4. Grath #3
I study her. "But who cares about the jackets. And your hair's always the same. Messy. Good messy. I like it messy."
I watch the color climb higher in her skin, spreading from her cheeks down into the hollow of her throat. A tide of heat beneath all that paleness. I can't look away from it. Can't stop cataloguing the way it blooms.
"Grath." My name comes out soft. Half warning, half something else.
"What?" I don't understand what I've done wrong this time. The air between us feels thick suddenly. Charged.
"You can't tell customers you like their hair messy."
The statement lands flat. Final. Like she's explaining a law of nature I somehow missed.
"Why not?" It's a genuine question. I want to understand. I'm trying.
Her lips part. Close again. She's searching for words, and I see her struggle with the same focus I bring to everything. Too much focus. That's probably part of the problem.
"Because it's..." She trails off. Tries again. "It's too much. Too familiar."
Too much. I've heard that before. About my staring. About the questions I ask. About the way I stand too close or not close enough, never quite calibrated right. Always some invisible line I can't see until I've already crossed it.
My frown settles in, that familiar weight between my brows. "So I lie? Say nice things I don't mean?" The idea sits wrong in my mouth. Sour. I've done enough lying. Been enough things I'm not.
"No." She shakes her head, quick and firm. "You just..." Her hands move, like she's trying to shape the concept in the air between us. "Find something true that's also appropriate."
The distinction makes no sense to me. True is true. Why does appropriate matter?
But Maris looks flustered and determined and I want to make this work for her, so I try.
"Okay," I say. "I'll practice appropriate compliments."
"Great. Let's roleplay. I'm Mrs. Henderson from down the street. What do you say to me?"
I look at her. Think about Mrs. Henderson. Old. Judgmental. Always clutches her purse when I walk by.
"Your cat's fat," I say.
Maris's mouth falls open. "What? No! Why would you say that?"
"It's true. Mr. Whiskers weighs at least twenty pounds. She feeds him too much."
"You don't tell someone their cat is fat!"
"Even if it's unhealthy?"
"Especially then! Find something nice. Something complimentary."
I think harder. "Her garden doesn't have as many weeds as last month?"
Maris drops her face into her hands. Laughs. The sound comes out strangled. Helpless.
"I'm terrible at this," I say.
She looks up. Eyes wet from laughing. "You really are. It's kind of adorable."
"Adorable doesn't win people over."
"No. But genuine does." She steps closer. "Here's the thing. You don't have to be smooth. You don't have to say perfect things. You just have to be yourself. The real you. The one who talks to kittens and brings crushed flowers and says what he means."
"That's what got me in trouble in the first place."
"No. Vance got you in trouble. Your honesty is what made people like you. The video went viral because it was real. You were real. Don't lose that trying to be something you're not."
I want to believe her. Want to think being myself is enough.
But the arena taught me different. Taught me that real gets you hurt. Gets you killed.
Still. For Maris, I'll try.
"Okay," I say. "I'll be real. At the fundraiser. All of it."
She nods. Satisfied. "Good. Now let's practice hosting. You'll need to greet people at the door. Make them feel welcome."
The next hour blurs into a series of disasters.
I practice greeting. Break the doorframe leaning on it casually.
Practice pouring coffee. Overfill three cups and flood the saucer.
Practice carrying pastries. Drop a tray. Pebble appears from nowhere to investigate the fallen scones.
"Maybe you don't pour coffee," Maris says. Sweeping up crumbs. "Or carry things. Or touch the door."
I meet her eyes, searching for instruction in the wreckage of my practice session. "What do I do then?"
"Stand there. Look friendly. Let people come to you." She says it like it's simple. Like my body knows how to be anything other than what the arena made it.
I nod. Force my spine straighter. "I can do that."
Her mouth quirks. Doubt written in the curve of it. "Can you?"
I try. Really try. Plant my feet shoulder-width apart and will the tension out of my muscles.
My shoulders drop. I let my arms hang loose at my sides instead of crossing them like armor.
Soften the hard line of my jaw, the way my mouth wants to flatten into something grim.
I think about kittens. About crushed flowers. About Maris laughing, bright and real.
She studies me. Silent. Her head tilts to one side, and I observe her gaze move over my face like she's reading something written there in a language I don't speak.
"You look like you're waiting for someone to attack you," she says finally.
The words land like a punch. "I'm relaxed."
"You're terrifying."
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. Not anger.
Shame. The bitter kind that tastes like failure.
