Page 77 of Orc'd At A Wedding
She rests her forehead on my chest, trembling with suppressed laughter.
"I adore you so much, you gorgeous, unhinged lunatic."
I kiss the crown of her head, my palms gliding up her spine.
"I adore you equally. Despite your dismissal of my legitimate supply management concerns."
She angles her face upward, beaming at me.
"How about this. You do your conference call, I'll go buy more toilet paper, and then we spend the rest of the day doing absolutely nothing productive."
I consider this proposal.
Doing nothing productive triggers mild anxiety.
But the idea of spending an entire day with Bliss, without tactical objectives or schedules, holds a certain appeal.
"Definenothing productive," I say cautiously.
"Couch. Movies. Takeout. Possibly napping."
"That schedule lacks structure."
"That's the point."
I study her face, the warmth in her eyes, the slight smile playing at her lips, and make a tactical decision.
"Acceptable," I concede. "But I reserve the right to optimize the takeout selection process."
"Of course you do."
She pulls me down for another kiss, and I forget entirely about toilet paper inventory.
At precisely fourteen-hundred hours,I am lying on the couch with Bliss draped across my chest, her head tucked beneath my chin, while some absurd romantic comedy plays on the television.
The plot is borderline nonsensical, following no logical narrative structure whatsoever.
The dialogue between characters bears no resemblance to how actual humans communicate in real-world situations.
The protagonist consistently makes wildly impractical, tactically questionable decisions approximately every seven to nine minutes, demonstrating a profound lack of strategic planning or basic operational awareness.
I cannot recall a single moment in my existence when I have felt more thoroughly, completely, unreservedly content.
Bliss's fingers trace idle patterns across my chest, following the dark lines of my tattoos, and I realize she is not watching the movie at all.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask quietly.
"Your tattoos," she murmurs. "You never actually told me what they mean."
I glance down at the sprawling black ink covering my torso and arms.
"They are traditional Orcish genealogical records and family recipes," I say. "This section maps my maternal grandmother's lineage back six generations. This portion documents her signature bone broth recipe with precise ingredient ratios."
Bliss props herself up on one elbow, staring at me.
"You're telling me these incredibly intimidating tattoos that made my Aunt Susan physically recoil are... soup recipes?"
"And family trees."
