3. Maris #2
He looks pleased. Almost smug. A tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Now make another one."
The smugness vanishes immediately.
By the third attempt, there's coffee grounds everywhere, on the floor, and somehow on Grath's shirt. Pebble's relocated to the top of the pastry case, watching with what I can only describe as feline judgment.
"How," Grath says, staring at the machine, "does something this small make this much mess?"
"Talent."
He turns his glare on Beatrice, mouth pressed in a hard line. She hisses a jet of steam back at him, indignant and mechanical. The sound cuts through the quiet of the café like a tiny scream.
"She doesn't like you," I observe, crossing my arms.
"Feeling's mutual," he mutters, eyeing the machine like it personally insulted his ancestors.
I sigh. "Try again. Slower this time. Actually pay attention to what you're doing instead of trying to intimidate an inanimate object."
He does. Grounds spray across the counter in a fine dark mist. Some land in the drip tray. Some land on the floor. A few specks settle on Pebble's head where she's perched on the pastry case. She flicks an ear in disgust but doesn't move.
Again.
More mess. Less espresso. A faint growl of frustration from somewhere deep in Grath's chest.
I can't watch this anymore.
I step in. Move to stand next to him, close enough that my shoulder brushes his arm. The heat of him is immediate and distracting. I ignore it. Reach up and guide his hand, massive, rough-knuckled, clenched too tight around the portafilter.
"Like this," I say quietly, adjusting his grip. "Light touch. Don't force it. You're not trying to crush it into submission. You're just... coaxing it. Gently."
His hand's warm under mine. Rough. Scarred knuckles. I can feel the tension in his wrist, the way he's trying too hard.
"Relax," I murmur, my fingers still wrapped around his wrist, feeling the thundering pulse beneath his skin. "You're fighting it. Just... breathe."
He exhales, long and slow, and I feel the shift immediately—the way his shoulders drop half an inch, the way his grip loosens just enough. The tension that had been coiling through his forearm unwinds, muscle by muscle.
"Good," I say quietly. "Now. Together."
We tamp the grounds. His hand follows mine, learning the rhythm, the pressure. I guide the portafilter into place, our movements synchronized now, no longer clumsy. Lock it in. The machine hisses softly as we pull the shot.
This one's perfect.
Rich, dark, with that golden crema on top that means everything came together just right. The kind of shot that makes all the mess and frustration worth it.
Grath stares at it like it's a miracle. Like we've just pulled moonlight out of thin air instead of a single decent espresso.
"You did it," I say, a smile tugging at my mouth despite myself.
"We did it," he corrects, his voice low and oddly reverent.
That's when I realize I'm still holding his hand. My palm pressed against his knuckles, my fingers curled around his wrist where his pulse beats steady and warm.
I snatch my hand back like I've been burned.
I let go. Step back. Wipe my palms on my apron even though they're not dirty.
"Right," I say. "So now you know espresso. Congratulations. You've achieved mediocrity."
"Thanks."
"Don't let it go to your head."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
The delivery truck honks outside.
Grath carries four fifty-pound flour sacks at once. No visible strain. No hesitation. Just hoists them onto his shoulders like they're filled with cotton instead of grain, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he adjusts the weight.
I carry a clipboard and try very hard not to stare.
It's not working.
"Where?" he asks, barely winded.
"Storeroom. Back left corner, on the bottom shelf." I tap my pen against the board. Professional. Detached. Definitely not noticing the way his forearms flex when he shifts his grip.
He disappears through the narrow doorway, has to duck, turn slightly sideways—and I hear the soft thud of sacks being stacked. Returns thirty seconds later, empty-handed and ready.
"More?"
I point to the sugar. The rice. The industrial-sized cans of tomatoes I use for the daily soup special. "All of it. And be careful with the tomatoes, if those cans dent, they leak."
He nods once, already loading up. Sacks under each arm.
Cans balanced against his chest. He moves with the kind of efficiency that speaks to years of hard labor, the kind where you learn to conserve energy and motion because wasting either could mean the difference between surviving a shift and collapsing halfway through.
He hauls it all in two trips. Not three. Not four. Two.
The delivery driver watches from the doorway, coffee in hand, genuinely impressed.
"You hiring?" he asks me, nodding toward Grath's retreating back.
"He's temporary," I say, maybe a little too quickly.
The driver grins. "Shame. Guy like that'd be worth his weight."
