Page 82 of Orc'd At A Wedding
"Olog."
"Bliss."
She grins, that dangerously mischievous look I have come to recognize as a precursor to deliberate chaos.
"No binder for the wedding planning."
I pause.
Process this.
"That is... tactically inadvisable," I say slowly, my mind already spiraling through the potential organizational catastrophes. "Without proper documentation, we risk venue booking conflicts, incompatible vendor schedules, and inadequate guest accommodation protocols. The logistical failure rate increases exponentially without structured planning parameters."
"No. Binder."
"I could create a digital spreadsheet alternative," I offer, attempting to negotiate. "Cloud-based. Color-coded tabs. Real-time updates. I would even permit you editing access."
"Absolutely not."
I sigh, a deep rumble of reluctant surrender.
"Your operational methodology is deeply chaotic."
"And you love it," she counters, smug and certain.
I pull her closer, wrapping my arms around her waist and pressing my forehead to hers, breathing in jasmine and champagne and everything that has become essential to my existence.
"Yes," I admit quietly, my voice dropping into that raw register I reserve only for her. "I do."
Her phone buzzes again, angry and insistent against the nightstand.
We both ignore it.
CHAPTER 21
BLISS
My mother calls back eleven minutes later.
I know this because Olog has already logged it in the binder underMaternal Contact Patterns: Escalation Timelineand, according to his notes, eleven minutes is exactly how long it takes her to compose herself after receiving an unexpected response and regroup for a secondary offensive.
I answer on the second ring, sitting cross-legged on his massive, Orc-scaled sofa, wearing his shirt, completely unbothered.
"Hi, Mum."
"Bliss." Her voice is the specific temperature of a cold marble countertop. "I received a rather unusual text message."
"Olog sent that, yeah."
"He signed it with his initials."
"That's just how he communicates."
A pause. Measured, tactical, deeply familiar. For many years I’ve navigated these pauses, reading them like weather systems, adjusting my posture and my smile and my vowel sounds accordingly. I don't adjust anything right now. I pick a loose thread on the hem of Olog's shirt and wait her out.
"Will he be attending the gala," she says, not quite a question.
"Yes."
