2. Grath #3
The rowhouse is dark when we arrive. Quiet. No lights in the other units. The windows stare down at us like closed eyes.
"Thanks," I say, stopping at the gate. My hand rests on the cold iron.
She nods. Hesitates. Shifts her weight from foot to foot like she wants to say something else. "Be careful, okay?"
"Always am."
"Liar." But she's almost smiling. She hands back the jacket, fingers brushing mine. "Goodnight, Grath."
"Goodnight."
I watch until she turns the corner. Then I head inside.
The apartment feels smaller than usual. Darker. I don't turn on the lights. Just sit on the bed and stare out the window at the street below.
The hours crawl by like wounded things. I don't move from the bed except to pace the narrow strip of floor between the window and the door. Back and forth. Each pass takes eight steps. I count them without meaning to.
Sleep doesn't come. Doesn't even knock. My mind won't settle—keeps circling back to Maris walking away, the jacket returned, her fingers warm against mine for just a breath.
Then to Harrow. The smug set of his mouth.
The casual cruelty in how he'd leaned forward, like he owned the space, owned the threat, owned the outcome before it even arrived.
I sit back down. Stand up again. The apartment holds its breath around me.
Around midnight, I hear them.
Footsteps. Heavy. Multiple sets. Not the random shuffle of late-night stragglers heading home. These are purposeful. Measured. The kind of footsteps that know exactly where they're going and what they plan to do when they get there.
Voices drift up from the street. Low and deliberate. Words I can't quite make out, but the tone's clear enough. Laughter that isn't friendly. The scrape of something metal dragging against pavement.
My pulse kicks up. I move toward the window, careful to stay in shadow, and peer down through the gap in the curtain.
I move to the window. Three men stand outside the gate. Big guys. Not as big as me, but close. One's holding a crowbar. Another's got a bat.
The third one lights a cigarette and looks up. Sees me watching.
He grins.
I'm halfway to the door when the first brick crashes through the window.
Glass explodes inward. I shield my face, feel shards bite my arm. The second brick follows. Lands on the bed.
Shouts from outside. Laughter.
I wrench the door open and thunder down the stairs. The front door bangs wide when I hit it.
They're already moving. Backing toward a van parked at the curb.
"That's a warning," the one with the cigarette calls. "Next time it's worse."
"Come back and find out." The words growl out before I can stop them.
He flicks the cigarette at my feet. They pile into the van. It peels away, tires screeching.
I stand in the street, breathing hard, fists clenched tight enough my knuckles ache.
Lights flicker on in neighboring units. A door opens. Mrs. Boris from downstairs pokes her head out.
"You okay?"
"Fine." I force my hands open. "Just vandals."
She doesn't look convinced but she nods and retreats inside.
I climb back upstairs. Survey the damage. Both windows shattered. Glass everywhere. Cold wind pouring through. The bed's covered in fragments. The green blanket has a tear.
I pick up the bricks. Set them aside. Start sweeping glass with my bare hands because I can't find the broom in the dark.
My phone vibrates.
Maris.
Heard glass breaking. You okay?
I watch the message. Type back with bleeding fingers.
Fine.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Liar. Get to the café. Now, Grath.
I grab my jacket and the cigar tin and leave.
The café's dark when I arrive but the side door's unlocked. I push through into the back hallway. Warm air wraps around me, smelling like coffee grounds and sugar.
Maris appears from the storeroom. She's in pajamas. Flannel pants and an oversized t-shirt with a faded cat print. Hair down. No bun.
I freeze.
"Let me see." She reaches for my hand.
I pull back. "It's nothing."
"Let me see." Firmer now.
I surrender my hand. She takes it gently, turns it palm-up. Her fingers are warm. Careful. She picks out three glass slivers I missed, dropping them in the trash.
"What happened?"
"Vance sent people. Broke my windows."
Her jaw tightens. "Did you call the police?"
"Won't help."
"Grath—"
"They'll say it's vandalism. File a report. Nothing changes." I pull my hand back. "I've seen how this works."
She's quiet for a moment. Then she turns and heads deeper into the storeroom.
"Come on."
I follow.
The storeroom's bigger than I expected. Shelves line the walls, stacked with supplies. Flour sacks. Coffee beans. Extra chairs. In the back corner there's a cleared space with a camping cot, a pillow, and blankets folded neatly on top.
"You're staying here tonight," Maris says. No room for argument.
"Can't."
"You can. You will." She crosses her arms. "Those guys know where you live. They'll come back. And next time it won't be bricks through windows."
"I can handle it."
"I know you can." Her voice softens. "But you don't have to. Not tonight."
The words hit sideways. Land somewhere under my ribs.
"Besides," she continues, tone shifting to something lighter, more practical, "you're viral. The orc who saves kittens and stands up to developers. If something happens to you, my café loses its best PR."
I huff. Almost a laugh. "That's why you're helping? PR?"
"Obviously." But her eyes give her away. Too soft. Too concerned.
I look at the cot. At her. Back at the cot.
"One night," I say.
"One night." She nods. "Or however long it takes for your landlord to fix the windows."
Which could be days. Weeks, knowing him.
I don't argue.
She shows me where the bathroom is. Brings me a towel. Points out the first aid kit.
"There's leftover quiche in the fridge if you're hungry," she says. "And coffee. Obviously."
"Thanks."
She lingers. Barefoot. Hair falling over one shoulder. Looking smaller without the armor of her apron and professional demeanor.
"I meant what I said," I tell her. "At the meeting. It's my home. I'm not leaving."
"I know." She smiles. Small but real. "That was brave. Stupid, but brave."
"Same thing sometimes."
"Yeah." She pushes off the doorframe. "Goodnight again, Grath."
"Goodnight."
She disappears down the hall. A door closes. Locks click.
I'm alone in the storeroom.
I sit on the cot. It creaks. Too small, like everything else, but sturdy. The blankets smell like lavender. Like her.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling.
For the first time since the meeting, my chest doesn't feel tight.