Page 73 of Orc'd At A Wedding
Weeks later,I am standing in Olog's apartment, surrounded by boxes, trying to figure out where to put my collection ofvintage wine glasses in a kitchen designed for someone who drinks out of tankards.
The apartment is massive, with high ceilings and reinforced furniture and a bed that could comfortably fit four people, which is exactly what Olog needs and I absolutely do not, but I love it anyway.
I love the way it smells like him, like bergamot and leather and safety.
I love the way the oversized couch swallows me whole when I curl up on it.
I love the way he has already cleared an entire section of his closet for my clothes, even though my wardrobe takes up a fraction of the space his custom suits require.
I am unpacking a box of books when I notice a strange binder sitting on his desk.
It is large and black and organized with the kind of obsessive precision that screams Olog.
Curiosity gets the better of me.
I walk over, flip it open, and freeze.
The first page is a detailed, color-coded spreadsheet titled:Bliss Vance: Comprehensive Behavioral Analysis and Optimal Care Protocol.
I blink.
I flip to the next page.
There are tabs.
So many tabs.
Preferred Coffee Order (with temperature specifications).
Stress Indicators and Appropriate Interventions.
Family Members Requiring Tactical Monitoring.
Flower Preferences (Ranked by Emotional Impact).
I observe the binder, my mouth hanging open, torn between laughing and crying.
"Olog!" I call.
He appears in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel, his expression cautious.
"Yes?"
I hold up the binder.
"What is this?"
He goes very still.
"That is... classified."
"Classified."
"Yes."
"Olog." I flip to a random page and read aloud. "Subject displays increased anxiety when extended family references her career. Recommend immediate physical contact and verbal reassurance. Probability of successful de-escalation: ninety-four percent."
His jaw tightens.
