5. Maris
MARIS
The choir collapses at seven forty-three.
Not metaphorically. Literally. The whole wooden riser buckles under the weight of Mrs. Henderson's elaborate nautical-themed propsa six-foot papier-maché lighthouse, three anchors, and what appears to be an entire fishing net strung with battery-powered fairy lights.
The crash sounds like the apocalypse. Wood splintering. Glass shattering. Mrs. Henderson's soprano hitting a pitch I didn't know human vocal cords could reach.
"Everyone okay?" I'm already moving. Weaving through the masses. My heart hammering against my ribs.
Grath's there first. Of course he is. Lifting the riser off Mr. Yamada with one hand. Checking for injuries with the other. His face set in grim concentration.
"I'm fine. I'm fine." Mr. Yamada waves him off. Embarrassed but unharmed. "Just bruised dignity."
The crowd murmurs. Some concerned. Some filming. Because of course they're filming.
I force a smile. Bright. Reassuring. "Well. That's one way to make an entrance. Who's ready for refreshments?"
Nervous laughter ripples through the room.
Crisis contained. Sort of.
Then the lights flicker.
Once. Twice. Plunge us into complete darkness.
Someone screams. Someone else giggles. The kitten—Pebble, now wearing a tiny bow tie for the occasion—yowls from somewhere near the counter.
"Breaker probably tripped." Nora's voice cuts through the chaos. Calm. Practical. "Maris, where's your panel?"
"Back hall. I'll check it."
I fumble for my phone. Use the flashlight to navigate through the packed café. Bodies pressing close. Heat and perfume and nervous energy thick in the air.
Grath's beside me before I ask. Solid. Steady. "I'll come."
"You should stay. Reassure people."
"You need light. I'm light."
I glance up. He's holding his phone high. The glow illuminating his face from below. Casting sharp shadows across his tusks and jaw.
"That's not how grammar works."
"Grammar can wait."
Fair point.
We push through to the back hall. The temperature drops ten degrees. Quieter here. Just our breathing and the muffled buzz of crowd noise beyond the door.
I pop open the breaker panel. Scan the switches. "There. Kitchen circuit."
I flip it. Nothing.
Flip it again. Still nothing.
"Something's wrong with the line itself."
Grath peers over my shoulder. Frowns. "The keg."
"What?"
"Earlier. When we moved it. Pushed it against the wall. Maybe pinched a wire."
My stomach drops. "The beer keg?"
"Yeah."
The beer keg. The centerpiece of our beverage service. The thing keeping half the attendees happy and generous with their wallets.
"Okay. Okay. We can fix this." I'm already moving. Back through the hall. Into the kitchen. Grath follows. His bulk blocking most of the light but somehow still comforting.
The kitchen's a disaster. Half-prepped appetizer trays. Dishes piled in the sink. And yes. The massive beer keg shoved against the far wall. Right where the outlet is.
I crouch down. Peer behind it. Sure enough, the plug's wedged at an angle. Wire bent. Probably damaged the internal connection.
"We need to move it. Check the outlet. Pray nothing's fried."
Grath nods. Grabs the keg with both hands. Muscles bunching under his shirt. Lifts it like it weighs nothing.
I should focus on the electrical issue. On the outlet. On fixing the problem.
Instead I watch the way his shoulders flex. The line of his spine. The easy strength in every movement.
Get it together, Maris.
I crouch lower. Examine the outlet. The plastic casing's cracked. Wire exposed. Not sparking, thank god, but definitely not safe.
"It's bad?"
"It's not good. I need to kill power to this whole section. Swap the outlet. Hope we didn't blow anything else."
"Tools?"
"Under the sink."
He retrieves the toolbox. Hands it to me. Our fingers brush. Brief. Electric.
I yank my hand back. Pop open the toolbox. Rummage for the screwdriver and wire strippers.
Focus. Power off. Panel's right there.
I flip the main kitchen breaker. Plunging us into deeper darkness.
Grath adjusts his phone light. Angles it so I can see.
"Thanks."
"You're good at this."
"What, basic home repair?"
"Fixing things. Staying calm."
I snort. Unscrew the faceplate. "I'm internally screaming."
"You hide it well."
"Years of practice."
The old outlet comes free. Wires twisted and melted at the ends. Worse than I thought.
I strip the damaged sections. Twist new connections. Hands steady even though my pulse is sprinting.
Grath watches. Silent. Attentive.
"You're staring."
"You're interesting."
"I'm elbow-deep in electrical work during a fundraiser that's currently falling apart."
"Still interesting."
Heat crawls up my neck. I focus harder on the wiring. Green to ground. White to neutral. Black to hot.
"How'd you learn this?" he asks.
