“We are friends.”
“You know his breakfast preferences, he knows your lock schedule, and he looks ready to dismember anyone who makes you reach above shoulder height.”
“Protective friends exist.”
“So do delusional bakers.”
I glare at her, which she absorbs with the serene confidence of a woman who has survived worse than my dignity.
The problem is that everyone has an opinion. Halo may have unreliable power, neglected drains, and police response times measured by geological era, but gossip? Gossip arrives with military-grade efficiency. By noon, Mrs. Pell tells me she is “happy I found someone sturdy.” Mr. Eddison asks Kauss whether Vakutan courtship involves livestock, weapons, or formal declarations shouted from rooftops. Renn from the machine shop says it is “good to have a big man around,” then immediately apologizes to me because apparently hearing himself say it makes him remember I own the place and also have access to hot coffee.
“I am not her big man,” Kauss says.
The whole bakery hears.
My ears go hot.
Darlene, carrying a tray of clean cups, says, “Not with that attitude.”
Kauss looks at her. “I do not understand you.”
“Men rarely do. That’s why we outlive them.”
I clear my throat, because if I do not redirect the room, I am going to crawl into the walk-in cooler and live among the butter. “Kauss is my friend. He helped me when I was attacked, and he has been kind enough to keep an eye on the neighborhood. That is all.”
A woman near the window mutters, “That’s plenty.”
I pretend not to hear her.
Kauss definitely hears her. He goes very still, the way he does when he is deciding whether words deserve response or silence. His gaze flicks to me, and whatever he sees in my face makes him look down at his plate instead.
That bothers me more than it should.
I am not ashamed of him. I am ashamed of how quickly the room makes something tender feel exposed. I like that he comes here. I like the way he listens more than he speaks. I like that he treats objects gently, people carefully, and danger with immediate, terrifying competence. I like how he looks at old locks as if they have personally disappointed him. I like how he says my name, low and serious, like it is an oath he has not decided whether he is allowed to swear.
I like too much.
That is the problem.
Later, after the lunch rush thins and the rain pauses long enough for the windows to clear, I watch him with Doreen, the woman from the drainage tunnels with the cybernetic ankle. She comes in limping harder than usual, face tight with pain, and tries to order only tea. Kauss notices from his corner. He alwaysnotices pain. He rises without explanation, goes to the door, and speaks to her in a low voice I cannot hear. Doreen shakes her head. He says something else. She looks furious for two seconds, then exhausted, then grateful in a way she clearly hates.
He guides her to the closest chair without touching her until she nods permission.
I bring tea and soup. “On the house.”
Doreen’s mouth tightens. “I can pay.”
“Then pay tomorrow.”
“You always say tomorrow.”
“I’m optimistic.”
“You’re broke.”
“I contain layers.”
Kauss pulls a few credits from his coat and sets them on the counter.
