3. Maris
MARIS
Iwake up to the sound of a freight train.
Except it's not a freight train. It's Grath. Snoring.
I lie in my bed upstairs and stare at the ceiling, listening to the rumble vibrate through the floorboards. It's rhythmic. Deep. Like distant thunder that never quite ends.
The clock reads 5:47 AM.
I should get up anyway. Café opens at seven. Prep takes time.
I drag myself out of bed, pull on yesterday's jeans and a clean sweatshirt, and pad downstairs in socks.
The storeroom door's half-open. I peek inside.
Grath's sprawled on the cot, one arm flung over his face, the other dangling off the side. The blankets have migrated to the floor. His feet hang off the end by a solid six inches. The whole setup looks like a children's toy forced to hold an adult.
And there, nestled against his ribs like a small storm cloud that's found harbor, is the kitten.
Tiny. Gray. Curled into a perfect ball of absolute trust.
Rising and falling with each of Grath's breaths, riding the steady rhythm like a boat on gentle swells.
The sight hits me somewhere behind my sternum—something warm and uncomfortable and entirely too soft for this early in the morning.
My chest does something inconvenient. Something that has no place in a practical Tuesday morning routine.
I stand there, clutching the doorframe, watching an escaped arena fighter and a feral kitten sleep like they've known each other for years instead of hours.
The kitten's paws twitch. Dreaming, probably. Grath's breathing doesn't change. One massive hand rests near the kitten, fingers slightly curled, protective even in sleep.
I should not find this endearing.
I find this deeply, dangerously endearing.
I back away before either of them wakes and head to the kitchen. Start the coffee. Pull out flour and butter for scones. The familiar motions settle me.
By the time the first batch is in the oven, I hear movement from the storeroom.
Footsteps. Heavy. Then a pause.
"Maris?"
"Kitchen."
He appears, rumpled and squinting against the overhead lights. Hair sticking up on one side. The kitten's perched on his shoulder like a tiny, judgmental parrot.
"Morning," I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral, as if I hadn't just spent the last sixty seconds watching him sleep like some kind of creeper.
"Morning." He looks around the kitchen, taking in the flour-dusted counters and the warm light spilling from the overhead fixtures. His nose twitches slightly. "Smells good."
"Blueberry scones. They'll be ready in about ten minutes." I turn back to the bowl I'm working on, cutting butter into flour with more focus than the task strictly requires. "There's coffee in the pot if you want some."
He nods. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other, making the floorboards creak softly under his considerable mass. The kitten chirps from its perch on his shoulder, a bright little trill that sounds absurdly cheerful for something that was half-dead yesterday.
"Sleep okay?" I ask, even though the answer's painfully obvious from the dark circles under his eyes and the way he's holding his left shoulder, stiff, like the cot didn't exactly accommodate his frame.
"Cot's small," he says simply. No complaint in his voice. Just statement of fact.
"Yeah. Sorry about that." I fold the dough over itself, press down with the heels of my hands. "It's not really meant for long-term guests. Or, you know, anyone over six feet tall."
"Better than broken glass," he says.
Fair point.
He moves to the sink. Washes his hands. Gentle, methodical. The kitten clings to his shoulder, purring loud enough to hear from across the room.
"You need to name that thing," I say, nodding toward the ball of fluff currently kneading biscuits into his shoulder with needle-sharp claws.
"Already did."
I glance up from the dough. "What?"
"Pebble."
My hands still, mid-stir, butter-coated fingertips suspended over the bowl. I blink at him, certain I've misheard. "Pebble?"
He shifts his weight again, making the floorboards groan in gentle protest, and regards the kitten with the sort of grave consideration most people reserve for naming their firstborn children.
"Small," he says, ticking off the qualities on his thick fingers.
"Gray. Hard." A pause. His lips quirk—not quite a smile, but close. "Loud when dropped."
Despite myself, despite the early hour and the exhaustion still clinging to my bones and the mental tally of repair costs running on a loop in the back of my head, I laugh. It comes out sharper, startled and genuine. "That's terrible."
"Fits," he says, unbothered. Matter-of-fact. The way he says everything.
Pebble, because apparently that's the kitten's name now, God help us all—lets out an indignant meow that could mean protest or agreement or possibly just a demand for more attention. With cats, it's always hard to tell.
Grath sets the kitten down, where it immediately tries to bat at a stray blueberry.
"No," Grath says. Firm. He redirects Pebble with one massive finger. "Not for cats."
