2. Grath
GRATH
The unit’s too small. Or I'm too big for it. Hard to tell which.
The listing called it a cozy 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 the S in 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.
I turn back to the room and try to figure out where things go.
The bathroom's a joke. Shower stall so small I have to angle myself to fit, toilet that sits too low, sink that barely accommodates one hand at a time. I manage. I've dealt with worse. At least the water runs hot and clean.
The kitchen's next. I open the fridge. It hums to life with a mechanical whir that makes me jump. I've seen these before, in the mess halls, but never had one of my own. Inside it's empty except for a leftover six-pack of something called "light beer" the last tenant must've abandoned.
I close it. Open it again just to watch the light come on.
Magic. Or close enough.
The stove's got knobs with numbers I don't fully understand. The microwave's got more buttons than I have fingers. There's a machine on the counter that I think makes coffee but I'm not about to test that theory without supervision.
I give up and move to the closet.
Three shirts. Two pairs of pants. Work boots. That's it. Everything I own fits on four hangers with room to spare.
The cigar tin goes on the nightstand.
I sit on the bed, which creaks again, and open the tin. Buttons, mostly. A smooth stone from the river near the arena. A scrap of blue fabric I took from a banner the day I left. A ticket stub from the only show I ever attended as a free man. Not much. But mine.
I close the tin.
The apartment's quiet. Too quiet. No crowd noise. No guards shouting. No clang of metal on metal. Just the hum of the fridge and distant traffic outside.
I should feel relieved.
Instead I feel like the walls might close in.
I cross to the window again, shove it open. The sea breeze rolls in, salt and brine, and my chest loosens. Better. I lean on the sill and watch the café until the lights dim and Maris locks the door.
She's carrying the tabby kitten. It's curled in her arms, tiny head tucked under her chin. She pauses on the sidewalk, says something to it I can't hear, then heads down the block toward what must be her place.
I watch until she disappears around the corner.
Then I notice the blanket.
It's draped over the back of the single chair in the corner. Pale green, soft-looking, with frayed edges like it's been washed a hundred times. I pick it up. It's small. Child-sized, maybe. The fabric's thin but warm, and it smells faintly of lavender.
Someone left it here. The landlord, probably, or the last tenant. Forgot it.
I fold it carefully and set it on the bed.
Then I unfold it and spread it out instead.
It barely covers half the mattress but it makes the place look less empty. More like a home. I smooth out a wrinkle, run my hand over the fabric.
The kitten would like this.
The thought comes unbidden and I don't push it away.
I picture her, the tabby with the crooked tail, burrowed into the green blanket, purring in her sleep. Maris would probably let me borrow her for an afternoon. Or I could visit the café. Bring the blanket there.
Or.
I could bring Maris here.
My chest tightens at the idea. Her, in this space. Small hands smoothing the blanket, lips quirking at how ridiculous it looks on my oversized bed. Maybe she'd sit. Maybe she'd stay.
I force myself to move.
Tomorrow. I'll figure out tomorrow.
Tonight I lie down on the bed, the blanket tucked under my arm, and listen to the sound of the sea through the open window until sleep finally comes.
Morning. I wake to sunlight streaming through the window and the sound of gulls.
My back aches from the too-soft mattress. I roll out of bed, duck under the light fixture, and splash water on my face in the cramped bathroom.
Repay her.
The thought's been circling since yesterday. Maris gave me coffee. Let me hold the kitten. Didn't flinch when the crowd stared. Didn't treat me like a spectacle.
I need to give something back.
Flowers, maybe. That's what people do, right? I've seen it in the human towns. Men bring flowers to women they're courting.
Not that I'm courting.
Except.
Her hands. The way she cradled the kitten. The scent of coffee and vanilla that clings to her apron. The tightness in my heart when she looks at me.
Fine.
Maybe I'm courting.
I dress quickly and head out.
The field behind the old docks is full of wildflowers.
I've passed it a dozen times but never stopped to look.
Now I crouch low and start picking. Yellow ones.
Purple ones. A few white ones that smell sweet.
I gather them in a bunch, careful not to crush the stems, and tie them with a piece of twine I find in my pocket.
