7. Maris #2
"Cats like fish. Maybe people do too." Even as I say it, I know how ridiculous it sounds. My cheeks flush despite the cold wind whipping across the rooftop.
He stares at me for a long moment, unblinking, his dark eyes fixed on mine with that particular blend of bewilderment and concern that I'm starting to recognize as his signature look when I've said something especially absurd. "That is the worst logic I've ever heard."
I cross my arms defensively, the fabric of my jacket crinkling. "You have a better idea?"
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the distant hum of traffic and the wind rattling the loose vent covers.
"That's what I thought." I turn away, busying myself with arranging our makeshift surveillance equipment, determined not to look at his eyes again.
We string up the tarp between the vents, creating a small shelter that blocks the worst of the wind. I settle in behind it, pulling out a pair of binoculars I'd borrowed from the supply closet. Grath lowers himself beside me, his bulk taking up most of the available space.
Our knees touch. Our shoulders press together. He radiates warmth like a furnace, and I'm suddenly very aware of how cold the night has gotten.
I lift the binoculars to my eyes and focus on the window across the gap.
Janelle sits at her desk, phone pressed to her ear. Her expression is animated, her free hand gesturing as she speaks. I can't hear the words, but the body language reads as agitated.
"See anything?" Grath's breath ghosts across my ear, making me shiver.
"She's on the phone. Looks upset."
"Good."
Minutes pass. Janelle paces. Sits. Paces again. At one point she throws a pen across the room with enough force that I see it bounce off the far wall.
"Definitely upset," I murmur.
Grath shifts beside me, trying to find a comfortable position in the cramped space. His elbow jabs my ribs.
"Ow."
"Sorry."
He adjusts again. Now his knee digs into my thigh.
"You're taking up all the room."
"There is no room."
"Exactly."
He huffs, then goes still. Perfectly, unnaturally still, like he's trying to take up as little space as possible despite being roughly the size of a refrigerator.
I glance at him, lowering the binoculars for a moment. His jaw is clenched, his shoulders hunched at an awkward angle that can't possibly be sustainable. "You okay?"
"Fine." The word comes out tight, clipped.
"You look uncomfortable."
"I'm very uncomfortable." He says it flatly, matter-of-fact, like he's reporting the weather.
"You can move, you know. Adjust. Whatever."
"You said I'm taking up all the room." There's something almost wounded in his tone, defensive in that earnest way he gets when he thinks he's done something wrong.
"I didn't mean freeze like a statue." I am exasperated. "I just meant—I don't know. Be reasonable about it. We're both stuck in here."
He relaxes slightly, and his arm settles against mine. The contact is warm and solid and strangely reassuring.
We fall into silence, watching the window. Janelle makes another call. Then another. Her movements grow sharper, more agitated.
"She's planning something," I say.
"Something bad."
"Something we need to stop."
Grath nods, his jaw tight. Then, quietly, "What if we can't?"
The question catches me off guard. I lower the binoculars and turn to look at him.
"What?"
"What if we can't stop her. What if she wins and you lose the café." His eyes are dark in the dim light, his expression unreadable. "What then?"
My stomach twists. The fear I've been pushing down for days surges up, sharp and cold.
"I don't know."
"You've thought about it."
"Of course I've thought about it."
"And?"
I swallow hard. "And it terrifies me. This place. It's all I have. It's the only thing I've ever built that's mine. If I lose it—"
The words stick on my tongue, tangled up with all the half-formed fears I've been too busy to articulate.
I weigh the binoculars in my hands, at the worn rubber grips and the smudge of flour I must have left on the lens days ago.
Such a small, stupid detail to focus on, but it's easier than looking at Grath. Easier than saying the truth out loud.
Grath waits. Patient and still beside me, his breathing slow and even. He doesn't push. Doesn't try to fill the silence with platitudes or reassurances. Just sits there, solid and warm, like he has all the time in the world for me to find the words.
Finally, I force them out.
"If I lose it, I've failed," I finish, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Failed the town. Failed the cats. Failed everyone who believed in me.
Failed myself." Each word feels like admitting defeat, like speaking the fear makes it more real, more inevitable.
My fingers tighten on the binoculars until my knuckles ache.
"You haven't failed," Grath says quietly.
I swallow hard against the tightness in my body. "Not yet."
"Not ever." His voice is firm. Final. Like he's stating a fact rather than an opinion. "You work harder than anyone I've met. You care more. You don't give up even when things are bad. That's not failing."
"It is if I lose everything anyway."
"Then you rebuild."
I laugh. It comes out bitter and sharp. "Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"You make it sound easy."
"It's not easy. It's just. What you do. When things break." He shifts, turning to face me more fully. "I've lost everything before. More than once. Thought it would kill me. But I'm still here. Still breathing. Still trying."
The honesty in his voice wrecks me.
"What if trying isn't enough?"
"Then you tried. That's more than most people do."
I look at him. Really look at him. This man who appeared in my life like a storm, unexpected and overwhelming, who's somehow become essential in the span of days.
"I'm scared," I admit. "Of losing control. Of everything falling apart. Of not being enough."
"You're enough."
"You don't know that."
"I do." He reaches out, slow and careful, and takes my hand. His palm is rough and warm, his fingers curling around mine with surprising gentleness. "You're enough for me."
The words land like a physical touch, sending heat spiraling through my chest.
"Grath—"
"I'm scared too," he says. Quiet. Almost a whisper. "Of wanting this. Wanting you. Of letting myself feel things I swore I wouldn't feel again."
"Why?"
"Because people leave. Or they use you. Or they decide you're not worth the trouble." His thumb brushes across my knuckles, a soft repetitive motion. "And when they do, it hurts worse than anything physical ever could."
My throat tightens. "I won't—"
"You might. People do. But I'm still here anyway. Still wanting this even though it scares me. Because you're. You're worth being scared for."
The tarp flaps in the wind. Below us, a car alarm goes off, then cuts out abruptly. Across the gap, Janelle's light flickers.
None of it matters.
All that matters is the warmth of Grath's hand in mine and the raw honesty in his eyes.
"I don't want to lose you," I say.
"You won't."
"You can't promise that."
"I can promise I'll try. That I'll stay as long as you'll have me. That's all anyone can promise."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
I lean forward. Slow. Giving him time to pull away.
He doesn't.
Our lips meet. Soft at first. Tentative. Like we're both testing the boundaries of this thing between us, seeing if it's real or just adrenaline and proximity.
It's real.
The kiss deepens. His free hand comes up to cup my jaw, his touch impossibly gentle for someone so large. I sink into it, into him, letting go of the tight control I've been clinging to for days.
When we finally pull apart, we're both breathing hard.
The kitten, who apparently followed us up the fire escape without either of us noticing, chirps from its spot near the fish bin. It pads over on silent paws and curls into the small space between our legs, purring loud enough to vibrate the air.
"It approves," Grath says.
"It's biased."
"It has good taste."
I laugh. The sound is light and genuine, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Across the gap, Janelle's office goes dark.
We watch the window. Watch the building. And for the first time in days, the fear loosens its grip just enough to let me breathe.