4. Grath #2
"So what, you're just leaving?" Her voice cracks. Anger there, yes, but underneath it, something rawer. "You're going to run?"
"To protect you."
"I don't need protecting! I need—" She stops. Swallows hard. Starts again, quieter. "You can't just disappear every time things get hard."
"I'm not disappearing. I'm leaving before they destroy everything you built."
"They're already trying to destroy it! You leaving won't stop that. It'll just prove them right."
She's shaking. Gripping my phone so tight I hear the case creak.
I want to reach for her. Pull her close. Promise it'll be fine.
But I learned a long time ago that promises are just pretty lies people tell before things fall apart.
"I can't let you lose the café because of me," I say.
"And I can't let you believe you're only worth keeping around when it's convenient."
The words land like a punch. Steal my breath.
She sets my phone down. Steps closer. Close enough I can smell espresso and vanilla and that soap she uses.
"You're not property," she says. Quiet. Fierce. "You're not something I keep because it benefits me. You're—" She stops. Looks away. Looks back. "You're Grath. You're my neighbor. My friend. You're the idiot who brings crushed flowers and talks to the kitten in nursery rhymes."
"Maris—"
"No. Listen." She pokes my chest. Small finger against solid muscle. Shouldn't feel like anything. Feels like everything. "It doesn’t matter what some fake documents say. I don't care what the internet thinks. You're not leaving."
"If I stay—"
"We fight. Together. Like adults. Like partners."
Partners.
The word sits strange in my mouth. Foreign. Fragile.
"I don't know how to do that," I admit.
"Neither do I." She smiles. Small. Sad. Real. "Guess we'll figure it out."
The kitten meows from the windowsill. Demanding attention. Demanding dinner.
Maris laughs. Watery but genuine.
"See? Pebble agrees. You're staying."
I look at her. At the café. At the kitten.
At the good things.
The ones I always thought I'd have to run from to keep safe.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay?"
"I'll stay. We'll fight."
She nods. Lets out a breath she's been holding.
Then reaches up and touches my face. Palm against my cheek. Thumb brushing the scar near my temple.
"Thank you," she whispers.
For what, I want to ask. For not running? For being here? For wanting her enough to risk everything falling apart?
But she's looking at me like the answer's obvious. Like staying is the bravest thing I could do.
Maybe it is.
Maris's hand on my cheek feels like a brand. Hot. Permanent. The kind of mark that doesn't wash off.
I step back. Not because I want to, but because if I don't, I'll do something stupid. Pull her close. Press my forehead to hers. Tell her things I don't have words for yet.
"We should plan," I say. Voice rough. "Figure out the fight."
She nods. Drops her hand. Wipes it on her apron like she needs something to do with it now that it's not touching me.
"Right. Plan. Yes." She moves to the counter. Grabs a notepad and pen. Clicks the pen three times. "Okay. So. Vance is claiming fraud. We prove you're legitimate."
"How?"
"Documentation. The original deed transfer. Receipts. Witnesses who saw you move in. We build a paper trail that's impossible to fake."
I gaze at her while she writes. Small, neat letters marching down the page in organized rows. She underlines twice. Circles something. Adds a star.
"What about the forum post?" I ask.
"We counter it. Public statement. Social media. Show people the real documents, the truth. Turn the narrative around."
"And if they don't believe us?"
Her pen stills. She looks up.
"Then we make them want to believe us. Show them who you really are. Not the scary orc squatter. The guy who saves kittens. Who helps at the café. Who's part of this community."
"I'm not good at that," I say. Admitting it tastes bitter. "People stuff. Social things. I mess it up."
"So we practice." She taps the pen against her lips. Thinking. "We host an event. Here. At the café. Invite everyone. Show them you belong."
My chest tightens. "Like a party?"
"Like a fundraiser. We say it's to support local businesses affected by development pressure. Which is true. But really it's about proving community support. Getting people on our side before Vance can twist the story further."
The idea makes my skin itch. All those people. Watching. Judging. Looking for reasons to believe the lies.
But Maris's eyes are bright. Focused. She believes this will work.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay?"
"We do the fundraiser. I'll try. The people thing."
Her smile breaks wide. Real. "We'll practice first. I'll teach you."
"Teach me what?"
"Charm." She says it like it's simple. Like charm is something you learn instead of something you're born with.
I stare at her.
She stares back.
"Maris, I don't think—"
"Nope. We're doing this. Starting now." She comes around the counter. Points to a chair. "Sit."
I sit. Chair creaks under my weight.