They look good. A little lopsided, maybe, but colorful. Bright.
I carry them back to the café.
The morning crowd's just starting. A few people linger outside with coffee cups, chatting in the sun. I push through the door and the bell jingles.
Maris is at the counter. She's got flour on her cheek and a smudge of chocolate on her apron. Her hair's falling out of its bun.
She looks perfect.
I cross the room, flowers clutched in one hand, and realize too late that I'm blocking the line.
"Grath." She blinks at me, then at the flowers. "What—"
"For you." I hold them out.
Her eyes widen. A flush creeps up her neck.
Someone behind me whispers. A phone camera clicks.
I ignore it. Focus on her.
She reaches for the flowers. Her fingers brush mine and the contact sends a jolt up my arm.
"They're beautiful," she says, soft enough that I almost miss it over the ambient noise.
I grin.
That's when I notice the stack of dishes by the sink.
Clean plates, balanced in a precarious tower, waiting to be put away. I shift my weight and my elbow catches the edge.
The tower sways.
"No—" Maris lunges.
Too late.
Plates cascade. Ceramic crashes. Shards explode across the tile floor in a cacophony that silences the entire café.
I freeze.
Maris stares at the wreckage, hands still outstretched, flour-dusted fingers trembling slightly.
The flowers are crushed under my boot.
"Out." Her voice is tight. Controlled. Dangerous.
I open my mouth.
"Out. Now."
I back toward the door, crunching broken ceramic under my heel, and nearly trip over a chair.
She follows, hands on her hips, eyes blazing. "Do you have any idea how much those cost? How long it takes to replace a full set?"
"I—"
"No. You don't." She jabs a finger at my chest. "Because you just barreled in here with your flowers and your... your everything and didn't look before you moved."
The words hit like fists.
I clench my jaw and take it.
She's right.
"You can't just—" She breaks off, runs a hand over her face. The anger drains as fast as it flared, leaving her looking tired. Small.
I hate it. Hate the way her anger cuts at me. Hate that I caused it. Hate that she's right and I can't fix it with wanting.
"Sorry," I manage. The word scrapes out rough and too quiet.
She sighs, a long exhale that deflates her shoulders. Looks at the mess—white fragments scattered like broken stars across the grey tile. At me, quick and sharp. Back at the mess.
"I'll pay for them," I add, before the silence can settle into something worse.
"With what?" But her tone's softer now. Less blade, more exhaustion. The kind that comes from too many small disasters in one day.
"I have money."
"From where?" She doesn't sound disbelieving. Just tired. Curious in that careful way she has when she's trying not to assume the worst.
"Saved it. From before." I don't explain more. Don't tell her about the fights, the winnings I kept hidden in old boots, the coins I hoarded because I learned early that money meant options. Meant not being owned.
She studies me for a long moment, eyes flicking over my face like she's reading something I didn't mean to write. The café's still silent behind us. Everyone's watching, I can feel their stares crawling across my shoulders, hear the held breath of strangers waiting for drama.
Then she crouches low and starts picking up shards, movements careful and deliberate.
I kneel beside her, reaching for the nearest piece.
"Don't," she warns, sharp and immediate.
I ignore her and gather the bigger pieces, careful not to cut myself.
We work in silence. Her hands move quick and efficient, sorting salvageable plates from broken ones. Mine are clumsy in comparison but I try.
When the worst of it's cleared, she sits back on her heels and looks at me.
"You brought me flowers," she says finally, voice softer now, less guarded than it was a moment ago.
"Yes."
"Why?" The question hangs between us, careful and curious, like she's testing the weight of something she hasn't decided whether to trust yet.
"Wanted to." The truth is simple. I don't know how to complicate it with prettier words or excuses. I saw them. Thought of her. Bought them. The logic made sense until I walked through the door.
Her lips twitch, pulling at the corners in that way that means she's fighting laughter maybe, or the urge to tell me I'm an idiot.
Almost a smile, but not quite. "They were nice," she admits, and there's something reluctant about the confession, like she's offering me a piece of honesty she'd rather have kept to herself.