1. Maris #2
He blinks. Shifts his weight. The floorboards creak. "You take strays."
"Cats, yeah."
"Found one." He lifts the crate slightly. "Thought you might want her."
I cross the cafe, weaving past tables. Gumbo watches over the rim of his mug. Nora's frozen mid-sweep, mouth slightly open. Big Pete's pretending not to stare, but his phone's angled just enough to catch a view of the door.
I stop a few feet away. The orc is taller up close. I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze, and the motion makes my pulse skip.
"What's wrong with her?" I nod toward the crate.
"Nothing. She's scared."
"They usually are."
He sets the crate down gently, like it's made of glass.
His hands are scarred, knuckles rough, nails blunt and clean.
When he straightens, he doesn't step back.
He stays close. Too close. Close enough that I can see the faint white line bisecting his left eyebrow, the uneven edge of a tusk poking past his lower lip.
"Your hands," he says.
I glance down. My hands are small, perpetually dusted with flour or streaked with espresso. Nothing special. "What about them?"
"They fix things." He says it simply, like it's an observable fact. "I like that."
Heat crawls up my neck. I shove it down and crouch beside the crate. Inside, a tabby kitten huddles in the corner, ears flat. She's bigger than Urchin but just as wary. Her tail flicks once, twice.
"Hey, sweetie." I keep my voice low. "You're okay."
The orc crouches beside me. The motion is surprisingly fluid for someone his size. He doesn't crowd the crate, just rests one hand on the edge, fingers splayed.
"She was under my porch," he says. "Heard her crying this morning."
"You live nearby?"
"Next block. Blue rowhouse."
I know the house. Peeling paint, overgrown yard, a porch that sags on one side. I didn't know anyone lived there.
The kitten sniffs his finger. He holds perfectly still, breathing slow and even. She bumps her head against his knuckle, and his face softens into something that might be a smile.
My chest does something stupid. A flutter. A pull. I blame the espresso I drank too fast earlier.
"She likes you," I manage.
"She's smart."
"Modest, too."
He glances at me, and the corner of his mouth twitches. It's not quite a grin, but it's close. "I don't lie."
"Good policy."
We stay crouched there, side by side, while the kitten explores his hand. His shoulder brushes mine. Just barely. The contact sends a jolt through me that has no business existing.
I pull back and stand. "I can take her. Give me a second to grab a carrier."
He nods and rises with me. Doesn't move away from the crate. Just stands there, solid and patient, while I head to the storage closet and rummage for a spare carrier. My hands shake. I clench them into fists and force them steady.
When I return, the orc is still crouched by the crate. The kitten's ventured closer, sniffing his sleeve. Nora hovers nearby, broom forgotten, eyes wide. Gumbo's leaning forward in his chair like he's watching a play.
I set the carrier down and open the door. "Want to do the honors?"
The orc scoops the kitten up in one hand. She fits in his palm, tiny against all that rough skin and muscle. He lowers her into the carrier with the kind of care you'd use handling spun sugar.
"There." His voice is softer now. Almost a murmur. "Safe now."
The kitten curls into a ball and starts to purr.
I close the carrier door and straighten. "Thanks for bringing her."
"You'll keep her?"
"That's the plan."
He exhales, and some tension I didn't notice releases from his shoulders. "Good."
We stand there. The cafe hums around us. Someone's phone buzzes. The espresso machine gurgles. Jellybean yawns from the windowsill.
"I'm Maris," I say, because the silence is starting to feel weighted.
"Grath."
"Nice to meet you, Grath."
His hand engulfs mine when we shake. Rough calluses, warm skin, a grip that's firm but careful. He holds on a fraction longer than necessary, and when he lets go, my palm tingles.
"I should—" He gestures vaguely toward the door.
"Right. Yeah. Thanks again."
He nods. Turns. Takes two steps and pauses. "If you need anything. I'm next block."
"I'll remember."