"Dad. Before he decided I was better suited for corporate law than actual useful skills."
"He's wrong."
Simple. Direct. No hesitation.
Something cracks open within me. Just a little.
"Yeah. Well. He's not here to see it." I secure the new outlet. Test the connections. Looks solid. "Flip the breaker."
Grath moves to the panel. Flips the switch.
Lights blaze. Refrigerator hums back to life. The exhaust fan kicks on with a wheeze.
"Success." I stand. Dust off my knees. "Now we just need to reconnect the keg and pray the line didn't freeze."
Grath maneuvers the keg back into position. Gentler this time. I plug it in. Check the tap line. Pressure gauge climbs.
"We're good. We're actually good."
Relief floods through me. Sharp and dizzying.
Then the tap explodes.
Not explodes. That's dramatic. But the line detaches. Beer sprays everywhere. Cold and foamy and absolutely drenching both of us.
I yelp. Lunge for the shutoff valve. Slip on the wet floor. Grath catches me. One arm around my waist. Solid. Steady.
We freeze.
His arm's still around me. My hands braced against his chest. Both of us dripping beer. Breathing hard.
His eyes meet mine. Dark. Intense. Closer than they should be.
"You okay?" His voice is low. Rough around the edges.
"Yeah. Fine. Wet. But fine."
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "You smell like a brewery."
"So do you."
The kitchen door swings open. Nora leans in. Takes one look at us—soaked, pressed together, faces inches apart—and grins like she's won the lottery.
"Lights are back. Choir's regrouping. How's the beer situation?"
I step back. Grath's arm drops. Cold air rushes between us.
"Minor setback. We'll have it running in five minutes."
"Uh huh. Five minutes. Sure." Nora's grin doesn't fade. "I'll tell everyone to switch to wine meanwhile."
She disappears before I can respond.
I grab a towel. Wipe my face. My arms. Utterly pointless given how soaked my shirt is.
Grath does the same. His shirt clings. Translucent in places. I can see the lines of old scars. The shape of muscle underneath.
Stop looking.
I focus on the tap line. Reattach the coupling. Tighten the clamp. Test it carefully.
Beer flows. Smooth. No leaks.
"There." I straighten up, wiping my hands on the towel one more time. "Crisis averted. No more beer fountain. No more drowning in pilsner."
He's watching me. That steady, direct gaze that makes me feel exposed and seen all at once.
"You're good under pressure." His voice carries that note of honest observation. No flattery. Just fact as he sees it.
I huff a laugh. Toss the damp towel onto the counter. "Don't be fooled. I panic later. Privately. Usually with ice cream and a locked door and possibly some creative swearing."
His mouth quirks. The almost-smile that's becoming familiar. "Secretly falling apart later. I know that one."
He laughs. Genuine. Deep. The sound vibrates through the small space.
I catch myself smiling. Real smiling. The kind that hurts my cheeks.
"We should get back out there."
My voice comes out steadier than I feel. The tap line drips condensation onto the floor between us, each drop marking time in this cramped back room that suddenly feels smaller than it did thirty seconds ago.
"Yeah."
I can hear the muffled sounds of the fundraiser beyond the door. Laughter. The scrape of chairs. Someone's terrible rendition of a holiday carol that died for this. Out there, the world continues. In here, time's gone thick and slow, like honey poured through winter air.
"Maris."
My name in his mouth does something to my pulse. Something I don't want to examine too closely.
"Yeah?"
I force myself to see his eyes. That dark, steady gaze that sees too much. That makes me feel like I'm standing in spotlight and shadow all at once, exposed and protected in the same breath.
"After this. After the fundraiser." He pauses. I watch him search for words, watch the small tells I'm learning to read. The slight tension in his jaw. The way his fingers flex once at his side. "Can we talk? Really talk?"
My heart does something complicated. Flip and squeeze and stutter all at once. A rhythm that feels like panic and hope tangled together, indistinguishable from each other. Like maybe they've always been the same thing.
"About what?"
I know what. Of course I know what. But I need to hear him say it. Need to know I'm not imagining this pull between us, this gravity that keeps drawing me into his orbit no matter how many times I tell myself to step back.
"This." His voice drops lower. "Us. Whatever this is."
The honesty in his voice knocks the air from my lungs.
No games. No careful deflection. Just raw truth laid bare between us, sharp-edged and glinting in the fluorescent light.
This is what terrifies me about him. Not the size or the scars or the reputation.
This. The way he refuses to hide. The way he makes me want to stop hiding too.
I swallow hard. Taste beer and possibility and the metallic edge of fear.
"Yeah." The word comes out quieter ed. I clear my throat. Try again. "Okay. We can talk."
His shoulders relax. Just slightly. "Good."