8. Grath
GRATH
The blueprints are right there. Right in front of me. Through the window. Close enough to touch if the glass wasn't in the way.
Demolition. Complete site clearance. Development timeline. Target acquisition zones.
My stomach turns.
"That's it," Maris breathes beside me. Her binoculars are pressed so hard to her face I can see the indentations forming on her skin. "That's actual proof."
"We need those papers," I say again, quiet but firm.
"We can't just—Grath, we cannot just break in. That's not how this works."
"Why not?"
She stares at me like I've suggested we burn the building down. "Because it's illegal. Because breaking and entering is a crime. Because—"
"So is what they're doing," I cut in. "Lying. Bribing. Destroying homes. That's illegal too."
"Yes. Yes, I know that. But we're trying to be the good guys here, Grath. We're better than them."
I lower my binoculars. Look at her. She's right, probably. She usually is. But the sight of those blueprints, the casual way they've mapped out the destruction of our homes, makes something hot and sharp twists in me.
Our homes. When did I start thinking of it that way?
"We could take a picture," Maris says. "If we can get a clear shot through the window."
"Too far. Glass is dirty."
"Then we wait. She has to leave eventually. Maybe she'll leave them on the desk."
"Or maybe she takes them with her."
Maris chews her bottom lip. The streetlight catches the worry lines between her eyebrows. She's thinking. Calculating. Trying to find the perfect solution that doesn't involve risk.
There isn't one. I know it. She knows it. We're backed into a corner, and the only way forward is through that dirty window on the second floor.
"I'll go," I say, and the words come out steady. Certain. Like I've already made the choice and my mouth is just catching up.
"What?" Maris turns to me fully now, her eyes wide in the dim light.
"Through the window. I'll climb up, get the papers, and come back down. Simple."
"Grath, no." She says it fast, automatic, like her body rejected the idea before her brain even finished processing it.
"Someone has to do this, Maris."
"It doesn't have to be you." But there's no conviction in her voice. She's already running the calculations, already seeing what I see—that there's no other way.
"Who else is there?" I ask quietly, not unkindly. "Who else can reach that window? Who else can move quietly enough?"
She doesn't have an answer for that. I can see her working through the options, discarding each one. We both know I'm the only one who can scale the building quickly enough to get in and out before Janelle notices.
"If you get caught—" Her voice is tight, pitched low like she's trying to keep the fear from spilling out.
"I won't." I say it firm. Final. Not because I'm certain, but because she needs to hear it said that way.
"You don't know that." She takes a half-step closer, and I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw is set. "You can't know that."
"I'll be fast." I keep my voice steady, calm. The way I used to talk to spooked horses in the stables, low and even, no sharp edges.
"Fast doesn't matter if she calls the police, Grath." The words come out clipped, each one landing like a stone. "Fast doesn't matter if you're halfway through that window when she walks in and sees you."
"Then I'll be quiet too." I meet her eyes, hold them. "Fast and quiet. Both."
Maris makes a frustrated sound. Grabs my arm. Her fingers are small and strong and I want to cover them with my own hand but now isn't the time.
"I'm serious, Grath." Her voice drops even lower, almost a whisper now, and there's something raw underneath it that makes my chest ache. "If something goes wrong, if Janelle sees you, if the fire escape gives way, if anything happens—"
"It won't." I keep my tone level, certain. The same voice I use when the kitten is scared of thunder.
"You can't promise that." She shakes her head, and a strand of hair falls loose from her bun. I watch it catch the dim light from the streetlamp below. "You can't just, you can't know what she'll do if she catches you in there."
"No," I admit, because lying to Maris has never felt right. "But I can try. I can be careful. I can make sure it works."
She stares at me. Doesn't let go of my arm.
Her eyes are fierce and worried and beautiful all at once, the kind of look that makes something twist deep in my gut.
I want to kiss her. Want to pull her close against me and promise that everything will work out, that I'll come back safe, that nothing bad will touch either of us tonight.
Instead, I settle for squeezing her hand where it rests on my forearm. Her fingers are warm even through the sleeve of my jacket.
"Stay here," I tell her quietly. "Keep watch from up top. If anything happens—if you see her coming back early, if the lights go on, anything—whistle for me."
"I can't whistle." She says it flat, matter-of-fact, and despite everything there's almost a smile trying to form at the corner of her mouth.