Grath reappears, pausing. His gaze flicks between us, curious but not suspicious. "What else?"
I consult the clipboard, running my finger down the list. "Milk. Heavy cream. Oat milk. Almond milk. All the refrigerated stuff. It's in the cooler boxes by the truck."
He nods and heads outside.
I watch him go. Can't help it.
The driver catches my expression and grins wider. I ignore him. Focus on checking off items with aggressive precision.
By 9:45, everything's inside, sorted, and organized exactly the way I like it. Dairy in the walk-in. Dry goods stacked by type and date. Cans arranged label-out, oldest in front. The delivery driver leaves with a friendly wave and a knowing smirk I choose to pretend I didn't see.
Grath's leaning against the counter when I finish the invoice, not even winded. There's a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, but his breathing's perfectly steady. He could probably do the whole thing again without breaking a sweat.
"Useful enough?" he asks. There's a challenge in his tone. Playful, almost.
"Tolerable," I say, signing my name with a flourish.
He grins. An actual grin. Teeth and all. The mismatched ones that should look awkward but somehow just make him look more real. More him.
It does something deeply annoying to my pulse. A skip. A flutter. The kind of reaction I haven't had since high school, and even then it was never this immediate, this visceral.
I look away quickly. Focus on the clipboard like it's the most fascinating document ever produced. Study the itemized list like I'm going to be quizzed on it later.
"You want payment?" I ask, still not looking at him.
"No."
"Grath—"
"I'm staying in your storeroom. Eating your food." His voice is firm. Decided. "Least I can do is carry heavy things."
"That's not—"
"Fair?" He crosses his arms, and I can hear the fabric of his shirt pull tight across his shoulders. "It is. Don't argue."
I want to. I want to tell him that labor has value, that just because he's crashing here doesn't mean he owes me manual work, that I'm not the kind of person who extracts unpaid service from people in vulnerable positions.
But he's got that look. The stubborn one. Jaw set. Eyes steady. The look that says he's already made up his mind and I'd have better luck moving a boulder with a teaspoon than changing it.
"Fine," I say, finally meeting his gaze. "But you're still learning latte art."
His brow furrows. "What's latte art?"
I smile. A real one this time, not the half-hearted thing I've been managing all morning. "You'll see."
By noon, the café's full. Regulars cluster at their usual tables. Cats roam. Pebble's claimed a sunny spot on the windowsill and refuses to move.
Grath's wiping down tables. He's too big for the space, keeps bumping into chairs, but he's careful. Deliberate.
Mrs. Abernathy waves him over with the imperious gesture of someone who's been issuing summons from café corners for forty years.
"You're the one from the video," she says, not a question. Never a question with Mrs. Abernathy.
He nods, cloth still in hand, looking like he's bracing for impact.
"Good for you. Standing up at that meeting." She pats his arm—has to reach up to do it, her wrinkled hand barely spanning half his forearm. "We need more people like you. People willing to speak plain truth instead of dancing around it with politics and nonsense."
His ears go red. The tips first, then the flush creeps down toward his jaw. "Just said what's true."
"Still. Brave." She says it like she's conferring a medal. "Especially with that lot staring daggers at you."
He ducks his head, mumbles something that might be gratitude or deflection, and retreats to the kitchen like a man who's just survived enemy fire.
I'm pulling shots, double espresso for Gumbo, oat milk latte for the student in the corner, when Grath appears beside me. He moves quietly for someone his size, but I've started to notice the tells. The shift in air. The faint creak of floorboards.
"People keep talking to me," he says, voice low and faintly bewildered.
"That's what people do." I tamp down the grounds, lock the portafilter into place. "Especially when you go viral defending their neighborhood."
"I don't like it."
"You don't have to like it. Just smile and nod." Steam hisses as I froth milk, the sound filling the brief silence.
"I don't smile."
"You smiled this morning." I glance at him sidelong, catch the way his expression shifts, caught, cornered.
His ears go redder. Impressively red. "That was different."
"How?"
He doesn't answer. Just picks up a rag and starts wiping down Beatrice with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for defusing bombs. Every valve, every dial, given meticulous attention he absolutely does not need to give.
I hide my smile behind the rim of a cup, pretending to check the crema.
The door chimes. Bright. Cheerful. Utterly at odds with the way my stomach suddenly clenches.
I glance up.