Page 2 of Claimed By the BRATVA Grump

I top up the flat white for the gentleman by the window, charm a ‘rustic’ cookie out of Delilah through the hatch, and wait for my moment. It arrives approximately four minutes later, in the form of Lucifer.

Lucifer, who has spent the last three years perfecting the art of making my life interesting, drops silently from the armchair, crosses the café with the purposeful swagger of a creature with an agenda, and leaps directly onto the man's table.

I brace.

The man looks up from his phone. He looks at Lucifer. Lucifer looks back at him, eyes narrowed, tail tip flicking once. Then Lucifer sits down directly on top of the man's phone.

I expect irritation. I expect him to gesture for me to come and remove the cat. What I do not expect is the long pause that follows, during which the man leans back very slightly in his chair, studies Lucifer, and says nothing.

I drift over with a cloth and my best apologetic smile. "Sorry about him. That's Lucifer. He does that to people he finds interesting, so honestly you should feel flattered."

Those grey eyes come up to me. "Lucifer."

"Named by a previous owner with strong opinions, not me. I inherited him." I look at the cat, who is now radiating the smug satisfaction of someone who has won a territorial dispute. "He's actually very sweet once he decides you're not a threat."

"And if he decides I am?"

"He's knocked a full americano into a man's lap before. I'd stay on his good side."

The corner of the man's mouth shifts. It doesn't quite reach the level of a smile, but it's in the same postcode. "I'll keep that in mind."

"I'm Sammie, by the way." I extend a hand across the table because I do it for everyone and I refuse to make an exception for a very tall man with a resting expression like a closed court. "It's kind of house policy. If you're going to sit in my café and get adopted by one of my cats, I should at least know your name."

He looks at my hand for a second, like the gesture requires actual processing. Then he takes it. His grip is firm and brief, and his hand is large enough that mine disappears into itentirely. It’s warm, too, which surprises me. I'd half expected marble.

"Eduard."

He releases my hand and looks back at Lucifer, who hasn't moved an inch. My palm keeps the warmth of his grip for a second longer than it has any business doing.

"Well, Eduard." I tuck my hand into my apron pocket. "Lucifer has officially claimed you, which means you're stuck with him for the duration. House rules."

"You have a lot of house rules.” He points to the chalkboard near the door as he says this, which states, in my rather messy handwriting;

One. Don't feed the cats, no matter what lies they tell you.

Two. Tips go in the jar, compliments go to the chef, complaints go to Lucifer.

Three. Everyone is welcome.

"I have exactly the right number of rules." I glance at the cat, then back at the man, and something about the two of them side by side strikes me as almost funny. Both dark. Both still. Both looking at the world like they're waiting for it to do something worth reacting to. "He's good company, actually. Quiet. Doesn't judge."

"Qualities I appreciate," he deadpans.

"See? You're already bonding." I straighten up, tucking the cloth back into my apron. "I'll leave you to it. Shout if you need anything. Or don't shout, you seem like a don't-shout sort of person, so just catch my eye."

I'm three steps away when I privately assign him the name that's already formed in my head, easy and inevitable, the way all the best nicknames are.

Mr Grumpy.

Eduard

The accountant leaves his office at twelve forty-five. Same as yesterday, same as the day before. Punctual. Predictable. The kind of man who thinks routine is safety and has not yet learned what it will actually cost him.

I watch him cross the street, a paper bag from the sandwich shop tucked under one arm, and I take a slow sip of coffee. Black, no sugar. The woman behind the counter had looked briefly startled when I'd confirmed it, as though the absence of something sweet was a personal failing.

The café is warm. I noticed that immediately, the way it's been deliberately made to feel a certain way.

From this corner table, I have a clear line of sight through the window to the building opposite. The café sits elevated two steps above street level, which means I'm looking down at a slight angle through the clean window glass. Both advantages I'd noted before I sat down. Habit. I choose my position the way I choose everything else. With full information and no room for error.