The oven timer beeps. I pull out the scones, golden and perfect, and set them on the cooling rack.
"Hungry?"
"Always."
I plate two scones, add butter, slide one across the counter to him.
He takes a bite. Closes his eyes. Makes a low sound that should not be legal before seven AM.
"Good?"
He swallows, opens his eyes. There's a smear of butter at the corner of his mouth that he doesn't seem to notice. "Best thing I've eaten in weeks," he says. Not flattery, just observation, delivered in that same matter-of-fact way he says everything.
I reach for my own scone, break off a corner. Still warm. "You need to eat better."
"Can't afford better."
The words land flat. No drama, no self-pity dragging at the edges, no attempt to soften the admission or dress it up as something else. Just plain fact, spoken like he's commenting on the weather. Like this is simply how things are.
I pause mid-bite. Think about Vance and his goons and the brick-sized fists that came through my windows.
Think about Grath stepping between me and violence without hesitation, without asking for anything in return.
Think about the worn state of his clothes, the way he mentioned sleeping rough before the apartment upstairs, the careful way he approached that first meal I offered like he wasn't sure it was really meant for him.
I set down my scone. Brush flour from my fingers onto my apron, leaving white streaks across the denim.
"Well," I say, and my voice comes out firmer than I expect, "you're staying here for now. So you eat what I make. Got it? Breakfast, lunch, dinner if you're around. But you don't skip meals under my roof."
He goes very still. Just looks at me across the counter, and something shifts behind those dark eyes. Something careful and startled and maybe grateful, though he doesn't say it.
A long moment passes. Pebble chirps, paws at his wrist.
"Got it," he says finally. Quiet. Solid.
We eat in silence. It's not uncomfortable. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that happens when words aren't necessary.
Pebble investigates the butter dish. I relocate it before disaster strikes.
"You need help today?" Grath asks.
"With what?"
"Café things. Deliveries. Heavy lifting." He gestures vaguely. "I'm not good at sitting still."
I consider. Tuesday's delivery day. Flour. Sugar. Milk. All the bulk items that make my back ache.
"Actually," I say, "yeah. Truck comes at nine. If you're serious."
"Serious."
"Okay." I rinse my plate. "But first, you're learning how to make coffee."
He blinks. "Why?"
"Because if you're going to lurk around my café, you're going to be useful."
"I don't lurk."
"You absolutely lurk."
He doesn't argue.
At 8:15, I stand Grath in front of the espresso machine.
"This," I say, patting the gleaming chrome beast, "is Beatrice."
"You named your machine."
"Everyone names their machine. It's a sign of respect." I cross my arms, daring him to argue the point.
He eyes Beatrice like she might bite him. Studies her chrome curves and brass fittings with the wariness of someone facing down an unfamiliar opponent. "What does she do?"
"Makes espresso. Which is the foundation of every drink on the menu." I pat Beatrice's side again, proprietary. "Lattes, cappuccinos, macchiatos—all start here."
I walk him through the basics, pointing as I go. Portafilter. Grounds. Tamp. Lock. Pull. The rhythm of it so automatic for me that breaking it into discrete steps feels strange, like explaining how to breathe.
"Seems simple," he says, which tells me he hasn't understood a word.
"It's not."
I hand him the portafilter, watching his massive hand close around the handle. "Fill it. Level scoop."
He takes it carefully, turning it over once like he's examining a weapon. His hand dwarfs the handle completely. He scoops grounds from the grinder, overfills by half, dark powder mounding up over the basket's rim.
"Less."
He dumps some back into the grinder with all the caution of someone defusing a bomb. Tries again. This time it's closer, though still slightly generous.
"Now tamp. Firm, even pressure."
He picks up the tamper. It looks like a toy in his palm. He presses down, and the tamp disappears entirely into his fist, swallowed by green-gray fingers. There's a faint cracking sound from somewhere inside the portafilter.
I wince. "Gently."
"That was gentle."
"Gentler, then."
He tries again, visibly restraining himself. The puck comes out lopsided but intact, which I'm counting as a minor victory.
"Good enough. Now lock it in and hit the button."
He locks the portafilter into place, the motion awkward but successful. Presses the button. Espresso begins to stream out, twin ribbons of dark liquid pooling in the cup below.
Dark. Aromatic. The crema actually looks decent. Almost perfect, really.
"See?" I say, unable to keep the note of approval from my voice. "Easy."