"Then yell."
"That defeats the entire purpose of being stealthy, Grath."
"Maris."
"Fine." She lets out a breath, sharp and frustrated. "I'll—I'll throw something. A pebble. At the window."
"Good enough." I nod once, then step back before I can lose my nerve.
I move before she can argue more. Before I can think too hard about what I'm doing. The fire escape groans under my weight but holds. I test each rung before committing. Down two floors. Across the narrow gap between buildings.
The window is old. The lock is older. I pull out the screwdriver I borrowed from the café's supply closet and work the latch.
It gives.
The window slides up with a quiet squeak that sounds deafening in the silence. I freeze. Wait. Listen.
Nothing.
I swing myself through. Land soft despite my size. The office smells like cheap perfume and printer ink. Janelle's desk is a mess of papers and coffee mugs and sticky notes.
The preliminary demolition plans are right on top of a stack of folders, edges curling slightly from age and handling. Like she wasn't even trying to hide them. Like she thought no one would dare come looking, or that she was untouchable enough not to need caution.
I grab them with both hands, fingers clumsy with adrenaline. Roll them tight, careful not to crease the paper, evidence needs to be pristine. I shove them inside my jacket, tucking them against my ribs where they won't slip free.
That's when I hear it. The soft click of a key turning in a lock.
The door opens.
Janelle stands, silhouetted by the harsh fluorescent light from the hallway behind her. For a heartbeat, we both freeze. Her eyes go wide, shock first, then recognition, then fury blazing hot and immediate. Her mouth opens, breath catching.
I move.
She screams.
I'm already halfway out the window when she grabs for her phone. My boots hit the fire escape hard enough to rattle the whole structure. Above me, Maris leans over the edge, eyes huge.
"Go! Go!"
I go.
Down the ladder. Jump the last six feet. Land hard. Pain shoots up my shins but I'm already running. Behind me, Janelle's shouts echo off the brick walls.
Maris meets me at the corner. Grabs my hand. We run together through the alley. Past the dumpsters. Around the back of the café.
We don't stop until we're behind the storage shed. Both of us panting. Hearts racing.
I pull out the blueprints. Unroll them enough to check. They're intact. Every damning detail preserved.
"You actually did it," Maris says. She's breathless. Laughing. "You insane, wonderful man, you actually did it."
"Told you I would." My lungs are still burning from the run, my pulse hammering so hard I can feel it deep in me.
"You could have been arrested." Her eyes search my face, looking for something—regret, maybe. Fear.
"But I wasn't." I tighten my grip on the blueprints, feeling the edges bite into my palm.
"You could have been hurt." There's something raw in her voice now. Something that makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.
"But I wasn't." I want to reach for her. Want to prove I'm whole and here and unharmed.
She shakes her head, but she's still smiling. The expression is lopsided, disbelieving, threaded with relief. "You're impossible."
"You like impossible." I know it's true. Can see it in the way her shoulders have loosened, in the way she's looking at me like I've done something brave instead of reckless.
"I like you." The words come out quiet. Almost too quiet. But I hear them. They settle into my bones like they've always belonged there.
Simple. True. More powerful than any poetry I could invent.
"I like you too," I say. My voice is low, earnest. I don't know how to dress up the truth in prettier words, so I don't try.
She steps closer. Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off her despite the cold spring air. Close enough that I catch the familiar scent of flour and coffee that always clings to her skin, mingled now with sweat and adrenaline.
"We should go inside," she says softly. Her gaze dips to the rolled blueprints still clutched in my fist. "Look at these properly."
"We should." I agree because it's sensible. Because it's what needs to happen next.
The space between us crackles with something electric. Something that has nothing to do with theft or evidence or Janelle's fury still echoing somewhere in the distance.
"Maris."
"Yeah?" She tilts her face up toward mine. Waiting.
"I need—" The words tangle in my mouth. I don't know how to ask for this. Don't know the human custom for it. "Can I—"
"Yes." She breathes the word. Doesn't wait for me to finish the question.
I kiss her. Hard. Desperate. All the fear and adrenaline from the last ten minutes pouring into the press of my mouth against hers. She kisses back just as fiercely. Her hands fist in my jacket. The blueprints crumple between us.
When we break apart, we're both shaking.