. Orders, cleanup, small talk. A toddler shrieks with delight when Muffin, a gray shorthair with white socks, headbutts his palm. His mom orders a latte and tips in coins. I smile because it's genuine, not because it's profitable.

By ten-thirty, the morning rush thins. I refill the pastry case, wipe down the espresso machine, and check the schedule Nora taped to the fridge. She's drawn smiley faces next to her shifts and added glitter stickers to mine. I don't have the heart to peel them off.

The bell jingles again. I glance up, expecting another customer, but it's just Gumbo's nephew hauling in a crate from the back alley. He's seventeen, all elbows and attitude, and he drops the crate on the floor with a thud that makes the nearest cat bolt.

"Careful!" I round the counter. "What's in there?"

"Dunno. Delivery guy said it's yours."

"I didn't order anything."

He shrugs. "Got your name on it."

I crouch and read the label. Sure enough, my name's scrawled in sharpie across the side. No return address. No invoice. I grab a box cutter from the drawer and slice through the tape.

The lid pops open.

A ball of black fur erupts from the crate, hissing like a punctured tire. Tiny claws scramble against cardboard. I jerk back, and the kitten launches itself at the side of the crate, flips, lands hard, and hisses again.

"Whoa." Gumbo's nephew backs toward the door. "You got a demon in there."

"Don't be dramatic."

But I'm staring at the kitten, and my pulse is doing something stupid. It's small. Too small. Ribs press against matted fur. One ear's torn, and its tail is crooked, like it healed wrong after a break. It bares needle teeth and makes a sound that's half-growl, half-wheeze.

I lower myself to the floor. Slowly. The kitten flattens against the crate, eyes huge and yellow.

"Hey." My voice comes out softer than I expect. "You're okay."

It hisses again, but quieter. Uncertain.

I don't reach for it. I just sit. Gumbo shuffles closer, scone crumbs on his sweater. Nora peeks around the counter, headphones dangling.

"Is it sick?" she whispers.

"Scared."

"Same thing sometimes."

I glance at her, and she shrugs, twisting the cord of her headphones.

The kitten shifts. One paw creeps forward, then retreats. Its ears twitch. I stay still, breathing slow, letting it decide.

Mrs. Pemberton clears her throat from her booth. "Are you going to let that creature destroy the cafe?"

"It's three inches tall."

"It could have rabies."

"So could you."

Gumbo snorts. Nora claps a hand over her mouth. Mrs. Pemberton's face flushes the color of undercooked salmon, and she gathers her purse with the kind of offended precision that means she'll be back tomorrow, same time, same order.

The door jingles shut behind her.

The kitten inches closer. Its nose twitches. I stay locked in place, knees aching against the tile. It sniffs my hand. Pauses. Sniffs again.

Then it headbutts my palm.

The contact is so light I almost miss it. But the kitten leans in, just a fraction, and the hiss fades into a rasp that might be a purr.

"There you go," I murmur. "Not so bad, right?"

It blinks. Slow. Deliberate.

I scoop it up in one careful motion, cradling it against my chest. It weighs nothing. Just bones and fur and fury. It trembles, but it doesn't fight.

Nora edges closer, her sneakers squeaking softly against the tile. "What's its name?"

"Don't know yet." I keep my voice low, not wanting to spook the tiny thing pressed against my chest.

"You always name them after sea stuff," she points out, tucking a strand of purple-tipped hair behind her ear.

"I'm aware." The kitten's claws catch in the weave of my apron, tiny pinpricks of pressure that somehow don't hurt.

Gumbo taps his weathered chin, the kind of theatrical thinking gesture he always uses when he's about to say something he finds clever. "How about Barnacle?"

"Absolutely not."

He grins, undeterred. "Pebble?"

I shoot him a look, and he raises his hands in surrender. The kitten curls against my apron, claws kneading fabric. Its purr rattles louder now, uneven but insistent.

"Urchin," I say.

Nora grins. "Perfect."

Big Pete leans over from his table. "You keeping it?"

"I keep all of them."

"You got room?"

I glance around the cafe. Jellybean's reclaimed the windowsill. Muffin's sprawled across the cat tree. Two more lounge near the bookshelf, tails twitching in unison. The place is full. Too full. But I look down at Urchin, at the way its eyes are starting to close, and the answer's already decided.

"I'll make room."

Big Pete nods, satisfied, and goes back to his coffee.

I carry Urchin to the back room, past the storage shelves and the ancient fridge that hums like a swarm of bees. There's a cardboard box in the corner, lined with towels I've been meaning to wash for a week. I set Urchin inside, and it circles twice before collapsing into a heap.

"Stay put," I tell it.

It yawns.

I head back to the counter. Gumbo's finishing his scone, Nora's restocking napkins, and the espresso machine's wheezing again. Everything's exactly the way it was ten minutes ago.

Except now there's a kitten in the back room, and my apron's covered in black fur, and I'm smiling for no reason I can defend.

The bell jingles.

I look up, ready to take the next order, and my day keeps moving.

The lunch crowd trickles in around noon. I'm elbow-deep in dish soap when the bell chimes again, and I don't look up immediately because my hands are slick and the sponge keeps sliding out of my grip.

"Be right there!"

No response. Just the shuffle of heavy footsteps and a sound like wood scraping concrete.

I rinse my hands and turn.

The man, no, not a man, an orc, fills the doorway.

Not figuratively. Literally. His shoulders brush both sides of the frame, and he has to duck to clear the top.

Mossy green-gray skin, broad chest straining against a faded work shirt, and hands the size of dinner plates.

Mud streaks his forearms and clings to his boots in thick clumps.

He's holding a crate. Scratched wood, rope handle, the kind you'd use to haul fish or tools. It's got claw marks gouged into the side.

Our eyes meet.

My lungs forget how to work.

It's not fear. I've seen orcs before. The bakery supply guy is an orc.

Mrs. Pemberton's landscaper is an orc. This isn't about species.

This is about the way he's looking at me, like I'm the only solid thing in a room full of smoke.

His eyes are dark amber, flecked with gold, and they lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my ribs feel too tight.

He smells like sea salt. Like metal and rain and something earthy I can't name. It cuts through the coffee and cinnamon, sharp and clean, and I inhale without meaning to.

"Hi." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.