She stands in front of me. Arms crossed. Studying me like I'm a puzzle she's determined to solve.
"First rule," Maris says, and there's a brightness in her voice that sounds like hope. Dangerous thing, hope. "Smile."
I pull my lips back. Show her what passes for pleasant.
Her expression shifts. Not quite horror. Close enough.
"Not like that." She waves a hand between us, like she's erasing something in the air. "Like you're actually happy to see someone. You know. Welcoming."
"I am happy." The words come out defensive. Rough. "This is what happy looks like."
"That's..." She pauses. Searches for the word. Finds it. "Terrifying. That's absolutely terrifying. Try softer. Less teeth. Maybe a lot less teeth."
I make the attempt. Pull the corners of my mouth up. Keep my tusks hidden behind my lips as much as anatomy allows. The muscles in my face protest. This isn't an expression they're used to holding.
She winces. Actually winces. Like I've done something painful to look at.
"Okay." Her voice is careful now. Gentle. The kind of gentle you use on wounded things. "Maybe we skip smiling for now. Work up to it. What else can you do? Eye contact? That's good, right? You're good at eye contact?"
I nod. Eye contact I can manage.
"Handshakes?" She's grasping now. Looking for anything that might work. "Do you know how to shake hands?"
"I know how to shake hands." I'm not completely without social graces. I've been in this world long enough to learn the basics.
"Show me."
I stand. The chair scrapes against the floor. I extend my hand. Palm out. Fingers straight. Just like I've seen humans do a thousand times.
She takes it. Her hand disappears into mine. Small. Fragile. Warm.
I grip. Squeeze. Firm. Confident. The way a handshake is supposed to feel.
Her face drains of color. Goes white as bone. "Ow, ow, ow, stop, stop—"
I release her like she's caught fire. Like her skin has burned me. "Sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean—"
"It's fine. Just. Lighter. Like you're holding an egg. A very fragile egg that you don't want to crush into dust."
We try again. This time I barely squeeze at all.
"Better," she says. Flexes her fingers. "Though maybe a touch firmer. Middle ground between bone-crushing and dead fish."
I have no idea what a dead fish handshake feels like, but I adjust anyway.
"There," she says. "Perfect. See? You're learning."
The praise shouldn't feel as good as it does. Warm. Solid. Like something I can hold onto.
"What else?" I ask.
"Small talk. Can you do small talk?"
"What's small talk?"
She blinks. "Conversation. Light. Easy. Weather, hobbies, weekend plans. That kind of thing."
"Why would I talk about weather? Everyone knows what weather is. They're standing in it."
"It's not about the weather. It's about being friendly. Approachable. Building rapport."
The words sound foreign. Like she's speaking a language I never learned.
"Pretend I'm a customer," she says. "You're at the counter. I walk in. What do you say?"
I think. "Do you want coffee?"
"No. I mean, yes, but that's not small talk. That's just taking an order."
"What else is there?"
She sighs. Rubs her temples. "Okay. Let's try this. I walk in. You say, 'Good morning. How are you today?'"
I repeat the words slowly, testing each one on my tongue. "Good morning. How are you today."
The sentence falls flat. Dead air between us.
"With a question mark," Maris says, her voice tightening at the edges. "Like you're actually asking. Like you care about the answer."
The suggestion makes no sense. "Why would I want to know how they are? I don't know them. They're strangers walking through a door."
"Because it's polite!" Her hands fly up, exasperation written in every line of her body. The motion sends a faint scent of motor oil and vanilla across the space between us. She smells like contradictions. I notice that more than I should.
"Polite," I echo. The word tastes strange. Hollow. A shell with nothing inside.
"Yes. Polite. You ask because it's what people do. It makes them feel welcome. Seen." She's looking at me like I'm missing something obvious, something everyone else was born understanding.
Maybe I was. Maybe that part of me got burned away before I could learn it. Before I became this.
I try again, forcing my voice to curve upward at the end. "Good morning. How are you today?"
It still sounds wrong. A poor copy of something real.
Pebble meows from the windowsill. Judging us. Probably laughing.
Maris takes a breath. Lets it out slow. "You know what? Let's practice something else. Compliments. Can you compliment someone?"
"Your hands fix things," I say. "I like that."
She freezes. Color rises in her cheeks. Fast. "That's. Um. That's actually really sweet. But maybe something less. Intense? For strangers?"
"What's intense about it?"
"It's very direct. Personal. Try something neutral. Like, 'Nice jacket,' or 'I like your hair.'"