After a long moment, he sits. The stool creaks ominously, but it holds. Several customers look impressed. Darlene watches from the register with narrowed eyes and the expression of a woman observing a complicated bet begin to pay off.
I pour coffee into our largest mug, the chipped blue one that says LIFE IS SWEET if you do not look too closely at the crack through the letters. I slide it toward him, then realize his hand could wrap around the mug like a child’s toy.
“Okay,” I say. “That looks ridiculous. I’ll find the soup bowl.”
“No,” he says quickly, placing one huge hand around the mug with startling delicacy. “This is fine.”
His claws do not scrape the ceramic. He lifts the mug carefully, almost reverently, and takes a small sip. Steam curls against the scars near his mouth. His expression does not change.
“Well?” I ask.
“It is coffee.”
“That is the kind of glowing review we put on advertisements.”
“It is hot.”
“We’re getting somewhere.”
He looks down into the mug. “Thank you.”
The words are quiet enough that the room does not hear them. I do.
Something in my chest warms.
“You’re welcome.”
His gaze moves over my face, and the warmth becomes something more complicated. He takes in the swelling, the bruise beneath the concealer, the stiffness in my posture. His hand tightens around the mug before he notices and eases his grip.
“You should not have opened.”
“You mentioned.”
“You were unconscious last night.”
“Briefly.”
“That does not improve the statement.”
“Kauss, I know my body.”
“Your body is angry with you.”
“My body can file a complaint with management.”
“I suspect management is negligent.”
I blink at him.
His eyes remain serious, but there is something tucked at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. The suggestion that a smile has considered existing and then retreated into witness protection.
“Was that a joke?” I ask.
“No.”
“That was absolutely a joke.”
“It was an observation.”