I thought I was doing it right. Thought I'd managed to soften the edges, blur the predator lines.
But she sees through it. Sees the fighter underneath, the one who knows that standing still just makes you an easier target.
I can't unlearn survival. Can't rewire instincts beaten into bone and blood.
"I don't know how to look any other way," I admit. The truth scrapes my throat raw.
I slump. Defeated. "This won't work. People will come to the fundraiser and see exactly what Vance wants them to see. A threat. An outsider."
"Hey." She touches my arm. Light. Grounding. "They'll see what I see. Someone who's trying. Someone who cares. That's enough."
"What if it's not?"
"Then we try something else. But we don't give up."
The certainty in her voice steadies me. Makes me believe, just for a second, that maybe she's right.
"When's the fundraiser?" I ask.
"This weekend. Gives us three days to prepare. Spread the word. Bake enough pastries to feed half the town."
"I can help. With baking."
She raises an eyebrow. "Can you?"
"I can follow instructions."
"Baking's precise. Measurements matter. You crushed my hand with a handshake."
"I'll be gentle with the flour."
She laughs. Real this time. Bright. "Okay. Fine. Tomorrow we bake. Tonight we rest. Process. Figure out what documents we need to fight Vance's claim."
I nod. But remain still.
We stand there. Close. Her hand still on my arm. The café quiet around us except for Pebble's purring.
"Thank you," I say. "For believing me. For fighting."
"You don't have to thank me for basic decency."
"Yes I do. People don't usually—" I stop. Swallow. Start again. "You're different. Good different."
Her eyes soften. "You're different too."
The air thickens. Charged. Heavy with things we aren’t saying.
I should step back. Give her space. Keep this professional. Friendly.
Instead I lift my hand. Brush a streak of flour from her cheek. Her skin's warm. Soft.
Her breath catches sharp and sudden, like I've stolen the air right out of her lungs.
She doesn't step back. Doesn't pull away from where my fingers linger against the curve of her cheek, still warm from the touch that just happened, from the streak of flour I brushed away.
The space between us hums. Electric. Alive with all the words we're not saying, all the wants we're not naming.
"Grath." My name in her mouth sounds like a prayer and a warning tangled together. Breathless. Uncertain. Her pulse flutters visible at the base of her throat, a frantic rhythm I can't stop watching.
"Yeah?" My voice comes out rougher. Lower. The single syllable feels weighted with every truth I'm trying not to speak.
Her lips part. I watch the struggle play across her face, want battling sense, heat fighting caution. "We should probably..."
She trails off. Doesn't finish. Maybe because she doesn't know how to end that sentence. Maybe because finishing it means deciding what we are, what this is, what happens next.
The bell above the door shatters the moment. Bright and cheerful and utterly merciless.
We spring apart like we've been burned. Like we're sixteen and caught in a dark corner at a school dance. Guilty. Flushed. My hand drops back to my side and the loss of contact feels like amputation.
Nora strides through the doorway. Stops. Takes in the scene with one sweeping glance: Maris pink-cheeked and breathless, me standing too rigid, the space between us still crackling with interrupted something.
A slow, wicked grin spreads across Nora's face. The kind of grin that says she knows exactly what she walked in on and plans to enjoy every second of it.
"Am I interrupting something?" Pure innocence in her tone. Except for the gleam in her eyes that screams anything but.
"No," Maris says. Too fast. Too high. "Just. Planning. The fundraiser. For the thing. The community thing."
"Uh huh." Nora's grin widens. "I saw the forum post. Came to check on you both. Looks like you're handling it well."
Maris straightens. Professional mask sliding back into place. "We're fighting it. Hosting an event this weekend. Proving community support."
"Smart. I'll help. Spread the word, donate supplies, whatever you need."
"Really?"
"Of course. You're my best friend. And Grath's—" She pauses. Eyes sparkling with mischief. "Well. Grath's Grath. Can't let Vance win."
The tightness in me eases. Just slightly.
Maybe Maris is right. Maybe people will surprise me.
Maybe I won't have to fight this alone.
"Thank you," I say to Nora.
She waves it off. "Don't get mushy on me, big guy. Save it for the fundraiser. You'll need all the charm you can muster."
Maris snorts. "We're working on that. It's a process."
"I offered to talk about the weather," I say. "She said no."
Nora laughs. Full-bodied. Delighted. "Oh this is going to be fantastic. I can't wait."
Neither can I.
Terrified. Determined. Ready to prove I belong here.
Even if I have to learn to smile without looking like I want to eat someone first.