He leaves. The door swings shut behind him, and the cafe feels smaller. Quieter. Like he took up more space than just his physical presence.
Nora steps to me. "What. Was. That."
"A guy dropping off a cat."
"That was not just a guy." She fans herself with the broom handle. "That was a whole situation."
"Don't be dramatic."
Gumbo chuckles from his chair. "Kid's got a point. Man looked at you like you hung the moon."
"He looked at the kitten."
"Sure he did."
I ignore them both and carry the carrier to the back room. Urchin's still asleep in the cardboard box. I move the new kitten's carrier beside it and unlatch the door. She peers out, whiskers twitching, then slinks into the open and sniffs Urchin's box.
"Play nice," I tell her.
She ignores me and starts grooming her paw.
I return to the counter. Nora's grinning like she knows something I don't. I point at her. "Wipe that look off your face."
"What look?"
"That look."
She bats her eyelashes, all innocence, and goes back to sweeping.
The rest of the afternoon blurs. Orders, cleanup, a minor crisis when Muffin knocks over a display of bookmarks. By three o'clock, I'm running on fumes and spite. I'm restocking sugar packets when Nora gasps.
"Oh my god."
I don't look up. "What now?"
"You're viral."
That gets my attention. "What?"
She shoves her phone in my face. The screen shows a video. Grath crouched beside the crate, the kitten bumping his hand. The angle's low, shaky, clearly filmed without permission. The caption reads: orc saves kitten at local cafe.
The view count is climbing. Fast. Comments flood the screen. Heart emojis, crying emojis, people tagging friends.
"Who filmed this?" I grab the phone.
"Mrs. Abernathy." Nora points to a table near the window. An elderly woman in a floral blouse waves, unapologetic. "She posted it like an hour ago."
"An hour?" I scroll through the comments. Most are variations on so pure and this is everything. A few mention the cafe by name. One asks if Grath is single.
I hand the phone back. "Delete it."
"I can't. It's Mrs. Boris's account."
"Then tell her to delete it."
Nora hesitates. "Do you really want her to?"
I open my mouth. Close it. The video's already been shared two hundred times. The damage, if you can call it that, is done.
"Fine. Leave it."
Nora squeals and hugs her phone to her chest. "This is so good for business."
She's not wrong. By four o'clock, three new customers wander in, phones in hand, asking about the orc and the kitten. I answer politely, take their orders, and try not to think about Grath's hands or the way he smelled like a storm rolling in off the ocean.
I fail.
By five, the cafe's buzzing. Gumbo's holding court at his usual table, regaling a cluster of newcomers with an embellished version of events.
Big Pete's fielding questions about Grath, though he clearly knows nothing.
Nora's at the counter, ringing up orders and grinning like she just won the lottery.
I retreat to the back room. Urchin and the new kitten are curled together in the cardboard box, a tangle of black and tabby fur. I sit on the floor and watch them breathe.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
Saw the video. Kitten okay?
I look at the screen. Type back. She's fine. How'd you get my number?
Gumbo.
Of course. I should've known.
She's settling in. Thanks again for bringing her.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Good. Let me know if you need anything.
I tuck the phone into my apron and lean my head back against the wall. The cafe noise filters through the door, muffled and warm. Urchin's purr rumbles faintly from the box.
My chest still feels tight.
I blame the espresso.
The next morning, the video's hit ten thousand views. Nora shows me on her phone before I've even finished my first cup of coffee. I grunt and wave her away, but she's undeterred.
"People are asking if Grath works here."
"He doesn't."
"I know. But they're asking."
I dump a scoop of grounds into the espresso machine. "Tell them the truth."
"I did. Now they're asking if he's coming back."
I pause mid-tamp. "What'd you say?"
"That I didn't know." She props her chin on her hand, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Is he?"
"How would I know that?"
"You have his number now," she points out, waggling her phone at me like evidence.
"So what?"
"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."
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.